A collection of flash fiction.
A string of daily mundane stories, wreathed with words and a lot of compassion.
[Some of these short stories have been recognised by various literary organisations.]
The last time I wrote a letter, I drew a blank. A hectic day at work and a stolen sip later, I had torn out a sheet from my notepad. Ready to relish the weekend, I was sprawled on the terrace, admiring the setting sun.
Nipping my lips semi-consciously, I yielded my favorite pen and started.
Dear Ma,
I hope you're having fun with the new sewing machine-
Then, I remembered.
Strange, how it always slipped me that there was no longer a pair of shaking hands and bated breath, waiting to preserve this letter in our souvenir box. Strange, how the postman would find himself facing a sky rise, instead of the rusty postbox outside Poetry Villa!
I had always marveled at how Ma stuck to writing letters in this golden age of smartphones. 'It's never the same without your touch. The softness of words in symphony with the coarse paper, do you get that in your SMS?' She would argue.
I wish I had written to her more, and that the inconvenience of the postal system wasn't just a guilty excuse.
Watching homecoming birds in the smoke-filled sky, I sealed my letter with tears.
-and making those intricate floral patterns. I'm getting a promotion next week, and now, we could afford that Goa holiday. Mansi.
The last time I wrote a letter, there weren't excuses. With a heavy heart, I posted it myself into the raging Querim sea.
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
