Short Story

Selfishly Longing for Love

She remembered it all, everything about him. His smell, his sweet touch; the tenderness of his voice when he whispered goodnight, before laying his head to sleep. She could feel the warmth of his body, though he was no longer there. Her bed, still empty now, for over a year. I can still hear her crying, late into the night. Her heavy sobbing, and escapes for fresh air. I wish I could comfort her, and make her happy. I never know what to say when I see her, anymore. What do you say to the lover of one who has committed suicide? I shake my head, and try to remember the last time I was really in love. Never. So I could never help her, could I? I can't relate to her loss. I once thought I was in love. Than he fucked the first girl in sight, and left me for her. So no, I could never understand her pain, her agony for this man who took his life. I may never know what love is.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written in 2002

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She walked to the end of the hall and looked around.

There was no one in sight.

Just the emptiness of her very own soul,

Occupying what was left of her lifeless body.

Her spirit continued to wander through the abyss.

She went on, knocking on each door.

No answer, no one could hear her;

Or pretended not to.

She screamed an ear splintering screech.

Windows shattered, as the wind whirred around the box.

She remembered this place,

Where they took her after the abduction;

Their humor only destroying her more.

She could hear the laughter, echoing continuously.

She tried to think, but it only hurt her more.

Holding her head in pain, she cried.

No tears came, only blood.

She thought she was dead,

She thought that was her body back there.

She turned around.

The replica of her own being had disappeared.

The corpse, in which she had escaped from, was her.

She was indeed undead, for she had never died.

She was not free, only running.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written in 2003

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Prologue to a WIP novel


Many moons ago, when the Earth and its wielders were at peace, a prophecy was born. Created from deceit before lovers of old a child, a daughter, would one day stand against her greatest enemy in order to save the Earth she vowed to protect. This young woman would find the strength and courage to restore malady with balance and reunite a torn and bloody legacy.

Meanwhile, Time, having finally reached his breaking point sought to enlist the aid of Zeus. If anyone would find the vile creations Nature had been tinkering with a crime, surely he would. Providing the evidence he’d gathered, Time begged for action to be taken against Nature and her experimentations. Instead, angered for being brought into a matter that was best left between the couple, the Elder God cursed Time with the eerie prophecy. A punishment he believed the wise man would never truly respect nor fulfill.

Embarrassed and fearful, Time returned to his home betwixt and between to devise a solution to Zeus’ demand. Should he fulfill the cursed prophecy no one would be safe from Nature’s wraith, least of all the babe born of their commitment. How could he in full knowledge of the outcome, betray his former lover? They may not have seen eye to eye but they had always remained honest with one another. More importantly what of the child? How could he raise a daughter in a world where she would never be at peace? Each question that arose only sprung forth more uneasy answers and the hours were slipping away. Focusing both mind and body Time transported himself in search of his once beloved.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” A beautiful and venomous voice chimed.

“You wouldn’t have seen me had I asked.”

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Rumpa's Story

My name is Rumpa Bagchi. Since Mr Rampal Guptoo, is my spouse naturally I am Mrs Rumpa Guptoo and my domicile is Dashpushland, situated far away from my native country Varshvarsh.

Ah! I can see your eyes wide open and you doubt the name of the countries.

Please check the map and you are sure to find it nested in Europe and Asia. Cannot see? Magnifying glass should help.

Every year my spouse and I visit Varshvarsh but this year it is the second time because of a marriage in the family. The groom Sanjit is no other than the son of my brother-in-law Sandip.

An adorable bride Juhi, Sandip's good luck, was his  batch mate as well.

Often bad things strike good people and so on this happy day, the bride's full ornament set, valued over a mere two lakhs just disappeared into thin air. Via Sanjit's own Pishemoshai's kurta pocket who had the same secure there.

Now - how come? Was there a hole in his pocket or a sole motive? Shall we get to the bottom?

'C'mon do not joke, out with it blokes' jovial appeals of Sanjit fell deaf ears. That confirmed, he lost the gold for his bride - for sure!  

He had no mother to find solace, so his father promised another ditto...

Moment please, why this pang in me? Strange indeed, through and through it was in the groom's Pishi's safe custody.

This Pishi my SIL was very shrill as to the choice of venue, a place so dull in North Cal, by the girl's side. She said, it could only attract thieves to flee, pocket full!

Ah! Can see your eyes widen, taken by surprise at the episode so unpleasant...

The detective in me failed to trail, all clue submerged in Wedding spell. In trance could smell, nothing at all.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Note: Photo is from the internet - Term (Vabomb Napit for the barber) (Baudi for Bhabi) (Borodada for elder brother) Name of Kleptomaniac SIL is purposely withheld-

Kleptomania was first officially recognized in the US as a mental disorder in the 1960s in the case of the state of California v. Douglas Jones

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The Tomb of The Unknown Child

=I had just awakened around 7 a.m, and immediately past memories surfaced.  The one I least expected to recall was one instance in 1986 or '87 that I became my late mother's confidant.  My mother kept many more secrets than I once believed.  Being dubbed by my family as the wayward and disturbed child, the information I received from her was unexpected.  


To my mother--not to mention the rest of my family, I had been viewed only as a burden and she both physically and emotionally abused whenever it suited her fancy.  I will not go into details on this for now, except to say that this is why I was surprised when I sat down with her one day to talk.  I can't remember the original subject of discourse, but the conversation had turned into something very personal.  Perhaps I was mentioning the abortion I had in the fall of 1984, perhaps that started my mother on the subject; but I can't be sure.  I had at times wondered why her uterus was so messed up that she needed a partial hysterectomy in her early 40's.


I was about to be handed a plausible explanation for it.


We were seated somewhere in the kitchen area of my shoe box one-bedroom apartment, having a cup of coffee and sweets when my mother had disclosed to me the six back alley abortions she had experienced--and, before 1973, abortion was definitely back-alley and often proved fatal to a woman.  I can't recall what age she was when this happened, but I could see tears welling up in her eyes as she unveiled the one circumstance where my already unfavorable view of my late father advanced to one of total despisement.

My mother originally didn't want children, not for awhile; the very idea of contraception was frowned upon in her time.  She kept getting pregnant, but didn't have the slightest idea of how to stop it other than abstinence.  Not knowing what else to do and not wishing to withhold herself from the intimacy of my father, she sought medical advice and services of a physician who was willing to violate the law.  I believe she kept the same physician for all six procedures.  I can't remember by what method she aborted; probably a combination of some sort of pill or liquid concoction.  Upon abortion number six, however, the doctor put his foot down; he warned her that any further procedures could kill her, and that this one needed to be the last.  As far as I can remember, she took her physician's advice.  Only this time, my mother was in between her second and third trimester.  My father had by this time become quite angry with her.  Nevertheless, she had followed the doctor's instructions, took whatever poison he handed her, went home and waited for the fetus to abort.  Where she aborted the fetus I can't remember,; but when she did, she looked at it, and noticed that it was fully formed.  I can only imagine the mental and emotional torture she felt when encountering a dead baby that looked more human than all the other five fetuses.  


I don't know what sex it was, I can't remember what she said; but I think that the value of human life--or the loss of it became more clear to her at that moment.  She demonstrated this by wanting to give her aborted child a small burial service, private of course, in the backyard of my parents' home.  There was a small hill beyond their backyard which provided some privacy, and this was where she wanted to bury the child.  My father responded with laughter and rage all at once.  In a cold-blooded fashion, the monster that was my father took the baby from my mother, put it in a large shoe box, and threw it over the hill.


He thew my mother's dead baby over the hill.  Undeservedly, he died in his sleep circa 1970, three days before his 66th birthday.


YOU EVIL BASTARD!  I hope you're burning in Hell, "Dad."


My mother never spoke of this to me again.  Four or five years later, she died.


It  was late afternoon when I had written this close to ten years ago, and I had been puffing away at more cancer sticks than usual.  This would explain why my throat had felt rough, dry, and my sinuses stuffy.  Of course, I don't smoke now.  I don't know what else to say about this "secret."  Truly, my mother was stronger than what I once thought; even a half-assed psychiatrist would agree that any woman who's endured this brand of horror and kept it bottled inside of her would eventually snap. But I will go one step further:  I think the secret that she buried inside her for nearly three decades helped to bring her to an early grave.


Fran Hinkle

[Revised] 5/21/2019

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Akarra Love Story

Short Stories

Her skin tinged with black and blue, Amethyst Rayne awakens, finding herself lying beside a large granite stone. Looking over her shoulder, she sees the moon sparkling on the deep black waters of Ancient Lake. Grabbing onto the stone, as she tries to rise, she hears a message drifting on the wind, as if spirits are warning her.

The stone. It talked?!?

“Oh chill Am, stones don’t talk,” she thought to herself.

“Hello? Is someone there? Hello?” She anxiously asks, half afraid of receiving an answer, half anticipating one.

“Young lady, please tell me, from where do you travel?,” a mysterious voice says from the shadows of the forest.

“Who said that?!?” Amethyst screeched as she scanned the surrounding forest.

Out of the shadows stepped a mountain of a man. A spark in the dark, then the warm glow of a lantern highlighted the stark features of the most handsome man Amethyst had ever lain eyes on. As he walked closer, kneeling by her side, his cloak slid aside to reveal all white clothes tightly fitted to his physique.

“My lady, I’m Damien Kiel,” he quickly mutters before running his hands along her body, checking for injuries.

His hands smoothed over Amethyst’s blue robe, his palms curving in sync with her body. Heat flushed into Am’s cheeks as he continued his quest for injuries.

“How long have you been out here like this?” Weary concern, cleary chiseled on his features, shown in the dim light.

His question broke through the cloud of fuzziness in Am’s mind.

Stammering Amethyst replied, “Uh, well…actually umm… I’m not sure.”

Helping her to her feet, Damien helps her dust off, his hand passing over her rear, sending a wave of heat throughout her blood.

“Oh my,” Amethyst thinks, “never has anyone been so brave with me.”

“Did you touch this stone?”

“I…uh.. I don’t remember.”

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02-07 Fugitives


a train station

with a nation overlooking the cliff

we’re on the drift

with dull senses, sharp mind

hand your ticket

to the picket line protester in charge

we’re still at large

with short tempers, long knife

trouble brews

as the clues bring the puzzle together

we’re keepin clever

open vision, closed eyes

tuck and roll

in control as we thicken the plot

we’re never caught

with curved angles, straight lines

and we run

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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Why Mama, we have no Grandpa visiting us for...

Donor & Monique

Zurich’s global status stays on revolutionary research, particularly in molecular biology, brain research, anthropology, and on the work of the University Hospital and Veterinary…

Ph.D. in Computer Science from well-known Swiss Inst of Tech in Zurich, Switzerland, Hans Rudolf Simon (born 1957) was professor of computer science at the Dept of Informatics, University of Zurich, and boss of the Artificial Intelligence Laboratory. A visionary to contribute – make the world a better place … in coming century.

Lot of twists and turns to reach this position, he enjoyed his occupation, pursued further studies in foreign universities. Three years as a post-doctoral fellow at Carnegie M and Yale University in the U.S. To his credit belongs number of books on intelligent set up, robotic mind.

His research curiosities comprise Come to life Cognitive Science, Bio-robotics, Self-directed agents-portable robots, Artificial Life, Morphology/morph-functional machines, Situated Design, Emotion, and what not…

Brilliant a figure shaped the way thought, tall handsome Hans remembered his student days… nothing deterred him accumulate knowledge. Not even pecuniary paucity relating ambitious projects that he was the fourth child from seven and his father’s earning, modest.    

In Bern, Monique the sweet girl, mother’s dream and father’s jewel. A sparkling teenager scored best in school. However, suddenly strange uncertainty struck her. ‘Sort of puberty misgivings’ dismissed her caring parents.

Ron’s attraction towards classmate Monique failed him grasp her deep green eyes peppered cerulean. Often Monique sank into an art mental state of perceiving, particularly a relationship between self, and a strange another. No, he was not Ron. She loved him though in a different way. Bliss unbound when he planted his tender kisses on her passionate lips.

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Grand Mother Grand Daughter


It was one of those winter afternoons in New Delhi, all cosy tucked warm basking in affectionate heart-to-heart, “You have no idea Mona about my Mamima, your Dida how she came wrapped head to toe in gold ornaments and costly jewelleries when Boromamama brought her home”


Extending arms and limbs he demonstrated, “Look from here to here and here to here” he continued “Her toe rings shimmered, her tiara crowned forehead gleamed red vermillion, those necklaces and bangles, armlets and bracelets, anklets …


Mona had heard her Mom’s paternal cousin who was Grandpa’s sister’s son thus a Cousin Mama (Uncle) repeat his awes - over his Mamia when he saw her for the first time - as a youngster.


A man account, Mona heard umpteenth times and changed the topic foreseeing nostalgic avalanches burying every one in the process.


However, the damage was done; she herself fell into a trance, recollecting.


Mona found her Dida cute, but puzzled as to why Dida always teased her. She was surely a good girl obedient to Ma and Baba. Moreover each friend and relative calling certified the same too.


Mona disliked the dialect Chemri a term Dida often used to address Mona. It meant girl in rustic Bengali, Chemra was for the boy.


It sounded awful but Dida used dialect like many others around. Of course her parents’ spoken language was melody to Mona’s ears and everyone appreciated saying it reflected culture.


She enjoyed all this fuss over, vernacular, speeches, spoken, understood … Often Mona heard her parents discuss languages, as to medium of instruction, schools should follow.

They reasoned that researches and science recorded in English, was the language of the future.


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