And Then…: An Assortment of Delectable Tea-time Stories on Amazon now.

Dear Readers,

I spent a good part of the last two years stitching myself together. A couple of days ago, I published a collection of stories that I had written during this time, on Amazon. Do check it out and if it interests you, please download, read, and review.

In this collection of 12 quick-to-read and delightful-to-savor stories:

1. Allow the Siren and the Banshee to help you discover the depths of human emotions.
2. Experience a pang of hunger the kind you’ve never felt before.
3. Join a man on his devastating quest to find the perfect costume.
4. Meet Devil to discover what has been irking him recently.
5. Feel the effort that a man must put in to retain his sanity.
6. Realize what it means to be a child-prodigy in a dystopian world.
7. Enter the heart of a woman who wants to make up with her man.
8. Recoil in horror when you meet the real KAL-UR.
9. Swing between joy and sorrow as you unravel the meaning of late-stays.
10. Learn to bite your tongue when you make your next wish.
11. Follow the Grim Reaper on a visit that leaves her content.
12. Ensconce yourself into the infiniteness of a mother’s love.

Thank you. I hope to delight you with some more works this year. Until then, stay in, stay safe, download and read books you like and leave your ratings and reviews for the authors.

One, Two…You Too? (Story)

Staying late at work had become a pattern for Bella. It had begun innocuously enough. A slipped assignment, a document that arrived late in her inbox, or an unexpected phone-call from Matt her Team-leader who wanted to discuss something urgent with her.
At first, she didn’t notice that staying back and working late was a kind of getaway for her. Her evenings that were trapped in home had already started becoming interminably long. She and Victor, had always maintained that if a person worked hard and smart enough, there wasn’t a need for her to stay back at work. She had followed her own dictum for six years and while she hadn’t slipped, Victor had. Two years into their pact, he had started arriving late.
She remembered the first time he was late as lucidly as it might have happened yesterday. He had called her up and told her that his boss wanted him to be there for an important overseas phone-call. She had eaten her dinner with the television set on, and gone to bed alone.
And then before they realized what was happening, it had become a pattern. She could vividly recall the first few times Victor had stayed back, but then the late-stays became more and more frequent, until they became a blur. Their evenings became her evening, and he spent his evenings with the “Beast,” his euphemism for his work or boss or whatever. And yet, despite working hard, and despite his daily grudge that he voiced in front of her at the time of breakfast, he appeared happier and more content.
His paradoxical behavior perplexed her, but she loved him, and it was good to see him smiling and humming, so she never complained.

Six Months Later…

Bella awoke with a smile on her face. Her dreams that had for long been a drab colorless gray and quite forgettable, had started becoming more vibrant, more lively, more exciting…and last night, staying late had acquired a different meaning altogether. Over the past few months something that had begun as a chance late-stay at work had changed into a conscious choice for Bella. Matt was obviously happy with this change in her and he quite openly acknowledged that he was thrilled that she had started staying back at work.
But last night was different. It wasn’t the regular late-stay that she had become used to; last night, both were conscious of the charged up atmosphere and both felt the under-currents that at least Bella had been trying to ignore. The attraction that existed between them subliminally had bubbled up and so when their hands had touched last night, neither he nor she had tried to pull away. After that incident, an anticipatory silence punctuated by stolen glances and a deliciously heightened awareness had stretched between them.
He had walked her to her car, but hadn’t said goodnight. She hadn’t either. They had just held each-other’s gaze.
Now, in the morning, as she stepped out of her bath, she found herself humming…
“I can’t stop the feeling
I’ve been this way before
But, with you I’ve found the key
To open any door…”
“Anticipating a promotion?” he asked. He was standing in front of the mirror, tying the knot of his tie.
A wave of guilt surged through her.
“Not really,” she said. “In fact, I wish I didn’t have to stay late…” she stopped mid-sentence.
“You too have started staying late?” he asked, his hand freezing in place.
She froze too. He always arrived late but she an hour before he did. He hadn’t known until now, but now he did.
And she did too.
They stood numbed as they heard the crash, simultaneously.

Credits:
Song: Whitesnake
Lyrics: David Coverdale

Written in response to FOWC with Fandingo Prompt: Variety

Fingers (Story)

KAL-UR was about five feet tall and it didn’t have a head. It didn’t need one, for it was a utility robot. It didn’t need to think or analyze or make decisions – it was only supposed to follow the instructions that it received from Mr. Core.

Since 2080, Mr. Core had been managing CRYORIUM, the international cryonics center. That was the time when the finger-bank, a cryogenic facility to store fingers was first built. That was also the time when fingers were harvested in thousands, and every robot found itself working round the clock. Each finger had to be detached from the body, packed in ice, and injected with heparin to prevent coagulation of the blood. Then all the water in the cells was replaced with a cryo-protectant and then the finger was cooled on dry ice until it reached the temperature of -130 degrees centigrade. Finally, it was stored in a jar of liquid nitrogen at a temperature of about –190 degrees centigrade, and then the jar was labeled with the finger-number and the name of its owner.

It was backbreaking work. Had KAL-UR been a human, he would have either resigned from the job or asked for a raise. Fortunately for Mr. Core, he was a robot and as long as it followed its charging routine, everything worked just fine.

Effort (Story)

He thought of it every morning, afternoon, evening, and night, and in all those hours in between, but every time, he came to the same conclusion.

It was too much of an effort.

Each time he opened the refrigerator to bring out the leftover ham slices, mayonnaise, and the rye bread, he thought of it, but then The Simpsons on the TV would drag him right back to his couch, where he spent the next hour devouring both the sandwich and his favorite program.

On each trip he took to the bathroom he’d see her gown hanging on the over-door hooks, and he was reminded of the chores that awaited him. They had to be done. With each passing moment, they were transforming from important into urgent. And yet it all required that he bent and bending was something that squeezed his roll of stomach fat and put undue pressure on his gut to make him fart, and he hated it.

Oh, how he hated it!

“It’s too much of an effort,” he thought as he took another bite of his sandwich and flipped the channel.

“Oh drat! Better get done with it,” he growled.

Then, for a moment, he savored the sound of his own voice.

“That felt good,” he mumbled, a smile cracking his face. “Good that she isn’t around to badger me.”

He tossed his empty plate on the table and got up.

“I’ve got to finish this chore, or the stench will bring those pesky neighbors to my door,” he grumbled aloud. To be able to say it all aloud was a cathartic experience.

Good that she was gone.

“This time is so wholly, so completely, so totally mine – just miiiine,” he crooned in a nasal singsong voice, swishing his hips sideways, trying to simulate her walk. The black bags were waiting for him in the kitchen – tied at their mouths, ready to be dispatched. They were heavy, about sixty pounds each, but he knew that the bags would hold. They were strong and scented, and he had bought them online from Target, just last week.

“Into the backyard, Tom. Move your ass,” he chided himself, like she would, if only she were around.

“Oh yes. Yes, ma’am. But you aren’t here to oversee me, are you?” he laughed, as he dumped them both into the trash can.

“And now let us do the laundrrry,” he continued in the same singsong voice, as he slammed the door behind him.

He checked the time in the kitchen clock. It was 4 PM already. He had an hour to complete the laundry and vacuum the couch and the carpet for the crumbs.

She would be back from work by five o’clock.

“Sigh!

Image Credits/Attribution: Wikimedia Commons

jeffreyw [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D

 

The Whimsy of the Characters…

takes the writer on a ride. 

It’s easy to say, “plan your day and schedule your work,” and I’m sure every writer tries to do it, but the characters in the stories that the writer writers – they have a life of their own. They want to do their own thing. And this is why the plan, the schedule, and the characters, all get tangled up to cause a gridlock.

You see, each character in the story has a personality, and characters with strong personalities want a bigger slice of the pie, a stronger role to play. You may want to say that it’s the writer who, in the first place, created these characters, but quite like the parents who despite giving birth to and nurturing their children have little say in how their children must lead their lives, the characters too, want to lead their own lives – they want to make decisions, go on adventures, fall in love with the wrong person,

7 Short Stories – An Eclectic Collection of Tales that Twist and Turn.

This post is a collection of my short stories that have appeared on this blog. If you are a reader who likes variations, I have a feeling that you’ll enjoy these 🙂

Cracked Mirrors and The Grim Reaper 

When a mirror cracks, somewhere the Grim Reaper reaps a soul.

~0~

The Siren & the Banshee

When a siren and a banshee both call – whose call do you answer?

“The Price of Nofret’s Nose – Honor and Murder in Ancient Egypt” Published.

Dear Readers and Fellow Bloggers,

I’m glad to announce that “The Price of Nofret’s Nose – Honor and Murder in Ancient Egypt” is now available on Amazon both in eBook and print formats.

Following are the links:

eBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B078ZJJTQC/

Print: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1980404461/

If you are interested in Historical Fiction and/or thrillers/mysteries,  I believe you’ll enjoy reading this thrilling mystery set in Ancient Egypt. Head over to Amazon to read its synopsis and sample the first 10% of the story.

I leave you with the first review on the book:

Now “Menkhaf’s Scrolls” are screaming for my attention. While I figure out what’s troubling those ancient scrolls written by the Immortal Menkhaf, please head over to Amazon and check out Nofret’s Nose.

The Perfect Costume (Story)

Mark tipped the valet and got behind the wheel of his Mercedes. As his car shot out of the porch and glided down the incline, he glanced at the digital clock. It was 6 AM. It would take him an hour to reach his destination, and then another hour to prepare himself for his day’s work. If he missed the peak rush hour of 8 to 9, his entire day would be wasted.

—()—

The dilapidated cottage was a portal into his parallel universe. He would pass through it every morning on his way to work, and return through it every evening – six days a week. He parked his Mercedes in the garage, and went up the steps that led into the living room. The living room connected to a small bedroom upstairs, one in which he had never once spent the night – a few afternoons may be, when business had been good in the mornings.

There he changed into his costume. He had about a dozen of these, each tailored to a particular locality and designed to appeal to a specific gentry, and each improved and enhanced over the years. He loved to

A Mother’s Soul (Story)

He was her only son. Her only child.
It wasn’t any wonder then that she had always been a concerned mother, and she did what concerned mothers always do. She kept an eye on him. No, she wouldn’t want you to get her wrong. She didn’t smother him with her motherly love, nor did she harass him continually by demanding to know what he had been doing and why. She didn’t take the whole credit for it anyway, because her son, she believed, was a model child.
At least until three days ago. It was Christmas eve when she had first noticed something amiss in his behavior. He didn’t even look at all the Christmas decorations that she had so painstakingly done. The first thing she noticed about him was that his eyes were red and puffed. It was clear that he wasn’t getting enough sleep. Then she started noticing a few other things – he would lock himself into his room for hours, and then he would stagger out, make himself a pathetic sandwich, grab a coke, and return to his room.
At first, she thought that he was suffering from his first heartbreak, and that talking to him would help. So she had tried, but he had ignored her completely. Like she wasn’t there.
All her attempts to talk to him failed.
And then the party was the last straw.
Her son, who couldn’t be bothered to go to parties, had thrown one! Without telling her about it.
She was heartbroken. The boy who was her world had stopped talking to her, and now…
It was an odd gathering. She had expected only her son’s friends to be there. She wanted to talk to them – perhaps they could help her understand what was going on in his life, and help her deny or confirm her suspicions. But the guests were an odd assortment – their relatives, his friends, and even some of the neighbors.
Perhaps her son was growing up and learning the ways of the world.
Her chest filled with pride, when her son began speaking…

Honor and Murder in Ancient Egypt: The Price of Nofret’s Nose.

 

Imba’s hands began slipping down caressing her neck and chest…a token of gratitude – or servitude?

The similarity between Imba’s situation and hers made her cringe. Imba and she were both slaves. They did things because they had to, not because they wanted to.

“Imba, I don’t need you anymore,” Nofret said. The girl’s relief was evident in her alacrity to run and find her faience belt. Nofret passively lay in her bath and watched Imba’s perfect young body as she twisted and turned to clip the belt around her waist.

In two years, I’ll be thirty. The age at which some women become grandmothers!

She slipped back into the water, caressing her own body, trying to discover a wrinkle or a loose fold, but her skin was still supple.

There still is time, she thought.

As Imba walk out of the door, Nofret closed her eyes and allowed her to fall into her private abyss of reflection.

Her life so far had been a rapidly growing collection of regrets.

Twelve years worth of regrets!

Her twelve years of marriage had transformed into a decade of longing and a myriad lost hopes.

If only she had run away with the poet who she had been infatuated with.

If only her father was an Egyptian and not a Philistine on the run.

If only her mother had been of noble birth.

If only Idut had been more considerate and loving.

If only the flame of her desire not singed her wisdom.

If only…if only…if only…

 

The Price of Nofret’s Nose: Honor & Murder in Ancient Egypt is arriving on March 01, 2018. It is currently available for Pre-order on Amazon.