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.

A Writer’s Desk – and its Six Essentials

When uncluttered a writer’s desk is unproductive. But that’s just one way of looking at it.

This is how my desk looks now, at the time of writing this post.

View sitting in my chair.

Rather tidy. Tidier than it looks when I am genuinely at work – not just staring down at open notebooks. But the staring down is important too for it gets the idea-pot bubbling and churning.

View standing near the desk.

Another view. Still tidy.

And yet, so quiet and calm, circumscribed by the circle of light, it encloses and cocoons me, makes me comfortable and safe, and allows my imagination to soar (or burrow deep into whatever catches my fancy.)

And yes, there’s another way of looking at a tidy and uncluttered desk. It helps you to focus on that one thing that sits in its center (the notebook, for instance.) A tidy desk is sans-distractors.

And before I end this post, here’s a list of the Six Things that must be there on my desk, before I can start work.

Six Essentials of My Writing Desk

1. My macbook is my lifeline. I’m totally grateful to this awesome guy at Apple Bangalore, who got it revived for me. Even though you’ll never end up on my blog, I have to say this, “Thank you, Deepak.”
2. My notebook.  I love notebooks. I know that a lot of writers are notebook-hogs. I buy them all the time, and I’ve got a whole shelf worth of notebooks in all shapes, sizes, and covers.
3. My pen. I love pens and pencils and brushes – tools that help me craft my stories and paintings. Though I type out my stories on my laptop, I create “verbal sketches” of all my bigger stories (5K words and above,) novellas, and novels in my notebook.
4. My lamps. I’ve got two on this desk, and four elsewhere in the house. I can’t live without their circle of warmth. It comforts me like my Mom’s presence would.
5. My water bottle that keeps changing – the one that I have right now has a sticker of “Follow your Dream” (Chinese, of course, or they would know that fickle humans are always chasing more than one dream.)
6. My specs that I can work without but my optometrist is adamant that I should wear them.

I hope you enjoyed this little deviation from my usual story posts.

I’ll be back with some news on the writing front – soon 🙂

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

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

 

Where do the thoughts of a Writer come from?

A writer writes what she thinks, but where do the thoughts come from?

From her past and present…

From the world around her…

From what she sees, hears, smells, reads, does…

From what happens to her and hers…

A storyteller weaves a story, but where does the yarn come from?

From what happened and what didn’t…

From what should’ve have happened but didn’t…

From events and from people…

From what should be but isn’t...

“The Price of Nofret’s Nose” is a work of fiction. It’s story is about what happened and what didn’t, what must have happened but didn’t, and what should have been but wasn’t; and yet it’s also a story that has characters and reflections from the writer’s past and present and of what happened to her and hers.

The Price of Nofret’s Nose.

 

 

 

Charmed.

Another 5 star review. I’m charmed. Actually, I’m inspired. Thank you, dear unknown reviewer. I’m glad you stopped by to share your thoughts.

I’ll return to share my thoughts on “Strange Weather in Tokyo” and a couple of other books that I’ve read recently.

Thanks 🙂

 

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,

Becoming a GoodReads Author

About thirty minutes ago, I joined the GoodReads Author Program. My Author Profile is available at: https://www.goodreads.com/SRAnand, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with my GoodReads account 😦

So far, I’ve been following their instructions to the letter.

They got me started by making me rate some books. I did that. They kept pushing me toward the beautifully rounded and rather luscious figure of twenty by telling me that they’d be providing personal recommendations if I rated twenty books. I did that. Then they asked me to claim my books. I did that too.

Why did I do all this?

I happened to chance upon this short and sweet review of Mysterious Kemet Book I, and I suddenly felt all warm and fuzzy toward GoodReads. Thank you, dear reviewer. You made me smile.

So I climbed the bandwagon – with absolutely no inkling of the direction in which it might take me.

If you’ve been there and done that, I’d be happy for some guidance 🙂

My books, including “Mysterious Kemet: Book – I”, can be downloaded from Amazon.

 

The Thaw (Story)

Marianne awoke groaning. This is how she’s been waking up this whole month – her body a tense bundle of aching muscles. He didn’t beat her, he didn’t scold her…and there were times when she hoped he would – a blow that would leave a cut on her brow or lip, or an angry avalanche of curses would be infinitely more welcome than his cold indifference.
He had stonewalled her.
Nothing reached him anymore.
When he looked in her direction, it was as if he was looking through her, like she was made of glass.
No. glass was classy.
Plastic would be a more appropriate metaphor to describe her.
Plastic, brittle with age;
plastic with stains and scratches;
plastic that would keep rotting endlessly.
He looked at her like she were made of plastic. When she tried to talk to him, he heard nothing. He wouldn’t even bother to up the volume of his headphones. When she poured her heartache on paper and left it on his table, he tore it away, and then told her that he didn’t give a damn.
Marianne was stonewalled.
And yet, she couldn’t give him up. Helplessness swirled around her, pulling her down by her ankles into the dark abyss that promised a vast emptiness. Marianne would be glad to lose herself into that deep well if only the nothingness wasn’t temporary. She had been there, and she knew well that this tempting nothingness would soon leave her in the company of despair laced with self-pity – and that it would make her cry and squirm. Her aching shoulders and stiff neck would twist and turn to the terrible music of her anguish and leave her more broken than ever. She knew that Inside that deep abyss of helplessness, she would be tossed about by self-pity, self-righteousness, self-doubt, self-castigation…
Once or twice…just once or twice, she had even considered suicide.

“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.