Hounds that hound

Hounds that hound – does that sound creepy? We are talking about hounding and not haunting, still the word hound sends a chill down the spine. Probably like the Holy Cow, this has to do with my encounters with the canine kind.

For the record, I like dogs – the ones that roam around in your house and mind their own business, the ones that do not grow like a bull (yeah, they maybe cute and cuddly and all.. but with all those muscle power behind fang like teeth, you never know, do you? *shudders*), even the stray ones that saunter around not bothering to waste more than a second staring at you. They don’t bother me, and I don’t pester them. I may even pet them, if the pooch is familiar enough. See – it is a win-win! But all this wisdom came from some bitter lessons. And it turns out, I am still learning.

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Holy cow!

Cows – the gentle giants. Dogs – loyal than your own shadow. What could possibly go wrong? Everything, apparently. Such have been my encounters with these fellow beings that my body goes into a fight or flee mode as soon as I see one of these. My brain only registers the rope or the leash a second later. I have got my priorities right, and how.

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Conditional love

We hear about this a lot, don’t we? “I’ll love you forever* (conditions apply)” People who overlook the fine print ends up in a well of misery, atleast for a while. And then there is the oh-so-fabled unconditional love.

This following short piece is a fictional take on Conditional love written for the Write Tribe prompt. This was in part inspired by a 140 character fiction I wrote on Twitter some days back:

 

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The April checkpoint

Time flies. Clichéd? Yes, but true nevertheless. A blink of an eye and a quarter is over. Was it not just a few days back that we had ushered in the new year? The year is already more than three months old! Wow! At the start of the year, I had made a resolution.. nay, that’s trite again. The point is, I had consciously made a decision to spent more time on things I loved. On the top of the list were writing and music.

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A second between life and death

[Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by certain tales of gallantry]

An year shy of half a century. Nearly fifty years ago, on this day, it was raining fire and blood on the treacherous passes of the Pir Panjal range. That day, in the midst of the ungodly blizzard of bullets and brutal weather, our lives took a turn none of us had anticipated. No, that won’t be right. Only my life took a turn; for the other two, it ended. No words can capture the seething undercurrents of emotion that haunts the survivors – the ones who won the war, yet lost everything.

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Life, pictured

It has been a hard day. That isn’t something new though. This sweltering heat has only made things harder. People don’t seem to be very helpful these days. Everyone is concerned about their own well being. But then again, I have learned that it is the norm. The uncertainty in my life is shocking sometimes. You have no idea how long I have to keep roaming around till I get enough for the day.

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The lunch

Little Amy couldn’t wait for the lunch break to start. Her Mom had prepared her favourite dishes for her. She opened her lunch box as soon as the bell rang. The aroma of the assorted non-veg platter was quite tempting . It was all she could not to drool over. God! How she hated eating vegetables!

A few blocks away from the school, Anne and her friends were having lunch in the office cafeteria. As she picked up a spoonful of beetroot curry, she couldn’t help but chuckle imagining Amy’s reaction when she finds the hidden vegetable curry beneath the rice.


This is a work of fiction (well, not entirely..this author has gone through similar situations. Several times.), written for the Write Tribe 100 words on Saturday prompt “She had the last laugh”.

By the way, who, do you think had the last laugh here? Amanda? Or Anne? 😉

The helping hand

A delirium. Total confusion. It was supposed to be a mellifluous melody gently wafting in, ever so slowly nudging one awake from the slumber. Instead, it was a barrage of high energy noise – albeit in rhythm, like the crescendo of a power ballad. Each beat felt like a pummelling by a pugilist. After a couple of failed attempts to cut out the cacophony by pulling the sheets over his head, Aravind sat up and rubbed his bleary eyes. Instinctively, he took his mobile and checked the time. 7:45 a.m. – still fifteen minutes to his third alarm.

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