3000 MILES FROM GRACELAND
But sadly, she could not go.
Ann sighed, pulling herself up by the bedpost. If only, she could go out more. But, she could settle for having the house all to herself.
She busied herself with cleaning the bathing pots. She reached back for the soap, and she had almost turned back when she rubbed her eyes in surprise. Was that a broom and a pail doing the tango together? As if on cue, A slightly overweight, middle-aged lady, with an over-smooth skin complexion, walked in. A clap of her hands, retired the broom to its corner, and the pails stopped banging around.
"Are you an angel?", Ann asked in trepidation. "No, I'm just the fairy god mother. Call me Oprah.” She hurried on, "I'll cut to the chase. This is a flash fiction piece, and I don’t have time to make a big entrance.",
She continued, "I'm here because tonight is a very important date in your life; Your future is at stake. You are going to get LUCKY!! Tonight is your INDEPENDENCE night!!“
"Uh, well, oh, Why me?" Ann stuttered. "Oh that's simple dear. God saw you bathing yesterday and thought that you'll be quite the treat for him especially after he saw what that Nielsen fellow and you accomplished. We're quite excited about you."
"So Ann, whenever you're ready." Oprah waved her wand and Ann was sitting on a leather couch, inside a gleaming carriage drawn by 6 of the most beautiful white Arabian horses. Ann had been transformed into a figure of radiance, in an opulent silk-chiffon dress, with puf sleeves in the latest Vogue fashion with spangles, sequins, and glittering gold embroidery.
Ann looked down, and suddenly blurted out, "But Oprah, I know how this ends! I wow the crowds, dance with the prince, forget about the midnight deadline, and run off leaving a crystal shoe behind. And the next morning, he runs from home to home, fitting the shoe onto every girl's foot, but obviously it will fit only me, and soon enough I will be the 43 rd lucky woman to be had by the fat over-endowed Prince with the tight leather pants, the googoo hairdo, the soft gut and the sagging man-breasts." "But, I can't understand one thing… WHY ON EARTH are my shoes blue suede instead of crystal…..???", and before Oprah could respond, A bolt of lightning hit the carriage and burnt the girl to a cinder. And as she died, she heard a deep baritone singing mournfully, and Oprah sighing, "Now, look what you've done."
Priscilla sat up with a start, drenched in sweat. She was breathing heavily, and her bedclothes lay in disarray. She reached from the greyish-white pills on the bedside table and swallowed two, as she oriented herself. She peered out of the half-drawn curtains, and the neon glare of the Vegas Strip made her realise that she was 3000 Miles from Graceland. She turned over and was asleep before her drugged head hit the pillow.
(C) Pranay Srinivasan 2005
Word Count: 499 words :D
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Style justaposed with substance
I am not stylish. Not even close. I dont even purport to appear stylish. At my very best, I am gauche.
But, every saturday night, I like to stretch up as tall as I can, and stare at myself in the mirror at 9.30 PM whilst deciding what to wear when I go out and party. I like to take time over what shoes I must wear, and what hairstyle I must employ, and which conditioner sticks less to my hair, and what is that elusive substance that will make my face look less grumpy than the 6th dwarf.
Ofcourse, I am urbane, and innately brilliant, and intelligent, and I can make conversation about anything under the sun, and I can make people laugh and I can understand complex metaphysical debates. But all that is hidden under a receding hairline and an advancing tummyline.
So, I feel that unless we are writing in a cocoon that caters to only the immediate self, it would be folly to disregard the garnish of the apt figure of speech, the topping of the appropriate example, the subtle after taste of a deeper meaning conveyed through simple sentences.
And, if we are to gain the apprecation of our fellow writers, our reading audience, and garner praise, success, and the approval of the masses, we must, we must try to present our literary offerings without the bogeys of typos dotting our clerical landscape.
For, I firmly believe that contrary to Ayn Rand's beliefs, without our peer approval, it is impossible for us to accomplish that which we have set out to achieve - literary greatness, and satisfaction of having written a sound piece of prose or poetry that will find a place among the upper echelons of writings.
utekkare,
pranay
But, every saturday night, I like to stretch up as tall as I can, and stare at myself in the mirror at 9.30 PM whilst deciding what to wear when I go out and party. I like to take time over what shoes I must wear, and what hairstyle I must employ, and which conditioner sticks less to my hair, and what is that elusive substance that will make my face look less grumpy than the 6th dwarf.
Ofcourse, I am urbane, and innately brilliant, and intelligent, and I can make conversation about anything under the sun, and I can make people laugh and I can understand complex metaphysical debates. But all that is hidden under a receding hairline and an advancing tummyline.
So, I feel that unless we are writing in a cocoon that caters to only the immediate self, it would be folly to disregard the garnish of the apt figure of speech, the topping of the appropriate example, the subtle after taste of a deeper meaning conveyed through simple sentences.
And, if we are to gain the apprecation of our fellow writers, our reading audience, and garner praise, success, and the approval of the masses, we must, we must try to present our literary offerings without the bogeys of typos dotting our clerical landscape.
For, I firmly believe that contrary to Ayn Rand's beliefs, without our peer approval, it is impossible for us to accomplish that which we have set out to achieve - literary greatness, and satisfaction of having written a sound piece of prose or poetry that will find a place among the upper echelons of writings.
utekkare,
pranay
A Matter of Greed - Flash Fiction Entry
A matter of greed
On a deserted road, in a village about 65 miles from Kiev, a Rolls Royce drove down a dark lane.
Yuri rubbed his hands together through his woolen gloves, wondering why his boss had chosen this god-forsaken day for his adventure. He leaned out of the window and saw dark clouds, pregnant with an eminent snowstorm. The engine purred, emitting a stream of smoke as it worked overtime to keep the interior warm.
The car's owner, Alexei however seemed oblivious as he searched for the lamp-post that marked his final destination. As he caught sight of the gnarled remains of a lamp-post, he said,"Yuri. Right there, by that post." As the car stopped, it began to snow.
Alexei reached the lamppost and examined it carefully. He stepped into the third door down the road. Only half a batwing remained. He pulled out a torch from his overcoat pocket and walked in. He reached the bar, and ran his hand along under the bar, until he reached a packet taped to the inside, that held a large key. He raced across the bar to the large steel safe -vault, that lay exposed. He turned the key in the keyhole. The door opened slowly, creaking on it's hinges. As it opened, he shined his torchlight into it's interior. His expression slowly turned from a huge smile to shock to dismay to exasperation, his face aging 30 years in 30 seconds. The inside was wiped clean. A small note was attached to the back of the safe.
It said simply, " You shouldn’t trifle with Lili, young man." As he read the small note, he pictured an old, pale small woman, losing hair, curled up in pain on her hospital bed, battling the final stages of cancer, dying, telling him about her life’s savings held in a vault in a tavern near Chernobyl, now abandoned. How she wanted him to get it for her. How he had planned to keep it all.
He stormed out of the abandoned tavern, pushing through knee-deep snow towards the car. As he reached the lamppost, he looked about him but he saw no headlights around. He stomped about, looking for the car. As he returned to the lamppost, now only a stump above the snow, he pointed his torch and saw a note tacked to the lamppost, written in Yuri's crisp Cyrillic script.
Alexei, suddenly cold in his inadequate overcoat, shivered as he heard the bone-chilling cry of a wolf-pack.
Miles away, Yuri in his driving seat behind the wheel, heard the wolf's howl. He winced as the Rolls entered the outskirts of the city.
(word count: 491 words)
utekkare,
Pranay
On a deserted road, in a village about 65 miles from Kiev, a Rolls Royce drove down a dark lane.
Yuri rubbed his hands together through his woolen gloves, wondering why his boss had chosen this god-forsaken day for his adventure. He leaned out of the window and saw dark clouds, pregnant with an eminent snowstorm. The engine purred, emitting a stream of smoke as it worked overtime to keep the interior warm.
The car's owner, Alexei however seemed oblivious as he searched for the lamp-post that marked his final destination. As he caught sight of the gnarled remains of a lamp-post, he said,"Yuri. Right there, by that post." As the car stopped, it began to snow.
Alexei reached the lamppost and examined it carefully. He stepped into the third door down the road. Only half a batwing remained. He pulled out a torch from his overcoat pocket and walked in. He reached the bar, and ran his hand along under the bar, until he reached a packet taped to the inside, that held a large key. He raced across the bar to the large steel safe -vault, that lay exposed. He turned the key in the keyhole. The door opened slowly, creaking on it's hinges. As it opened, he shined his torchlight into it's interior. His expression slowly turned from a huge smile to shock to dismay to exasperation, his face aging 30 years in 30 seconds. The inside was wiped clean. A small note was attached to the back of the safe.
It said simply, " You shouldn’t trifle with Lili, young man." As he read the small note, he pictured an old, pale small woman, losing hair, curled up in pain on her hospital bed, battling the final stages of cancer, dying, telling him about her life’s savings held in a vault in a tavern near Chernobyl, now abandoned. How she wanted him to get it for her. How he had planned to keep it all.
He stormed out of the abandoned tavern, pushing through knee-deep snow towards the car. As he reached the lamppost, he looked about him but he saw no headlights around. He stomped about, looking for the car. As he returned to the lamppost, now only a stump above the snow, he pointed his torch and saw a note tacked to the lamppost, written in Yuri's crisp Cyrillic script.
Alexei, suddenly cold in his inadequate overcoat, shivered as he heard the bone-chilling cry of a wolf-pack.
Miles away, Yuri in his driving seat behind the wheel, heard the wolf's howl. He winced as the Rolls entered the outskirts of the city.
(word count: 491 words)
utekkare,
Pranay
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