Posts Tagged ‘short fiction’

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Delighted to have my short story, ‘Tarla’s Homecoming,’ published in The Bangalore Review’s May issue.

Grateful to The Bangalore Review’s editorial team for publishing it.

Follow the link to read the story –

http://bangalorereview.com/2019/05/tarlas-homecoming/

 

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My short fiction piece “A Scene of Grief” is up on “Literally Stories.” A thank you to the editors – Hugh et al for featuring it. Give it a read here – https://literallystories2014.com/2019/04/22/a-scene-of-grief-by-anuradha-prasad/#more-16938

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Roaring lullabies and foaming kisses, the sea her compass. Ruh walks along the edges of the flattening waves. The sand is dark, wet and salty. If she were to walk into the sea now.

She would be a little blob, her skirt spread around like a petal, a spreading stain. Then nothing.

But how long before the sea tears away the torment from her like dead skin?

She clambers into a boat without oars, red and alone, pulled up far away from the sea, which is getting closer now. The sand has dried; a crab on the boat’s rim. The smell of fish sticks to its wooden skin. Ruh settles into its abandonment.

A long time ago, there was a little girl who stood alone in the middle of a playground. An orb of dusty orange flew at her, almost knocked her down. A boy watched with concern and half a smile.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

The little girl laughed. The boy smiled and with him the world. Like starlings taking flight the laughter flew here to this desolate stretch of beach where a woman lay in a red boat. This moment changed forever.

Ruh awakens to a yellow moon, cradled in a boat, rocking gently, watched by a little girl. And just like that – the girl slips over and…poof, she is gone.

© Anuradha Prasad 2018

bengaluru fantastic

My short story ‘Sheela Makes Her Bed‘ is up on Muse India’s Jan-Feb 2018 issue. Grateful to the editor Smita for publishing it. I wrote it while doing a course on social issues and identities. Do give it a read 🙂

 

Image: Fanny Nushka Moreaux, Saatchi Online

Image: Fanny Nushka Moreaux, Saatchi Online

A girl whose name I can’t remember, we played house. I don’t remember her face – it may have been beautiful.

I only remember her mother’s sobs; the shock, anger and pain in her eyes. They left their house hurriedly, utensils clanging.

A crowd gathered to watch, neighbours leaned forward on compound walls. Take flight, birds on wire.

She was kind, this girl whose name I can’t remember. She straightened the crooked lines of the house I drew. Straight and sturdy the walls stood.

Years later…

A red-faced girl in love with a boy, asked me if it was true that this girl whose name she didn’t know and would never know had been raped. She smiled out the question, her eyes danced.

She was kind to me, this girl whose name I can’t remember and whose mother wailed.

© Anuradha Prasad