"A wonderful way to start would be a dream"
"How 'bout the feeling of being trapped?"
"In a dream?"
"Maybe"
"Sounds more like a writer's block"
"That's it, then. We'll start with a dream in which the protagonist is trapped in a block meant for writers"
"And then, what happens?"
"The tale ends."
Labels: creation, dialogue, drama, funny, humor, humour, joke, jokes, philosophy, play, protagonist, psychology, short story, story, surreal, surrealism, writer's block, writing
The dream stretched out of his forehead and wandered through the labyrinthine corridors of a day in his life. He became a reverie in there.
When he woke up, the next day, he was no more.
Labels: alchemy, art, clown, dissappearance, dream, fiction, flash fiction, identity, India, labyrinth, literature, magic, magic realism, reverie, short story, story, surreal, surrealism
She had purple eyes. There were certain colors that she couldn't see and the world was a less congested place for her. She also had the powers of turning an object invisible for her eyes and thereby, eliminating the object. She had eliminated, for instance, pumpkins, crows, three whole men and a caterpillar.
One day, she met a sage who told her - "Growing up is adapting to the things we'd like to eliminate."
She felt bad and decided she wouldn't be eliminating things from then on. But suppressing your greatest powers is equivalent to holding within yourself a darkly cursed premonition. Soon she was on the verge of insanity.
At last, one day she murmured - "My powers don't suit me. I could neither use them nor put them to rest. I'll never be a simple girl. This world doesn't suit me."
After the world was eliminated, she started adjusting to the ensuing grey darkness.
Labels: adaptation, caterpillar, crows, deconstruction, elimination, fiction, flash fiction, insanity, magic realism, powers, premonition, short story, society, story, surreal, surrealism, world
He had made a small hut beside the sea. On days of the tide, the sea would stretch to the place his home was. He had made two doors on the opposite sides of the wall - one from which the sea came in; the other, it went out. On these days he had plenty of sea creatures passing through his home. Some of these he really loved to watch whilst he sat on his bed - like the gray crabs, jellyfishes, fishermen and a few ships from the distant land. He had learnt quite a few languages from the foreigners on the different ships; found a few friends in the sailors who would pass in through his hut every now and then with their ships.
One day it started to rain and it didn't stop. After a few days or perhaps, months, he found a huge ship coming in through his door.
"Which land are you coming from?" he asked them in different languages.
"Land?" they replied, surprised, "There's no land. The rain's taken it all. We live in different ships. Each a country."
So, the world started coming in through one of his door and going out of the other.
After he died, people claimed he was the greatest voyager of all times.
Labels: absurd, fiction, flash fiction, home, hut, India, magic, magic realism, sea, short story, society, story, surreal, surrealism, world
Whether they spoke the truth no one could tell. Blindness covered their tongues. They were neither be found on this side of the red. Some claimed they had left. Others claimed they were still hiding in their basements. Still others claimed they had seen those melt like ice.
Their disappearance, the only certainty, revolved about their head. Drew crisscross lines on their feet. That’s where their skin started to crack. The crack took turns - up their stomach, in through their chests and reached their forehead. All at once, you could see the glowing lava called blood, under their skins. The infinite tears of the body. The final vacuum.
The deconstruction of their last hopes. Identities were nor to be found on this side of their skins.
Labels: blood, fiction, flash fiction, identity, peace, red, rose, short story, soldier, story, surreal, tears, victory, war
Crippling on the recurring times, he left. Not aware of the song that she was playing. These days he had come to believe that there was nothing wrong with his leg. Must have been a growing tumor in his fading head that caused him to cripple.
“Crippling is nothing but a writer’s block meant to be faced by the dancers”, he told her.
She shan’t dance until his head burst.
Labels: cripple, dancer, fade, fiction, flash fiction, short story, song, story, surreal, writer's block