Tick-Tock

"The Forensic tests have confirmed that the decomposed body found in the ravines is indeed of the renowned industrialist William Spencer. He was reported missing almost a year ago"

Danny turned off the TV and leaned back into his chair. A frown marred his usual good looks at the moment.

'There is no way they can prove it.' He told himself the thousandth time. He had made sure that William didn’t tell anyone about their hiking trip.

"It will be like our childhood. No cell phones, no work, no commitments. Just two brothers having fun!" Danny had made Will promise him.

His alibi for the day was rock solid. He had made sure of it.

Taking over his company looked like bailing a brother's widow out. What with all the phony debts.

Danny took out the old pocket watch from the table's drawer.

How he had hated William when their father had given it to him. Danny could still feel his nerves flare at the memory of forever being humiliated by his father. Old moron always took Will's side.

Snatching the watch from his twin's dead body was the best thing Danny had ever done. Well, next to killing him.

He had gone all the way down to take it from his broken body. The old thing had survived the enormous fall without a scratch, but somehow it was broken inside and nothing could make it work. Still, it was his trophy!

"Well, you are as dead as your master, aren’t you, stupid watch?"

The watch was stuck for last one year, showing the exact time when he had...

He smirked looking at it...

The Second hand of the watch moved without warning. It's sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence.

Danny froze as he felt the hair on his neck stand up...

A whisper... a voice so familiar... No it can't be!

"Hello Brother..."

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©2010 by Chhaya. All Rights Reserved

This is my first entry for the Magpie Tales :) ... the image of the watch was the prompt.

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The Fallen

I don’t like men wearing gloves. White gloves. Especially not when they are standing in a perfect row, near a freshly dug hole.

It has always meant a death. Mostly, someone not much older than me. Sometimes younger.

I watch their unreadable faces. I watch their full ceremonial uniforms, rifles held high, perfectly clasped between the palms, ready to be raised... and then arch downwards, with the mourning tune, the business end facing the earth.

The thousand yard look in their eyes... trained to ignore their own mortality. Trained to look, not to see.

They don’t blink when another set of young men bring the flag covered coffin with in-sync steps.
The not so old woman next to me whimpers, trying to muffle her sobs. How old would you be when you lose your 24 year old son? Not much.

The detail leader shouts familiar commands. Familiar to me because I have lost my share... some would say more than my fair share of lives.

Six men march out a few steps and fold the flag with mechanical movements. Completely aware of the fact that it can be their own turn the very next time. Their turn to lie in the coffin.

A plain military issue coffin.

It was sealed, obviously.

Everyone loves to see a young man in uniform, fighting for his country. It makes your heart swell with pride. Makes you wanna run and enlist. Or wonder how your son would look in the fatigues.

No one wants to see his dead body wrapped in anonymous white sheet, its face torn apart with bullets. You can’t imagine what a high calibre bullet does to human body. You have to see it to believe it...

No one wants to hear... no one wants to know that he died because his gun had failed him after he barged into a bunch of terrorist, sure of the weapon he held in his hands.

No one wants to realize that someone somewhere had made some moolah by passing on faulty guns and ammunition...

No one really cares that the same terrorists were at large simply because someone somewhere had decided to swap them for a handful of civilians kept hostage in a plane.

After all, he did sign on that blank cheque as they say it. Amounting up to and including life.
I watch them lower the coffin in the grave. I hear the TV guy telling the story of a young Muslim Captain who died fighting Islamic terrorists.

I feel bile rise in my throat. I think about the guy now buried in that grave. I know he would have laughed such things off. I am not as generous as him. Not as big hearted as he was. I want to do something really horrible to the TV guy.

Instead, I take the hand of that not so old lady and walk away. She seems to have aged decades in last one hour. I wonder, if I keep really quiet, can I hear people switching channels? Impatient to get the next exciting story?

Already forgetting about the guy in the grave.

Just another dead soldier.

Who cares for dead soldiers?

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©2010 by Chhaya. All rights reserved

PS: the image is from movie Letters from Iwo Jima

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Adventure/Comedy : Under 100 words

We must escape.


But how? I think it’s our fate to be trodden by him.


And live in these stinking holes?


Least he could do is to let us bath every day. We are nothing but disposable slaves for him.


Bath, you say! I think that is the only time we can escape. The time when we are pushed from washing chambers


I am scared. errrrr, it’s not so bad here.


Ok. You stay here. I won’t!


A few days later

“Honey! Have you seen my other blue sock? I can find just half the pair.”

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©2010 by Chhaya. All rights Reserved

PS: sorry for not being around.. I m back now and gonna be regular @ writing and reading ur blog :)

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Tragedy: Under 100 words

The knife is sinking in her chest like she is made of butter.

Blood splashing on me with each flailing beat of her heart, in rhythm with the clock.

She always said that there has never been another man in her life.

Splash

It’s not so warm now.

I read the letter yet again.

Mrs. Patel,
Congratulations on your wedding.
Your child has already been adopted.
We can’t disclose any other information...

And she wouldn’t let me touch her before marriage.

Splash

I wipe the blood off the date-stamp.

Feb,1976

What? Wait a second!

The clock ticks away.
Solo

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©2010 by Chhaya. All rights reserved

Inspired by a crazy phone that delivers a text, hours/days after it’s sent

image is googled

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Mothers and Sons

Mac hated his birthday. Especially for the last 8 years. He dreaded these visits.

'Don’t I give her enough money? Don’t I pay for those AC rooms and 24 hour attendant service? For God’s sake, she has a TV with cable in her room and so many people of her own age group. Why do I have to go to see her on my Birthday?'

'If I have to clock in those suffocating 10 minutes there then I better get it done with. I have been doing this for 8 years now. I better get used to it.'

He was through with the ritual in exactly 8 minutes after reaching the Old Age Home.

He walked towards his car, with that hated box in his hand.

He knew what was inside it.


'If she HAS to give me a cake then can’t she at least order it from an upscale bakery? Why does she have to bake the cake herself in the kitchen of the facility? Who eats this stuff now? loaded with sugar!'

The cake annoyed him more than his mother’s praises and kisses. His wife was right. He shouldn’t have come.

But then, his mother would refuse to eat and cry non-stop. And then she would have to be admitted in the hospital.

That would be really bad for PR.

After all, he was the VP of the biggest law firm in the city. Or perhaps in the whole state.
He put the box on the passenger seat of his dark Mercedes and drove towards his office. He never took his driver during these yearly visits. He knew how people talked.

Slowly, his mind focused on the day ahead. He had lunch scheduled with a client and then party in the night.
That’s how you celebrate your birthday. Not at a place full of dying people.

He stopped the car just outside his office and picked up the box.

He threw it straight into the garbage bin at the curb. It landed noiselessly, cushioned by the rotting refuse of the city.

A perfect shot.

He was an expert now. He had been doing it for 8 years now. Every year, the box went into that bin.

He drove on, forgetting all about it.

He never saw a pair of tiny hands reaching into the bin. Never saw a pair of eyes shining bright, half with tears and half with anticipation.
The kid could hardly reach it.

His face lit up as soon as he took the box out.

'I knew it!'

He jumped with joy, forgetting his filthy hands and tattered rags. Forgetting the fact that he had not eaten in 2 days.

Forgetting the cold. Forgetting everything!

He opened the box and there it was!

MAC

Written with frosting over the cake!

Exactly the same his mom would get for him every year! From the same place!

She had told him that an angel came and gave it to her for her little son on his birthday, every year!

'She must have told the angel to bring the cake even if she is not there!'

'Mom did not forget my 8th birthday! She could never forget!'

He stopped for a moment... closed his eyes and raised his face towards the sky. Someone had told him, that's where the God fellow lived.

"Thank you Mom. I love you. And I miss you. Please come back soon! "


And then he shoved a tiny fistful of cake in his mouth.


Not really bothering whether the cake bore his name or if it was the other way round.

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© 2009 by Chhaya. All rights reserved

image by Elizabeth Nourse (La Mère)

PS: Happy New Year to all my friends :)

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