short fiction
Our feelings are second-hand. Our love is constructed. Our beliefs are coloured, our originality validated through artificial art. It has become truly difficult to love without getting hurt.
Right before the end, reality had become a bad sci-fi movie, the kind you watch at four in the morning, unable to sleep, unable to turn the T.V. off.
The Maoists aren’t a ‘tribe’, though some of them might be tribals. The C.R.P.F. certainly isn’t. Which tribe hunts for a monthly salary?
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It was the summer before her final year of college when Vaidehi first saw Suresh Babu.
Her joints are stiff, but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s her natural condition.
Alice pressed her palm to the cool glass as her husband snipped away at the fabric that would form his fourth hat that week.
When she sipped from the flowers, she would make sure that her wings were stretched out and displayed properly for him.
Bright lights flash about her, and the city steeps in her lap for an unexpected reunion.
