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Once, there was a little boy who liked staring up at the sky. He loved the way the clouds formed into seemingly random shapes, the way each and every one of them was different from the other.

This activity could keep him occupied for hours on end if he wanted to. Most of the time, he would pry his eyes away only to sketch that sky down on paper. His sketchbook was filled with drawings of oddly shaped clouds caught in action in the blue sky.

As this boy grew into a teenager, he started delving into music and writing. Even the songs and poems he wrote had the airy touch of nature in them — his own favourite, “Little Things,” spoke about the little things that matter in life: the beauty of nature, the wind whipping up your hair, the simple joy of feeling alive. …


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This story is a product of going with the first thing that comes to one’s head when faced with a writing prompt. Thanks to Chuck Wendig for the title.

Warning: Very little sense follows.

Brock didn’t stand a chance. The giant warriors of the enemy were inching towards him with every step they took.

He looked around him. His friend Tom had already been reduced to a paste during the first attack.

The first attack. They never saw it coming.

They were all been enjoying a cool night’s sleep when, out of nowhere, there came a rude awakening. Brock wasn’t even sure if he had gained enough consciousness. The next thing he knew, they were all standing in a field the colour of white sand, and the remains of Tom was spread everywhere, for everyone to see. …


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Hope. That’s the language that the latest Linkin Park record speaks in. Listening to it for the first time last night, I couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of optimism by the time the tenth song finished playing.

Now, I’ve never really written a review for anything before, so I don’t really know how to go about this. But after the first listen of One More Light, I knew that I had to write something about it.

It all started with the first single, Heavy. Of all Linkin Park songs, this one, with its simple, straightforward lyrics, got to me somehow. It made me realise what was bringing me down—what I was dragging around with me. It has played a huge role in getting my life — and my writing — back on track; it’s still not perfect, but I’m getting there. …


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Every year, I can’t help but hear Minerva McGonagall clinking her glass and Albus Dumbledore saying, “Another year, gone!”

It’s amazing how fast days can fly by. Doesn’t seem long ago when you’d made all those resolutions, does it? Time for new ones now and to get that cycle started all over again.

Or maybe you resolutely don’t want to make any resolutions this year — either because you’ll not follow them anyway or because you like things just the way they are.

I recently learned about the term performative contradiction. It’s a beautiful thing.

By deciding that you aren’t going to make any resolutions, you are inadvertently making one right there. By deciding not to make any new year’s resolutions, you make a new year’s resolution. …


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Being Death had taken its toll on him. He looked down at his hands, at the flaky skin covering his once-great body. He tried to smell the evening air, but his nostrils had long since been blocked. He tried to watch the sunset on the horizon, but all he could see was an orange blur in the distance.

It was time for Death to die.

He could feel it in his arthritic bones. He could sense it in his foggy mind. Death knew death only too well.

He limped along to the middle of an empty, deserted road, dragging his chair behind him. Death wanted to be looking at the beautiful sunset, at least what he could see of it, when he went, when his time came. …


(This story was written using Chuck Wendig’s prompt. Turned out a little longer than intended! This is my first ever flash fiction attempt, so bear with me.)

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Image courtesy: velvetblush

“Food is overrated,” said Varun, rubbing his bulging belly. He burped and scrunched his nose, grimacing at the aftertaste in his mouth.

“Yea-yeah, man,” mumbled his friend Raj, eyes closed and leaning back. One hand was still holding a fork, crumbs of carrot cake sticking on the prongs.

They paid the bill for their third buffet that week and stumbled out of the restaurant.

“Good thing we’re walking home,” said Varun. …


Water ankle-deep in backyards. Water ankle-deep inside homes. People’s patience wearing out. Those were probably the first signs that the rains were getting to us. Having a lake nearby doesn’t help, either.

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The wide, blue sky. Stretching, never-ending. Dark in some places. Gloomy everywhere around, people frequently looking up at the sky to see whether it’s going to rain. It is 4 o’clock in the evening, yet it looks like 8 o’clock in the night.

But wait. There is a spot. The sun pierces through the clouds in this spot, poking its rays out, testing the air. Look above directly at this spot, and you’ll almost be blinded by the brightness. Such is the stark contrast between light and dark.

And yet, when you look at this spot from the corner of your eyes, it would seem not so bright. What seemed to look like bleached white against black will seem only a lighter grey against a darker grey. …

About

Krishnaa Lakshmanan

Clouds are nice. So are words. I write (mostly) fantasy fiction.

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