The Inheritance

‘That’s the house where your father was born,’ said the old man in a melancholy tone.

‘But I have never been there?’

‘Yes. Actually…..’ the old man was unable to continue.

‘It was your house?’

‘Yes….no, it was my father’s house.’

‘That would be Papa’s grandfather?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why don’t we live there? I could have a room for myself.’

‘After my mother passed away, my father decided to marry again. The lady he married was a decent person but her elder brother……..’ the old man looked at the innocent boy and felt a bit ashamed.

‘It’s rather complicated…..’

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a post for Friday Fictioneers on a picture prompt.

Word count 98

  

Tyranny of the Watch

‘Wake up’, said the watch.

‘I didn’t get even a wink of sleep. Let me….’ said he.

‘That doesn’t matter. You have to go for the yoga session and then…..’The watch was, as always, extremely polite.

‘I hate you.’ Indignantly, he pushed the watch away.

‘It means nothing to me.’ The watch would never take offence to his outbursts that had become quite frequent in recent times, ‘You have already lost twenty minutes.’

The watch was inexorably relentless.

Something in him snapped. He smashed the watch on the wall. He pretended that he had smashed the tyranny of the watch.   

The clock on the wall chimed disdainfully.

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A post for Friday Fictioneers on a photo prompt.

  

Birthday Party

It was well past noon. The sun bathed sand was still hot and burned his dirty feet. But he could not resist the temptation of looking at the unending array of waves that were hopelessly trying to reach him. He laughed mirthlessly and waited for the darkness to descend.

He ambled along the deserted path. He could still hear the waves but he could not see them.

He looked at the moon and thought of the bloated bellies of the starving children.  Where had he seen them, the children with bloated bellies? He tried but he could not recall.

The images were getting intertwined. There were the images of the socialites in diaphanous dresses and lockets and bracelets that were unusually glittering. Every one of them looked like an alabaster statue. Some of them made scintillating speeches and a few even recited what they called, their great poems on the ‘misery of living.’ Everyone had kept up the masquerade of being erudite and learned.

He felt a jolt. He had unknowingly kicked something on the beach. He stopped. It was a stuffed toy that a child had perhaps left on the beach. He picked it up. It was an expensive toy, but he didn’t feel any thrill. He thought of the starving children and suddenly recalled he had seen them decorating a birthday party thrown by a rich socialite. 

Was he there too?

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A post for Sunday Whirligig 100.