Fiction Friday: Hacking through love

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Love at 21 is the best kind of love. Newly found independence, and the headiness of new romance. Every look, every touch spelled magic. And always held the potential of so much more. Like being at the edge of a cliff, pulling back moments before plunging over.

A little bit of danger and loads of excitement.

That’s what it felt like at first.

My roommate didn’t approve of my budding romance. Because my new boyfriend had a girlfriend back in India. …


An innocent love story

Image by No-longer-here from Pixabay

It was about ten minutes into the lunch break. The classroom was empty; everyone was on the playground. Tables had been pushed away and some backpacks had fallen to the floor in the frenzy of rushing out. I had dawdled and was just about to go and join my friends at throw-ball when Mads walked in looking angry.

“What happened?” I said.

“Don’t ask! You know what that Robbie did?” Mads said.

“Who?” I asked, my mind momentarily blank. I had been thinking of other things.

“That guy Robbie! Sits in the first row. Thick glasses. You know him! …


Free verse

Image by Irina Ilina from Pixabay

If policemen were cats
there wouldn’t be knees on necks
Instead, they’d lay their paws,
Melt us with little pink beans

If policemen were cats
they wouldn’t see color of skin
Instead, they’d be sweet and frisky,
Loving hands that feed and pet

If policemen were cats
we wouldn’t be afraid of them
Instead, we’d try sweet baby talk
to hear them playfully purr

If policemen were cats
we’d see ears go back in tension
We wouldn’t have to guess at intention
We’d count on treats and toys

If policemen were cats
We wouldn’t worry about Derek Chauvin
We’d only know Grumpy…


Wednesday Prose Poem: the rooms have us

Photo by Linda Xu on Unsplash

I live inside your skull.

The walls are peppered with parchment faded photographs, worn and yellowed at the edges. Hanging by their last breath to the damp moldy walls.

The walls are curved. In places the curves are elegantly long, in some there are crevices. Hiding awful imaginary rats of memories. Which snipe at your feet the moment you get too comfortable.

I live inside your skull.

I know what you’re going to say, before you say it. I know what you’re thinking.

I know which lies you resort to most frequently, and those that are complicit in your fabricated…


Fiction Friday

Image by Diane Kim from Pixabay

I’m in a bit of a pickle. Will you help me out?

My name is Stella, and you’d call me the typical woman next door. There’s really nothing that’s out of the ordinary with me or my life, you know?

Nothing that would attract suspicion of any kind at all.

I look like any one of the millions of thirty-something middle-class typical city-dweller. Full-time job, weekend boyfriend.

Everything is fine tuned to the middle of the bell curve. Designed to not raise an eyebrow, not get any undue attention.

My colleagues at work think of me as hard-working, and a…

Paroma Sen

“Do not go gentle into that good night, but rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

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