prufrock, under the impression that i could write, tagged me to write short stories of less than 55 words. clearly he hasn’t read my stories.
anyway, here’s my humble contribution. all five of them are exactly 55 words long.
the heady scent of chicken tikka masala fills the air. all around are the resonant beats of bengali, mixed up with the odd accent of the native thrill-seekers who have come to sample “indian” cuisine.
this is not me, i tell myself, as i turn away from this pretend home. where then do i belong?
the last thing he saw before he died was the gun drop from her elegant hands. the barrel, still smoking, lay inches away, the cold, wet fingers of his spreading blood rushing towards it.
she pried the winning lottery ticket from his tight grip, and walked away, pausing only to put her clothes back on.
he could still taste her on his lips, could still feel her hungry mouth clamped over his. “i’m hungry,” she had said, “get me some food and i’ll make your dreams come true.”
with only thoughts of her in mind as he rushed across the street, he didn’t see the bus speeding in his direction.
everything i am, i am because of you, sang the musician up on stage, nearly drowned out by the fans singing along.
he searched for her, finally spying her about twenty seats away. for a second, she turned to look at him, and from the look in her eyes, he knew she felt the same.
fumbling along in the dark, her hand closed on something that felt cold and wet, something that did not belong.
“turn on the damn light,” she yelled, and when the initial sense of blindness went away, she saw she was holding her fiance’s severed hand, the ring still on the finger.
she started to scream.
well, i’m certain those sucked. that’s what you get for giving me a word limit, damn it.