Minutes later, I wake up in my bed,

startled, gasping for air.

I open the window and let in some fresh air.

Something strange is filling up my lungs.

I can’t breathe.

Is the house too smoky?

Ahh! Maybe the cake’s made, I reminisce.

I walk over and open the oven door.

The cake, as I see, is half baked.

Eight minutes and forty-six seconds more before the timer goes off.

Time enough for a smoke!

I step onto the porch.

And dig into my pocket looking for the cigarettes,

I had only just bought.

I find one and light.

My lungs can take the smoke no more.

I can’t breathe.

I stub the butt and walk out on the street.

A police car passes me by, and I hurriedly step onto the sidewalk.

Like always, they make me uncomfortable. More so today.

A black life is best not noticed.

My anonymity, my only ally!

I turn a corner.

I stand in front of the store; that had just sold me the cigarettes.

I see police cars, and a light crowd.

“Black lives matter,” I hear someone shout.

I want to scream in support, but I can not.

Curious, I push through the crowd.

I see myself lying on the street,

pinned lifeless beneath a knee.

A display of abject power and absent humanity

I can’t breathe.

There lying lifeless on the street I learn,

The price of a black life,

A mere twenty dollars.

The time it takes to end that life,

Less than eight minutes.

The number of times that life can plead,

sixteen, then at least, I could no more!

Minutes later, I wake up in my bed,

startled, gasping for air.

This time I don’t rush to open the window.

I close my eyes instead.

The oven timer goes off!

A black life was originally published in Resistance Poetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Little kid lover

Millionaire farting popcorn

Reginald Pooftah

In response to the ‘Haiku this prompt: Nonsense’ by Harper Thorpe

Michael Gary Scott was originally published in Haiku Hub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Once the supply chain’s broken, they will be damned!” He radioed, “over.”

“Private, can’t authorize you to go kamikaze, to down the bridge!” commanded the Sergeant, “over.”

“Fuck authorization,” he roared angrily, “over and out.”

Here, under the victorious fluttering flag rests a young private who dared to defy orders.

Kamikaze was originally published in The Friday Fix on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Monday | 9:00 PM

Dear God,

Today Miss Fernandez asked Ananya and me to get Suresh uncle and Appa to school tomorrow for a parent teacher meeting. I don’t know why!

I don’t remember doing anything wrong. I reached school, and as always, sat next to Ananya. In the recess, I ate her sandwich, and she had my dosa. Ananya and I exchanged boxes because I don’t like dosa. You know, I have told Amma not to pack dosa, but she never listens to me. Today I cried only once, in the Math period. But it was not my fault. Shah teacher scolded Ananya as she had not finished her homework. Ananya started crying, and on seeing her cry, I also started crying. Everybody else started laughing.

In the evening, I went to Ananya’s house to help her finish her Math homework, so that the teacher does not scold her tomorrow. I also took my drawing book, so that while I am finishing her Math homework, she can finish my kite drawing. I don’t like to draw; I like Math. Ananya does not like Math; she likes drawing. So what’s wrong if we do each other’s homework? But when Ananya’s mom saw us helping each other, she scolded us and made her do the sums and me color the kite.

After dinner, I told Appa that Miss Fernandez had called him and Suresh uncle to school tomorrow. Appa started laughing, saying, “I knew this day would come. But so soon, I had no clue!”

Tuesday | 9:00 PM

Dear God,

Miss Fernandez has moved Ananya to class 2B. I am still in class 2A.

Amma said this had to be done, as we were not making other friends in class and only playing with each other. I don’t like school. I don’t like Miss Fernandez; I don’t like Appa, Amma, or Suresh uncle.

I don’t like you, and I am never going to pray from now on.

Wednesday | 9:00 PM

Dear God,

I told you I would not pray. I am not praying!

Thursday & Friday | 9:00 PM

Dear God,

Still not praying!

Saturday | 9:00 PM

Dear God,

Today a girl called Riya joined our class. Miss Fernandez told us that her father got transferred from Jaipur to Bangalore. She asked Riya to sit next to me. Riya was wearing a pink dress with red flowers and a golden ribbon. Miss Fernandez said because it’s her first day to school, its ok to not be in school uniform. Riya was looking like a princess. She was looking so beautiful that I wanted to hug her.

In the evening, when I was telling Amma about Riya, and how pretty her dress was, Appa started laughing. He told Amma, “Sushma, prepare yourself for one more class change.” I don’t know why he said that!

I like my school. I like Riya. I like Miss Fernandez and Amma and Appa.

I like you and will pray every day!

© Mitul Bhat 2020

Dear God… was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Tonight?” she inquired.

“Yes,” I said, dangling the key in front of her face.

“I am scared,” she confessed.

“Don’t be.” I asserted. “We’ll creep in and out of there in no time. Once out, we go our separate paths. You get back what’s rightfully yours and me, Sweet Revenge!”

“Word selection: key, path, creep. Remember, in order for your work to make it into Friday’s lineup, you must use all selected words in your story. Thank you, and good luck!” — Justin Deming

In response to the prompt theme: March Madness by Justin Deming —

The Friday Fix Story Prompt for March 20th, 2020

If you are interested in 500 words and not 50:

March 16

Sweet Revenge was originally published in The Friday Fix on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

March 16, winter was receding, and the arid Ahmadabad summer was yet to set in. This ‘on the cusp’ season would usually result in pleasant mornings. At 5 minutes to eight, a good two hours before the school bus would pick him, he was all dressed up and ready.

“Maa, I have a math test and need to memorize tables.” he cried out the rehearsed lie and rushed to the terrace of his three-story apartment. The plan was simple; keep an eye on the gate and wait for the white ambassador car that gets baba back from his office trips.

He had been waiting for today morning since the time he had overheard his aunt tell his neighbors, “Eeshwar was not supposed to come back like this. His return flight was to be a month from now on March 16.”

Yesterday night, he hadn’t slept a wink in anticipation of today morning. For most of the night, the images from the past month — of unexpected evening guests, a furiously ringing landline phone, extra hours of television programming covering the crash and vague memories of him trying to act strong and hide his tears by crying under the bed sheet or in the bathroom with the water running — had kept him awake.

To drive away those unpleasant memories, he would imagine his baba stepping out of the ambassador the coming morning. The thought of his baba returning was not utterly impractical, as they never opened the coffin. He had heard his uncle say, “Eeshwar’s silver Titan watch helped us identify him.” He thought that to be quite lame, as his baba’s watch was old and rather ordinary.

An hour and 15 minutes had passed waiting on the terrace, but there was no sign of the ambassador. Just when he was about to lose all hope, a white ambassador pulled up near the gate. He was almost sure; that his aunt’s prophecy of his baba returning home on March 16 had come true. As the door opened, he saw a tall man alight the car and instantly realized it was not baba. At the same time, it also struck him that it will never be baba!

There on the terrace, a month after his baba passed away, he cried in the open without inhibitions. In a way, an eleven-year-old would and should! He must have cried for fifteen minutes when he heard his maa’s voice calling him, followed by footsteps. He wiped his face and opened the textbook, pretending to read. But the moment he saw her, he burst out crying, “I don’t remember the table of Nine. I had memorized it before!” He lied to her again!

“It’s ok, it’s only a test, and you are doing great. Everything will be fine, like before!” Maa said, hugging him. She had always seen through his lies. Today, he saw through one of hers when she said, “Everything will be fine, like before!”

This story is published in a Few Words, Medium’s publication that only accepts stories under 500 words.

If you have a few meaningful words to say and want to be a writer in our publication, visit here.

March 16 was originally published in a Few Words on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Searing through my soul

her gaze, seeking empathy

whispers, “I’m hungry.”

In response to the Prompt “Compassion” by Brett Christensen at House of Haiku.

Another Haiku on similar lines, you might like:

Hunger

A longer piece on the need to do away with the xenophobia and exhibit compassion.

‘It’

I know who I am

when I truly understand

who you are. I’m you.

In response to the ‘Haiku this prompt: I am’ by Sherry Kappel

Who I am not:

Courage, I am not you.

Synergy was originally published in Haiku Hub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Here, even darkness

is but an old acquaintance.

Here is where home is.

In response to the ‘Haiku prompt: Home’ by Brett Christensen

Inspired by the Simon & Garfunkel classic, “The Sound of Silence.”

Another Simon & Garfunkel inspired Haiku:

The Sound of Silence

Battle lines drawn, an eerie calm, ‘It’ lingers.

Breadth short, eyes moist, souls depart.

Fractured reflections, decayed bodies fumigated,

floor to ceiling. All that remains is smoke and mirrors.

Families on a slow burn, deplete. A kill ‘It’ kills.

A mortal race on knees, grudgingly kneels.

In times so testing, lest we forget,

bent we have, fallen we are, but break we’ll not.

A plague feeding off our fears, ‘It’ spreads.

We seal borders. ‘Quarantine’ I from us. We close,

when open we must. Empathize we must. Resist we must.

We pray. We hope. Only when we unleash the human spirit . . .

‘It’ succumbs.

‘It’ was originally published in A Cornered Gurl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.