Time to Write

We are now welcoming guest posts in “Fiction in a Flash”. Calling for Original works of fiction/prose/poetry ! 
Selected works will be published in our FB page, Instagram and Twitter pages as well as our website https://fictioninaflash1.com.
Please note the guidelines below:

1. Material submitted should be original. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

2. The submission must not exceed 500 words.(the title of the piece is exclusive of the word limit).

3. Fiction in a Flash reserves the right to publish/reject the submission. 

4. Along with the submission, a short bio of the writer/blog links etc can be provided.

5. No photos with the submission allowed. Fiction in a Flash reserves the right to add photos to the submissions.

6. Usage Rights: By submitting your work, you have agreed to allow us to publish it on the following platforms belonging to “Fiction in a Flash” :

1. FB Page

2. Instagram

3. Twitter

4. Fiction in A Flash website.
However, your story will be duly attributed to you across all platforms and on all mediums.
Please submit at https://fictioninaflash1.com/contact/ OR email us at fictioninaflash1@gmail.com.

Please do NOT submit via FB messages as they will remain unmonitored


The Market of Colors

In the cacophony of sights and sounds,
where colors mingle, as do minds,
I hear a tinkle, a laughter.
In that busy market, I hear my life.

The banter of the bangle seller,
the cries of the peanuts hawker,
slowly seem to drown
and everything slows down.

I try to focus, I try to zoom,
on that one sound
that is the gateway to heaven,
that laughter I have to make my own.

But then, the crowd grows,
I cannot move, as it swallows,
I strain my ears, my being,
to catch that dying laughter.

In a flash, it is gone,
This colorful market took away
my color, my piece of heaven,
It took away what was surely mine.

The Crack

The glass window in my room has a crack, silver snakes coming from all directions and cumulating into one. I do not know whether it fell prey to a zooming stone, or an angry fist or a naughty toy. But that crack makes me feel at home.

For that crack in the window is a reflection of the crack in my heart. For that crack does not give in, does not shatter into a thousand pieces. It hangs on, just like the one in my heart.

And in the mornings, when the first gold spray of the sun finds its way through the crack, it lights up the one in my heart too.

That crack in my window is hope, it is my silver lining.

The Reminder Called Nature

The seasons are are a great reminder of the things that really matter.
When the final sun of the summer sets, it reminds us of warm days and the cool sea breeze of the evenings and the shade of that big oak tree in the park. And it tells us to be our own sunshine, to be that cool breeze and to shower love. Like that big oak tree.

When we walk through the the golden path of fallen leaves, the departing autumn air whispers to us, as it whizzes past, to rise from our failures and to build new dreams if old ones break, much like that barren tree that will sprout new life soon.

When we snuggle under the sheets on cold wintry mornings, when we find heaven in a glass of hot chocolate, the peeking sun through the fog reminds us to hold our close ones in our warmth and to help the less fortunate in need of warmth and food and that hot chocolate.

And when we take in the fragrance of the lilies and the daffodils and the roses in spring, the brightness of the world reminds us to to celebrate and cherish each moment in life. 

And it tells us that life is indeed a riot of colours. 


She took off her raincoat, and hung it on the rack. Her dress was wet at the hems. She sighed, she had not been able to protect herself from rain, like she had not been able to protect herself from life, from him, from her heart being shattered.
She made her way slowly to the kitchen which smelled like him, a faint scent of his cologne mixed with the coffee aroma from morning. It smelled like home.
As she put her shopping bags on the table, she wondered why it smelled like him when it had been a week since he moved out. She was disturbed by his smell in the house, in her sheets, in her couch, on the pillows, in the closet.

It was forcing her to give in, to forgive and forget. And she would not.

She forced herself to think of the fight a week ago. The fight when she, yet again accused him of cheating on her with his secretary.And he had denied it yet again. Had called her paranoid and insecure.

And it was then she had pulled out the photos, the hotel bills. She had spent a month’s salary on hiring a private eye. And that man had been good at his job.

His face had gone through a series of emotions the moment he laid his eyes on the ‘proof’. Shock, guilt, remorse.

He had called her paranoid for long. Not anymore. She had almost felt like laughing. But it was not funny. Three years wasted on a cheater is not funny. Love lost is not funny.

“I love you,” he had insisted.

She had said nothing. She knew he knew what he had to do. He had moved out with most of his belongings.

From one of the shopping bags, she fished out many bundles. New reed diffuser kits. Many fragrances.

If she had to cleanse her life, it had to start by cleansing her home, by gifting it a new “home” smell.

Love had died and so had the fragrance of a relationship. 

But in the world new fragrances are waiting to be found, so is love.

Her tired face broke into a smile, for the first time in a long time.

I hold her, soft as satin,
beautiful as the moon,
pristine as clear waters
on a sunny day,
She is purity,
She is joy.

I smell her,
the vanilla scent in her neck,
the fresh roses in her breath,
she is purity,
she is joy.

In the delicate knot of her soul
she holds me
she can make me or shatter me,
she is my power, she is my surrender
she is purity.
she is joy.

I look into her eyes,
the green of her iris,
the blue of her whites,
I see a dead coldness.

She is a beauty,
With a stone in her chest,
she is my Eris,
in her I find my peace
and my war.

I love, I burn,
I love more, scathed though I am,
for she is that,
she is my purity,
she is my joy.

The Path I Did Not Take

Along the trodden path,
I solemnly walk.
My feet taking me away,
yet all I eye is the path not taken.

I try to stop, I try to turn.
I pause and urge my feet,
to step onto the untrodden path,
my feet do not oblige,
they fight my soul, my dreams.

I hear cries of cheer,
that is everybody else’s.
from inside of me,
I hear cries of despair,
but the din of cheer ,
drowns my screams.

With a knot in my heart,
and with reluctant soul,
I keep on walking,
yet, all I eye is,
the path I did not take.