Ode to a white mug

365-165 Ode to a white mug

It had almost been
a wedding gift,
this mug, milky white,
not quite translucent,
with traces of tulips.
The husband had said,
“The green one is mine,
you can have this.”
Our first sharing, perhaps,
apart from the rings.

Morning after morning
my lips curl around
its glistening, curving rim,
like a secret kiss.
Steam and smell
serenade my senses,
as liquid flows into me
like a warm caress,
wiping away troubling,
traces of nightmares.

I had taken it with me
on a holiday once,
lain it among my clothes.
The thought of drinking
from a strange cup
had seemed askance.
Like wearing
someone else’s clothes,
or waking up to find
a stranger in my bed.

As I hold in now,
seeping in its warmth,
I begin to wonder.
Have I ever seeped out?
My breath whispering,
dissolving into those curves.
If someone were
to take it to their lips,
would it sing out to them,
my sonorous secrets?



For the dVerse Poet prompt ‘Everyday objects”


Tears of the Moon

(100-word flash fiction)

“These are tears of the moon.” Alice’s voice is tremulous.

Jenny snorts. The seven-year old cynic, who no longer believes in Santa.

“The moon is sad because dolphins are dying.”

Jenny stops in mid-snort when she notices the tears in Alice’s voice.

“And whales too. And … and polar bears.” Alice’s tears are as clear and glassy as the drops on the leaf.

Then, 10-year old Jenny with her ‘Save Alice’ campaign, trying desperately to save a dying Alice.

Now, at 16, firebrand and founder of the organisation ‘Tears of the Moon”, valiantly trying to prevent wanton killing of animals.


Second story submission for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt below –

FF_santoshwriter (1)





The sign

(100-word flash fiction)

“No rain for four years.” The shaman, grim-faced, is bending over a plant.

“It was hard when we had no rain for two summers. We barely survived.” The tribesman standing behind him sounds worried.

The shaman turns away from the clump of thorny brush to gaze at the bleached, shimmering sky. Already, in his bones he can feel the moisture ebbing from the land like a mother feels the milk drying up inside her.

“But good will come.” His face softens. “We will survive. But the white man, he won’t. He will flee. The land will be ours once again.”


Story submission for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt below –

FF_santoshwriter (1)

Cricket practice

(100-word flash fiction)

The boys were dumbfounded. They had arrived at their cricket ground as usual with rickety bats and an old tennis ball and Charlie was halfway through the tunnel under the wire fence when they saw the ‘structure’. They gazed at it in awe and fright.

“How could anyone have erected something so big in one night?” Pete whispered.

“Tall crane,” Tony, the know-all.

Meanwhile, AK782164 was furious. Not only had all systems failed, he had to scramble through the whole night in pitch dark, to reach the only window to find that the ruddy spaceship had landed on its side.


My story for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt below –