Short Story Competition Winners

Dear My Talent Community Members,

The winners of our Orkut.com My Talent Community have been selected. We conducted 2 competitions one for 1000-2000 words and another competition for 100-200 words. Unfortunately we got only 5 entries for the 100-200 words competition and all the 5 entries did not qualify.
So we have decided to add one more second place prize for the main 1000-2000 words competition.

The Winner who wins $100 is

Kathleen McFadden

The WINNING STORY is

5/24 I have a dream about a bear. In my dream I am wearing my favorite childhood dress, a dainty, red-dotted Swiss with a pinafore reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. I can still feel the stiffly starched material on my palms; the way the lace collar itches. Mother takes me downtown to get my picture taken, hamburgers and vanilla milkshakes for lunch. As a reward for "smilin' pretty", she gives me a small teddy bear from a sidewalk vendor. I promptly name him Patches and skip the entire way back to the apartment.

When Barbara and I were little we automatically took on a certain indelible glow amongst our classmates and the other neighborhood children, a glow that made mothers give us trays of lasagna and okay weekend-long sleepovers, a blinking highway motel sign that flashed, "Troubled...Troubled...Troubled...". But that afternoon she was good. She laughed at my knock-knock jokes. She combed my hair into pigtails looped with scarlet ribbons. She held my hand as we crossed the street.

I awake from my dream with a start. The Oriental man in the business suit next to me looks curiously. I stare back in confusion, moistening my dry lips, then look around. I wonder where Mother is, if he has seen her. In an instant I grow panicked, and unbuckle my seat belt to get up and look for her. She can't be left alone, not in her condition. Maybe she's gone to the dining car to grab a sandwich. I feel beads of clammy sweat forming on my upper lip as I scramble to my feet. My stomach is a falling elevator, my head a crashing kaleidoscope of red, then black, then red. Then I sit down because I remember.

5/25 Kevin is waiting when the Amtrak lurches to a stop in the morning. I silently curse my sister. Kevin is the kind of person I go out of my way to avoid in life, the kind who gave wedgies in high school, who jumps up and screams for touchdowns and throws people into the pool. He flashes a toothy grin and asks me, "how ya been, hon?" His eyes rove my body with a practiced glance, as if examining a thoroughbred pony. He smiles and nods and snaps his gum a mile a minute. I am grateful for the time it takes to claim my luggage, lest he notice my hands trembling. The dream has shaken me, and Kevin Mulligan is simply too conventional for such things.

He is a frat boy, slightly softened by age, who likes red meat and cold beer. He is the head football coach at the local high school, his alma mater, where he still receives the same brand of hero worship and notoriety he enjoyed throughout his youth.

Once the narrow range of these stiff banalities is covered during the car ride home I feel the fog of sticky silence creep between us. He compensates by fiddling with the radio. I chew my fingernails and silently gaze out the window.

After what seems an eternity, the SUV swings onto picket-fenced, tree-lined Lilliput Lane. There is a gaggle of little girls skipping rope behind the fanned rainbow of a garden sprinkler, while a few young boys contend for victory points in a game of lawn football. Kevin slows the car to a crawl and watches the play as it unfurls.

I finally find an outlet for conversation. "Cute little k--"

"Atta boy, Matty!" he shouts, teeth displayed, thumb jerked upwards.

Matty, a sharp-featured little redhead, has just immolated a fellow player, who is now curled into the fetal position, bawling. He returns the thumbs-up eagerly, screeching, "thanks, Big Kev!"

Big Kev flips his chin and presses the gas, rolling forward. "My buddy Rog's kid," he explains.

"Oh." I see the back of Barbara's cool blonde pageboy through the curtained picture window, back and forth as she furiously attacks the living room carpet with her vaccuum. She wears a stiffly starched pink blouse.

Kevin looks at her and frowns. "I just hope this funeral business doesn’t freak her out too much."

His warped sense of gallantry irritates me. Mother is nothing but a nuisance to these people. My sister the ostrich hasn't visited in nearly six months. Her sporadic calls are made out of guilt rather than concern. Even then our conversations never venture far from rudimentary. Lauren and Taylor both made the Honor Roll! Are you seeing anyone? You've got to put yourself out there more. What? Mom had another episode? Hold on, sis, I'm going to have to call you back. My brownies are burning.

Kev and Barb have renovated, and Chateau Mulligan is the exterior shot of a sitcom, peppered with perfectly pruned rose bushes and gilded lilies. The spotless living room resembles a spread from Good Housekeeping, a luscious sea of peaches and cream, trimmed with gold throw pillows and a lacquered coffee table of cherry wood. Framed family photos adorn the flowery walls and white wicker end tables, documenting various family vacations and the chronology of my nieces' lives.

She makes it a point to engulf me, to tell me how thin I look, to keep up appearances. She leaves traces of a light floral fragrance swirled with freshly baked bread. There is so much I need to say, but somehow the words are lodged in my throat, squashed and wadded up like paper.

5/26 Dinner tonight is roasted chicken, baked potato, and broccoli. I hover awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen, awaiting instruction on where to sit. There isn't any mention of Mother during grace, which comes complete with closed eyes and clasped hands.

Lauren, my elder niece, is blonde and beautiful and snide. She dons a blue and white cheerleading uniform and a smirk slicked with gloss. "So, like, after dinner I can go to the game, right Mom?" she demands. "Mom?"

"We'll see," Barbara replies blandly.

"This is so not fair! If I don't go Joelle will get to lead the cheers. Why do I even have to be here?" she glares at me pointedly and mutters darkly, "this sucks."

"Watch your mouth." Kevin has remained silent until this point, shoveling his meal in. I feel embarrassment at the almost-certain knowledge that my presence has been fodder for a Family Discussion. After that I eat quietly but try to stay involved, which means appropriately reacting to Kevin's recount of the neighborhood football game, Lauren's catty remarks about her cheerleading teammates, and Taylor's choppy rendition of "O Susanna" on the piano.

In the end, I am utterly exhausted and want the procession to process. I am used to eating alone. Mother always spent the night in her room, cutting out pictures of eyes from my old Teen Beat magazines. "To protect us, to watch over," she'd explain. "So they don't come to get us." I never ascertained exactly who "they" were, she never said. Probably the demons in her head, manifested visions that had clawed their way out of our father's retreating back, or the empty bottle of sugar pills.

5/27 There is another dream. In this dream Barbara is in the sixth grade, clad in her maroon and white Pom-Pom Squad uniform. Mother is gushing about her "little beauty" to our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Fetterman. Their daughter Kathy is on the squad with Barbara. They both giggle madly, their hair slicked back into buns fastened with bobby pins. The Fettermans have come over to take pictures before we go to the game.

Mr. Fetterman is balanced on one knee as Barbara grins into the camera, proud, shiny, gleaming. Mother shepherds us out the front door, beaming, brimming with pride. It is a good day, and on the way home we slurp Popsicles purchased from the ice cream truck, relaxed, content, and happy.

5/28 Scores of people who know Kevin and Barbara come for Mother's funeral. I meet Midge Bentley, president of the P.T.A., and her husband Todd, who has a fake tan and a real estate business.

Mother looks radiant, and her wrists are concealed by a lacy white gown. Her honeycomb hair is fanned out across a satiny, snow-white pillow. Her wide-set eyes are no longer wild and confused, but sleeping serenely.

She is safely in the ground now. The repast is finished, chicken or beef at swanky La Luna. Barbara and Kevin mingle, as do Lauren and Taylor.

Father Roberts approaches me as I eat alone. He is white-haired and jowly and reminds me of Santa Claus. There is something comforting about him.

"Your eyes are haunted, you know," he says. I wonder if he is referring to the dreams. How could he know?

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"With sadness. Such a heavy, troubled burden on your soul. Don’t be sad for your mother, child. She's in the Lord's hands now, and despite her choices, she's still one of God's children."

"I'm not sad for my mother's death, Father. I'm sad--I'm sad for her life." The floodgates break and I am inundated by tears and snot. People look curiously as I bury my face in my hands and cry for all I am worth, for Mother, poor, abandoned, Mother, and for Barbara, who sweeps over and wraps her arms around me, even though through my bleary eyes I can see her smile apologetically to the room.

5/29 Kevin and Barbara babble about Ed Winemiller's lawn as they drive me back to the train station. Lauren and Taylor argue over who used the hairbrush last. I gaze out the window, distant and dreaming. I am thinking of Mother, wondering if she is watching me, watching this scene. I know I will probably not see Barbara or her family for quite some time.

I watch them as the train departs, sticking my hand out the window, feeling nothing but wind on my empty, outstretched palm. Then I lean my head against the glass and close my eyes. Now I sleep to dream.
__________________________________________________________

The Runner up prize of $75 goes to

Hymero
Name: Samir Ugarak
Sultan Ahmedova 79E
70230 Bugojno
Bosnia and Herzegovina
hymero@gmail.com

The RUNNER UP Story is

DUSK OF TIME

Rays of the warm morning sun fall accross the floor and gently make me to stop a dream and wake up. With my slumbering eyes, I look through the window and see an endless field of colorful flowers dancing to the rhythm of the wind. The scent of spring has filled up the room and begs me to go outside to feel the beauty of the nature. I hear the babble of the river, the birds are singing their melodies, the dog is barking loud. Everything seems so alive. I just put some clothes on and rush out of the old cabin that's hidden somewhere in the mountain and only a few people know it exists. I step outside and the air welcomes me. I sit on a wooden chair and just try to enjoy the sight, to catch the beauty of the moment. In the middle of my positive trance, a friend of mine called me and asked me to come to the city to sign some papers. Although I refuse to go there if it's not neccessary, I thought it could be interesting this time. I'll be able to see what's been going on and I might visit some dear friends. I've been kind of detached for a few months – I have no TV, no computer, no radio. That's my choice. I don't miss them at all. I pack some things and I'm ready to go.

I ride the horse through the forest and through the fields of sunflowers to get to the first bus station about ten miles from here. I couldn't feel more delighted while enjoying the sight but I feel something's aching me somewhere inside. The more I go ahead, an invisible hand is holding me back. I just deny it and move on. I arrive at the bus station which is crowded. By the smiles on people's faces, I can assume that they're happy to leave. I keep wondering why, but the answer seems to be slipping away. I feel it would take a lifetime for me to understand. Around noon, while the sun's right above me, the bus comes by, we grab our seats and take off. After a few hours, we're reaching our destination.

The city. Through the window of the bus it all seems so different. Maybe that's only because I haven't been around for a while. The traffic jams, drivers yelling, it all comes back to me. The reasons why I left become clear again and the doubts I had before just fade away. We arrive at the station and the first thing that grabbed my attention was the smell of the tyres. In a city which has around million cars, imagine how strong the smell can be? I could handle the smell itself, but when I think about its effects on my health, it gets bad. Then an another thing crosses my mind. All the industry facilities are mostly located in the city or the near-city areas. Imagine how poisonous that is. An old beggar breaks my thought as he shows his hat where people are supposed to put money in. He probably doesn't have a few dollars to buy something to eat while a few steps from him in the nearby restaurant a some people are eating food enough for a dozen. I know my hands are tied and that's breaking my heart. I put the coins I had in my pocket in the hat and walk on. I call my friend and we set up a meeting in a bar which was six blocks away. Since I have some spare time I decide to go by foot. I walk down the sidewalk and look around at those skyscrapers surrounded by little clouds. All of the sudden, I hear a scream somewhere behind me. I turn around and see a tall guy stealing a handbag from an older lady. Nobody's doing anything. After just a couple of seconds, the guy runs away and the lady stands frozen in despair. I hear comments from people and they suprise me even more. Since the person who stole the bag was black, most people are immediately thinking all black men are like that. It's not only racial, it also happens with religions. A person who declares himself as a muslim throws bombs on innocent people – people are throwing all the muslims in a basket called dangerous. I hate stereotypes. I wish I could change people's minds, but again, my hands are tied. I walk on. While still under impression, I look at everyone who passes me by under my eyebrow like a possible threat. I don't know why, but it seems I can't push that away. Sometimes I think that we're born with stereotypes. I know that can't be true, but there are times when there is no other explanation. I walk on and, just as the rain was about to fall, I arrive at the bar. I came a bit early so I decided to have a drink before my friend comes. There's an old television on a shaky shelf and the news are just about to begin. The breaking news break my heart... Another war has started. Although the guns and the missiles are far away from me, still I feel threatened. I understand that if a country leader did something wrong, he needs to be punished. But every war doesn't end without innocent victims. I think of all the people, especially the children, who are getting killed every day. Did they deserve it? No. When I think about it a little deeper, I realize that it's all for money. Simply, we're living in a world where materialism rules. I wonder where have all those times gone when love mattered, when we cared for each others, never looking at colors or races? Without will to have the meeting, I pay the check and just take off. I'll call the guy later and tell him something came up. I just can't talk about business while there's blood spilled somewhere. Again, I know my hands are tied, but still I can pray. I take the bus and get back home. The trip seemed like it lasted a second because I've been occupied with thinking. I sit on my old chair, and no matter how hard I try to deny it, I realize one thing. It seems to me that we're stepping into the dusk of time and it won't be long until we reach the night.
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There were many good stories but unfortunately we could choose only 2 stories and we have done that. This doesnt mean the other stories are bad.Stories which were very good and short listed but missed the prizes are

UNFORTUNATE LOVE
By Thomas Jacob - thomasindia@gmail.com

It was a cold night with a light breeze blowing now and then. Mohit Saas sat on the bench outside the motel where he was staying for a couple of days. It was getting colder and Mohit got cozy in his brown leather coat. He was the new age Indian; with a very modern look but a true Indian at heart. Mohit had a rose in his hand, as if waiting for a lover, a non-existant lover.

At the end of the same street, sitting at the corner table of 'Restaurant Indian Spices' was Ayesha Maurya. She looked at her watch, waiting for Surya Maurya. Surya and Ayesha were married for 6 years now. There marriage wasn't perfect, as is every marriage, but they didn't complain much. Surya entered the restaurant and hugged Ayesha.
"10 minutes, I've been here all alone" said Ayesha.
".. yeah" murmured Surya.
The cellphone rang again.
"just give me one more minute" said Surya as he quickly walked out of the restaurant, checking the reception of the signal on his cellphone.
"… yeah" murmured Ayesha.
Ayesha looked out the window to see the moon being covered by clouds, the breeze getting stronger.

A drop of rain falls onto Mohit's open palm. Mohit now sat on the bench with both his legs on the bench. Thoughts of his child running across the street, and the screeching sound of a car comes to his mind yet again. A drop falls again onto his palm, this time a tear. Mohit kisses his closed palm.

Ayesha had enough of Surya's poor work-life balance and gets up and leaves the restaurant. Surya motioned with his hands but Ayesha ignored him and started walking towards their apartment down the street. As she walks, she crosses Mohit, who is walking now, but none look at each other.

"Why do I have to be alone?" thought Mohit. He looked for a way to end his loneliness. Suddenly, as if an answer to his prayers, he saw a speeding car head his way. Surya Maurya had to rush to his wife, immediately. Mohit was waiting for the car to come as close as possible before jumping in front of it. Surya hit the pedal harder and Mohit knew it was now; Before Surya could know it, Mohit was right in front of his car and it was too late to hit the brakes.

Ayesha opened the door of the apartment to find the rooms totally dark and she heard the weeping sound of a child. She turned on the lights of the living room.
"Mummy.. " cried Nitya.
"Baby, I'm sorry.. " cried Ayesha.
Ayesha kneeled down and Nitya came running toward her. They both hugged and cried together. Neither Ayesha nor Nitya knew what the other was crying for. Nevertheless, they cried.

Ayesha, Nitya and Mohit appeared for the funeral. Surya Maurya's funeral. Mohit wasn't sure why destiny allowed him to live again. He still had dreams of Surya steering the car to save him but crashing against the never-forgiving, heart-less wall. Mohit knew he was responsible for Surya's death and he felt the need to be there for Ayesha and Nitya all his life. He had to be there for them.

4 months pass by.

"You shouldn't have taken this much trouble! " said a happy Ayesha.
"Come on, Nitya deserves more than this!" said Mohit and winked at Nitya.
"Thank you! Thank you!" cried Nitya and hugged Mohit.
It was Nitya's best birthday. Ayesha saw the happiness in Nitya's eyes when Mohit was around. Ayesha knew that Mohit would be a good father for Nitya.
After the party that night, Ayesha knew that Mohit had to know. Mohit made sure everything was OK and catered to all the needs of the guests and the three of them went back to the apartment.

"That day.. . The day of Surya's accident.. " began Ayesha.
Ayesha proceeded to tell how she had a small fight with Surya and she rushed out of the restaurant; which was the reason of Surya's death.
Mohit's eyes began to swell and he wished he weren't there while Ayesha was talking about this.

Nitya began to cry and Ayesha kneeled down and hugged her. Both of them cried. Now Mohit too began to cry and he hugged them and cried along with them.
"It's not your fault" said Mohit to Ayesha. Mohit thought again about confessing what had really happened that night.
"Will you be with us forever?" cut in Ayesha. Mohit stood up and wiped the tears from his eyes. He didn't know what to say.

The next day Ayesha woke up to find Mohit missing and his belongings too. She saw a letter on the dining table from the seminary stating Mohit's religious conversion to Christianity and that he was admitted to the seminary to undergo the required training to become a church priest. Ayesha cried and tore the letter.

Several years pass by.

Policemen inspect the apartment.
"She was on drugs. Didn't even leave a note." Said the policeman.
".. killed the poor child too" said another policeman.
"But why did they convert to Christianity last month?" said one policeman.
"She spent hours at this particular church.. She had a special bond with the priest there.. " said another policeman.

Mohit conducted the funeral with an expressionless face.


____________________________________________________________


FISH AND THE SAIPPU
By Rithwik Lancs - Rithwik.lancs@rediffmail.com

Coming from the southern peninsular tip of a subcontinent, he used to refer any white European as saippu. Probably it might have originated from ‘sahib’ in hindi, meaning a respectable person. When it is written as saippu, anybody in this country will pronounce the ‘u’ in it as the pronunciation of ‘u’ in the word put. Actually, it is to be spelled as saippeh, ending in something similar to it. Infact, a lot can be written on various pronunciations . However, at the moment his interest is not to describe the pronunciations, but about something he saw recently in this country.

For a couple of times when he had visited this Great Kingdom recently, he was living with one of his friend RC. Mr. RC was living in a place near the air port city. Whenever he gets down from the train at the rail station RC used to wait there with his car to pick him up. Usually at the train station, his second step used to be into RC’s Honda Civic. Third step will be in the court yard of the flats where RC lives. As such he is not very much knowledgeable about the locality. On the way to RC’s house they have to drive through the road under a bridge just after the train station. This bridge itself formed part of the town’s name.

RC’s house was near a pond. When he went there for the first time, the pond appeared almost like a waste pit. It was a small one, with its sides steeply slopping into nothing more than a large well.The muddy sides were covered with dirty rubbish .The scanty water was filthy and stinking. But when he went this time it was all beautiful. There stood an attractive fencing encircling it, with equally attractive gate at one corner. All sides were green with carefully maintained lawn. On the banks around the pond ,there were many platforms. The platforms were made of concrete, similar in shape and size; projecting into the pond, sloping forward and sinking into water. It gave an impression of many swimmers touching the water level at same time in a swimming competition. The water inside the pond was crystal clear .A few crates could be seen swimming leisurely and fearless.

Even before entering the house he asked RC, who beautified the pond, and why such platforms on all sides. RC told him that it is a recent work. It was done by the Council and the platforms are meant for people to sit for fishing during the sunny days. It was almost dark at 10 pm of the British Summer. He didn’t probe further and went inside the house where RC was living alone. After dinner he had a long chat with RC; mainly on how to survive in England for next few years. Actually he had made that visit for the very purpose. RC with an experience of living in UK for past two years, had a lot of tips for him for an effective living as he was going to be there for next two years. Feeling tired after a long journey, he went to sleep early.

As usual, he got up around 5 o'clock in the morning. By the time he opened his eyes, it was already bright. If he was back in his home town with such a bright sun, it would be 10 o'clock in the morning. It was one another ‘new’ for him in this country .Initially for him it was an evidence to prove the inferiority of this country compared to his .But after some time he recognized it is a matter to be proud of by those who are exposed to it. In his place the day bows down before the night abruptly.But in this country there is evening which is gentle, colourful and relaxing. The night spends long time with day holding the hands before letting to go for a nice sleep. No wonder why great romantic creations belong to this very country; he used to think.


During last visit also he stayed in the same room. The windows open to front side of the house. The glasses of the windows bring the view of the pond. Feeling totally relaxed, he opened his mouth to have a loud yawn and peeped through the window to have a view.

To his surprise the outside appeared very busy. Lots of activities were going on, on the banks. A man was running around arranging the platforms. First he went round and kept a big long black canvass bag just behind each platform. Then sitting near the first one he opened it and started taking out many small and big, short and long objects. From the way he was doing, it could be guessed that each one of them were of light weight. Lots of objects came out in no time; like different lengths of pipes, nuts and bolts ,plastic sheets and what not?

Finding it very interesting, he watched through the window with a lot of curiosity. With in minutes a garden umbrella, one slanting chair and a fishing rode appeared on every platform. No two umbrellas or chairs had same design or colour. Just when the arrangement of the last one was over, men of all of the ages started appearing inside the fencing. He shifted the focus of his vision to the farther corner .They are entering through the narrow the gate, one by one as if entering a theater running 1001st day the same classical ballet. Some of them were with huge dogs .But no one had a cat.

The man was found to allocate each one a platform, now with all the accessories, gadgets and decorations. Sitting on the chair each one of them started their fun of fishing.

There came a call for him from behind. It was breakfast time. He had asked RC to call him while preparing food .His past experiences in cooking were limited ones and always a miserable failure. The first experience in cooking was when he was working for a short period at the town of backwaters .It was several years back. He was only a bachelor at that time and naturally joined others like him, sharing the space in a small lodge. He still remember it’s unusual and meaningless name. The first room of it had the functioning post office. Rarely, especially during the heavy rainy season, all them used to have a combined cooking session .Rice and Rasam were the usual recipe decided by the chief cook of the lodge, a young ophthalmologist. They were together in the same college for graduation. Taking liberty of that freedom he had access to the secret reason behind this choice. Rasam is very easy to cook. Just boil some water with powered chilly, coriander and turmeric with enough salt. Add onions to it. The cooking is over. Usually he took the responsibility of washing the cookware. It was easy for him as it involved no skill.

One day the division of labor was made by lottery method. The chit he took from the bowl directed him to peel the onions. Taking it as a challenge, he started doing it as fast as he could. Daring the pouring tears, he went ahead. Peeling and peeling the coverings, nothing was emerging solid. He went on and on, one after another.

All onions appeared similar and funny .Before he could finish with all and declare the one who purchased it made a terrible mistake, the chef master intervened and prevented the disaster of not having any onions left for his delicious Rasam. Since then till his transfer to the capital city, he had a permanent assignment for washing cookware.

Coming over to this country, he terribly needed to learn cooking. RC took the role as his master.

The main lesson he learned from RC is that cooking is easy .For any curry to make, the procedure is the same. First you have to heat the vessel. Then pour some oil and heat it. Cut some onion into tiny pieces and put itinto the boiling oil. When it turns brown, make a low flame and pour water. Make a full flame again and allow boiling. Once boiled, add some chilly, coriander and turmeric powder or alternatively any curry powder. Now you can place any ingredient; either vegetable or animal pieces into it and allow it to get cooked. That’s all. He had a genuine doubt at the first session.

“How much powder we put? How to measure the amount of each one?”

There was no delay in answer.

“No measures as long as you are the one who purchased the items with the money in your pocket and you are really hungry. After all you are the only person who is going to eat it. You can add any amount you like. It is only a trial and error.”

To this he added one more lesson. Detach taste from the food .Now he is confident as far as cooking is concerned. However he needed periodical updates to maintain the ‘high level of performance’. Hence he joined the master in the kitchen.


At the breakfast table he enquired RC regarding the happenings around the pond. RC told him it is a way for time pass for the people during the summer season.


He was aware that the European whites have lots of their methods for passing the time. It was on the day of officially declared spring, he joined the work. He could feel the spring, only in the BBC and other TV channels . Everywhere outside the hotel room; it was cold. It was drizzling al day with cloudy sky covering the source of golden brightness. People were still on their overcoats with it’s hood, appearing like a tortoise just showing up the face from the shell. It was on one such day he had that scene which was just astonishing to him.

On his way to work, he has to pass through an open area. There used to be no one in the vicinity of that region. On one side of the road it was a cemetery having peaceful beds for many who mattered much in two or three centuries back. On the other side was a massive building which once housed those, whose minds slipped a bit more than many around us. The road itself ends in a prison but known as an agricultural land. No wonder very rarely human breath spoiled the fresh air in the area.

Suddenly a big brand new BMW passed from his back and stopped in front of him on the right side of the road. He could see one middle aged man stepping out of the car, taking a box on his shoulders and hurrying towards the plain greens near the abandoned hospital .From the appearance it could be presumed, that area was formerly a play ground for the inmates of the asylum.

What this gentleman is up to? With this big box in this cold morning? In this isolated area with a haunted look?

He slowed his pace, so that he could see what this man was going to do. The man opened the box and gently took out a fairly big model of helicopter. It was as big as the tricycle his daughter used to ride when she was a child .It should be heavy too, as one could guess from the way he was negotiating to get it out of the box. He then poured some kind of fluid into the side of the helicopter and moved back. He is noticed to be manipulating something, probably some buttons on a walkie-talkie like small box which he was holding with his both hands. The helicopter produced a gurgling noise and started swaying and jumping. Then with a roar it gradually moved up. The most interesting was that at the time of his returning from the work in the evening he could see the gentleman still busy there. The helicopter was making a landing and take off from different spots on the ground. Of course with an occasional crash too! The man standing almost at the same place, in his thick leather jacket with it’s thick fur jutting from the color like bushy growth of hair from the ears of a rough and tough. The only difference at the scene was the presence of a few plastic cans on his side all without a cap and some on it’s side. With this much petrol, back in his home country he could have managed his daily travel to work in his small car for a full month, he thought. With all the petrol in the Arab oil fields, it should not be a problem here.

During the early days of summer he made a trip to Lake District with his family. It still holds a pleasant memory, though he could not enjoy fully due to bad weather. All through out the trip, it was raining. The chilling cold was poking its sharp nails on the body, defeating the woolen fibers of the sweater they were wearing. He was really worried about his wife and daughter. That was their first exposure to such an extreme weather. He was yet to get his first salary and it was just impossible to buy enough winter clothes before that. On the bank of the lake there was a small crowd .He saw a lot of people, especially older ones, sitting and watching the lake. In front of them, the lake presented as a vast blue bed spread after one gets up in the morning. The corners of it were disappearing to the lush green meadows or forests of thick bushes . Scenes of such distal nothings used to bring into his mind the haunting thoughts of mysteries before birth and after death.

None of them sitting there challenging the weather with their thick waterproof fur coats appeared to be in such philosophical thoughts or for that matter not even enjoying the tempting scenery offered free by the Mother Nature. They appeared to be in some busy activity. All of them had their gaze fixed on something very close to them in the lake. The miles and miles of beauty in front of them appeared no matter of concern. They were looking at the tiny boats on the water surface very close to them. So close almost touching the shoe tips. All appeared concentrating intensely on them. It was so intense as if taking aim at a charging predator with a rifle.

“Acha, they are playing the boats with the remote control.”

It was his nine year old daughter who pointed him to their actual activity. Even earlier he had noticed the movements of those tiny toys, but had thought it was due to the waves. Now he could see that the gentlemen were carrying something like a walkie-talkie in their hands. They were found meddling with the buttons on the box. Those boxes had a long Arial on it. He realized that the boats on the lake were costly electronic equipments and these old gentlemen sitting on the banks were making their time pass by moving the boats in the lake.

Suddenly he felt sorry to witness such a scene. Some old men playing with costly toys and his child just observing it with curiosity from a distance! But that is destiny, one has to accept it. She is born in a far away land with plenty of land, natural resources and educated people, but not wealthy by present day commercial standards. The first time she might have come across the word saippu may be when she started her schooling. To the school, she has to travel through rubber estates. The rubber plantation was originally started by a saippu many years back .Even after independence, saippu was living there. Only after the workers formed unions and communists getting control over it, he returned to his mother land .The estate was presented to his local mistress as a gift. She was unable to manage it. After all she was illiterate and what quality she had, only saippu could say. She was a spinster. By the time his daughter was born the estate was divided into pieces and owned by a dozen different people but of same family.All of them are ruthlessly wealthy and dominates the regional politics even now, controlling it remotely. Perhaps the returned ‘estate saippu’ or at least his children would be around here among the playing oldies; he thought. He could not recognize any faces. Even if he could not, some one else with their children observing the scene would be able to recognize all the faces clearly. He was sure of it.

After breakfast, he and RC moved to the window to have a closer look of the happenings. By that time, the platforms were full and all those sitting were active with their fish lines, its hooks being dropped into the pond. He saw no one actually catching a fish. But the scene appeared very busy.

“I have never seen some body actually catching a fish. It needs a lot of time and patience.”

He turned to RC and said.

“Me too.”

“In my 8th standard, class master frequently used to mention it. When ever he comes across some one who has not completed the home work, he used to curse him by saying-go some where and sit with the fishing hook”

He continued. Back in his homeland it was considered as the job for some one who is an idler by nature.

“But interesting! It is a real fun to watch. Look, I think he got a fish now.”

RC’s right index finger was pointing towards a baldy sitting at the closer corner.

The middle aged man in white knickers and blue cap was holding his right hand firm and motionless. He gradually dipped a small net attached to another rod at a distance and slowly brought it near the hook. His concentration was so intense that perhaps he had even forgotten his breathing. His dog also was looking to the pond following his master. He had forgotten to wag his tail. With a sudden masterly jerk, the man pulled out the net from the pond.

Wonderful! There was a fish in it, a big one. It was swaying the hip as if in ecstasy of a dance in climax.That was the first time in his life to see such a technique. With bait in the hook, the fish will try to eat it .In that effort, the hook will pierce it’s palate, from which release is impossible due to the inner hook in reverse direction. That was all his understanding in this matter. If a fish hook pierces the body in accident, to remove it, one has to push it through and not to pull. Pulling will further injure and you cannot take it out that way. During his early years in medical career ,he had a few occasions to help fishermen in such situations. Using the hook to attract with a bait and catching the fish with net was never known to him before.


RC told him that is to avoid injury to the fish. The fishing hook available here doesn’t have inner hook and for that matter no hook is pointed enough to injure a fish. It is used only to attract it using the bait. He was about to ask why one has to worry about the injury to the fish. Anyway it is going to die in no time, once out of the water .It’s ultimate destiny is to end up in a frying pan with beautiful smell and reappear on the plate dressed up in spices with mouth watering taste. But by that time something more funny happened.


The man gently picked up the fish from the net and placed it on his lap as a father accepting the first born from the hands of a midwife. The fish ballooned its abdomen once or twice and made a few twitches. He patted on its sides with a feather touch by his finger tips. And have it a go to the pond. RC explained that nobody is permitted to kill the fish. They have to leave it back to the pond. That is the rule .For matters like this, the rules are always strict.


In the afternoon following a heavy Kerala meal with sambar, avail and Thairu; both of them retired to their own rooms for rest. He always enjoyed an afternoon nap when ever he could . But on that day he preferred to watch the scene through the window. By that time a lot of activities were going on at the hot spot. Some of the people sitting there were enjoying beer in cans. A few were having their sandwiches .Dogs too were having their quota of biscuits followed by allowing their masters to wear gloves and fill precious plastic carry bags. The big umbrellas gave enough shades for their activities and colour to the scene. Occasional cranes, flying low, too were flapping wings restless. Only the wind was cool and gentle on the banks of the pond.


He took out his camera to have a memoir. It was focused on the baldy and zoomed. He was the only man found to be catching the fish. It was not late for him to get a chance. The fish was right on the lap .He tried to focus a little more. The fish made its tummy a balloon. Twitched a bit and became motionless .He was about to click. But then a few finger tips came into the field.

He made a direct look at the scene. The man was gently patting the creature.
Once again his eyes went back to the view finder. It was the thin lips of the fish
which caught his attention. It appeared to him as a smile seen in cartoons. He
could not click. The fish just made a go from the hands of the man, faster than his
own reflexes to click. He waited. It was not long before he could get another
opportunity. Before too long he managed to take several snaps. But he was not
really happy with any of the attempts. Always it was the same sequence, on the
lap of the man. Balloon the tummy, make a few twitches, wait for a gentle pat and
there a go with a smile on the lips.

Balloon the tummy, twitch a bit, wait for the fondle and there a go with a smile on the lips .Balloon the tummy, twitch a bit, wait for the fondle and there a go with a smile on the lips.

Only after some time, he noticed something more funny. Only one man appears to be catching fish. Another dozen or so were not getting any. It was a matter of wonder. Within minutes of letting the fish jump back to the pond, the man was making another catch. This was getting repeated again and again. The fish on his lap was also doing similar funny repetitions. Make a balloon, twitch a bit, wait for the fondle and there a go with a smile on the lips.

Only later, the ideas stroke him. The fish appear to be of same
size and shape. Is it not the same fish? Though the man let the fish to have a go
to the pond, could it be moving around only in the vicinity, to get into the net
again?

Once in the net it would be pretty sure to enjoy the gentle petting by the fingers of the man. It might be making a dance by the ballooning and a bit of twitches. Once it is over it could have a go at its will. The fish would be quite sure, from its experience in the past few days perhaps, that there is no problem to its safety in entering the net of the men sitting around. It can enjoy the adventure of ‘being a fish out of water’ with assured safety, feel the fondle by the gentle fingers and return to its home at it’s will.

Was it not the fish enjoying itself? Who was playing
with whom really? Was the man playing the fish and getting enjoyed? Or was it the
fish, playing the man, and getting enjoyed ? It is difficult to decide. Both the man and fish may be believing that oneself is playing the other. None may be aware of the other’s intentions and feelings. Only a third person, neutral and at a distance could realize the truth. The real truth lies in the eyes of a person, who have no obligations or commitments.

Or could it be someone else from a far away place, playing all of us and enjoying?

__________________________________________________________

The Night That Was…
By Pavitra Narasimhan - pavitra.narasimhan@gmail.com

It’s been a long time…, long time since I held my walking stick. This has been the most passive part of my life. Nothing’s seemed to move, time was at a stand still. Everything seemed to last for eternity. The truth is I had been doing all the things just the same way I always had but somehow it was jus not routine, my routine.
Now when I walk through the house it all seems so empty, even meaningless. The rooms seem to have grown larger and have an eerie silence that speaks volumes about what it felt like to be alive. Yes, alive, now they are all dead, in fact they have been dead for so long that I hardly remember them to be alive. That reminds me I barely remember anything at all, anything, of my past life. But there is one thing which keeps floating in my head and my body. I don’t know if it is a dream, a hallucination, an illusion or an experience. All I know is that it whatever it is, it’s a part of me and I a part of it. I cannot explain how both things are true together. What I see, feel and experience, is real… very real…, that I am sure of.

As I walk through each room, I can feel it. Feel a presence, a very strong one. Is it the rooms or is it their occupants. Yes, the rooms are empty, only empty now. Rotting, dying… charred doors, peeling paint, dripping and smelling. They did have occupants at one time. Yes, that was a different time, a time you could hear voices from everywhere. I can hear the voices even now not in the rooms but in my head, Voices crying and pleading for life. Life as they had known before the dreadful night. I remember the smell of burning flesh, the screams of charring bodies, and the helpless struggle of the trapped souls. It was a night of disaster, of havoc; of wrath…it was the night of death. What I saw that night has become a part of my nightmare, every night since. I cannot sleep without the thought of the fateful night.

Oh, it was that awful event which changed my whole world and my whole life.
I breathe but I don’t live, my heart beats but my life has stopped. Stopped at a point before which I cannot say I remember anything. It all seems like another life, my past life. All of it is just a hazy picture. The only clear thing is that night which left me scarred as the sole survivor to witness and relive the horror day after day for the rest of eternity. The truth is I have just grown too old to fight the evil and carry on. I must walk my journey now with the ghosts of my past in tow with me, watching me, haunting me until I reach the end of it all…, until I reach my grave… or is this my grave?, the now unsteady and dangerously fatal pillars of my construction.
__________________________________________________________

Congrats to the winners and better luck next time for the close competitors. This was a healthy competition and we are so happy that we recieved some great stories for our competition. We will be announcing our next competition soon. Good Luck

Thanks

Vinoth
My Talent Community Creator

Worldwide Short Story Talent Search Competition

Hey All,

We have started a worldwide short story competition in our Gifted Punks Orkut Community. The price money will be US$100 for the best written short story.

The purpose of this competition is not just the matter of you winning the $100 but to express the talent you have and make the world know it. We are going to promote this competition in a big way and expecting a lot of users to compete in this.

Our Community URL is:

Gifted Punks Talent Search Community

Join our community and post your story in the forum topic named

"Post Your Short Story"

Do not forget to post your exact name,address with complete contact details along with your story genre if its a action,adventure,thriller,family,comedy etc., because if you ar a winner, we need to be able to contact you :) The winner will be notified by the orkut message system or scrap book or through email. The winner will be paid through paypal or cheque or through any international payment mode. The winner will be publicized in a seperate topic where other users can wish him.

We understand that you will be worried if someone lifts your story because it will be posted in public. We want you to understand that basically the purpose of this community is to show off your talents to the world. This community or competition is not to sell your content like story, song, lyrics or short film for money but to show what you can do which automatically can sell what all you can do. So we suggest you not to post your hard worked "BEST STORY" here in public. Instead we suggest you to give it a quick try and write a short story specifically for the purpose of this competition. We do not vouch for copyright for any content posted in our forum because this competition is just to bring the best out of you and not for any commercial purpose.

Also if you have a space contraint in orkut, you can directly email it to vinothchandar@gmail.com

The last entry date for the competition is February 27, 2007. Hurry UP!!

Good Luck to ALL!!!

Thanks

Vinoth

Note: Remember this is not any junk competition where you might get cheated. This is a real competition with real prize money. The winner will be judged by experienced professionals in this industry. Iam posting my complete contact details if you want to contact me for anything you require.

Vinoth
Gifted Punks Global Talent Search Community
Old No 22, New No 34, Sriman Srnivasa Road.
Alwarpet. Chennai - 600018. INDIA
Phone: 91-44-42144662
Mobile: 91-9840482222
Email: vinothchandar@gmail.com

Welcome to the Gifted Punks Talent Search

"For if the talent or individuality is there, it should be expressed. If it doesn’t find its way out into the air, it can be turned inward and gnaw like the fox at the Spartan boy’s belly.’ - Shirley McLaine

Are you a punk who has it in you to become a Justin Timberlake or a Steven Spielberg or a Tom Hanks or a Ravi Varma?

OR are you just a bathroom singer or some crazy punk who just wanna show off what you have in you?

And are you being unnoticed?

This is the place for you. Join this ORKUT community as a gifted punk and let others know about your talents with your contacts.

We are going to promote this ORKUT community in a great way. Who knows, you might be discovered to become a singer,actor, actress, dancer, photographer,d irector, art director, painter, sculptor, designer, musician, poet, writer, producer, magician, actress, model, fashion designer, 3d animator,3d artist or anyone you want to be. JOIN NOW!!!

Gifted Punks ORKUT Community - http://www.orkut.com/Community.aspx?cmm=26319971