That Golden Girl…

sue-vincent-prompt

 

That Golden Girl…

In a crystal clear pond full of ducks, there once lived a golden swan. The pond was called Paani, and Goldie was the name of the swan. The names were of course given by some human mind.

Born so different, Goldie was the only one of her kind. Envied by fellow females. Chased by fellow nasty males. Towards her, not many were kind.

Humans would take her pictures. But some would also pelt her with stones, to see how she reacted when in pain. But she never whined.

She avoided them all. She stayed to herself. But soon lonesome became her ride. Paying the price of being different, she could never find a mate. No family. No baby cygnets. No tribe.

One day she decided to paddle on to another pond, all in her desperate attempt to find another one of her kind. But there was none. Never was.

….

For the inmates of the new pond were no different. There were no golden ducks in the new pond, only those who were either black or white. They too could not bear Goldie’s deviance, golden and bright.

They isolated her. They accused her of stealing their share of food. For days she got nothing to eat. She felt like an alien. Like a fish out of her pond. Which of course she anyway was.

She left that pond too. Soon she lost her way. Thereafter no one ever saw her again.

The guys back at Paani, were full of remorse. For they had lost their golden girl, due to their own narrow mean mind.

They could clearly see now their Goldie was rather a class apart. She deserved to be Paani’s pride. She was the only one of her kind.

….

Long time has lapsed since Goldie has been gone. There are rumors around Paani, that every night a golden duck can be seen around.

Not seen by everyone though. Can be seen only by the fortunate few. In fact only by the unfortunate lonesome few. The wronged, the forbidden and the hidden, who dare to venture out only at night.

Seeing Goldie is indeed a sight! Quacking. Gliding. Paddling. All by herself. When the whole world sleeps, when no one would see her or judge her, she comes out from nowhere to have a good time.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Today, the above photo, that I must have seen while scrolling down the Reader, came into my mind from nowhere. The above weird tale built on…though I absolutely forgot where I had seen this picture.
Of course l discovered just in time, that it was #writephoto prompt by Sue Vincent and I could use it here. Thanks Sue for igniting this strange poetic-story!

That Rainy Day…

Here’s the first of my three short stories based on the given picture.
For Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) hosted by Priceless Joy.

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story based on the photo prompt by Priceless Joy

That Rainy Day

Simran’s heart skipped a beat as the rhythmic drum beat came nearer. And then the doorbell rang.

As she opened the outer latched gate, in came the fervent crowd and excitedly smeared colored powder on her feverish face.

“Happy Holi !!”  Today this chant sounded like din to her. This was the happy neighborhood where she and her husband Karan had lovingly celebrated their festivals, ever since they settled in this big city.

But exactly two years ago on Holi day, when Karan – a royal Rajput, had clashed with a rival Rajput in his ancestral village, all colors had faded. Only one color bled and that was red. Karan vanished from his village, while she, the only witness to the drama, came back to the city.

As the joyous crowd continued to shower colors that blended with the pouring rain, Simran gazed dumbly at the puddles. There were various hues – green, yellow, purple – but she saw only ‘red’.

Soon the crowd departed and the drum beating became faint. Suddenly she moved, and decided. She’ll contact the police.

.

(The context of my above story is the evolving cities and villages of India. Some of the current day Rajputs , the descendants of princely warrior families of India, do live like normal working public. Many of them still maintain their good and bad regal attitude/s.  A kind of identity crisis.
And as you may know, Holi is a festival of colors celebrated in India.)

Copyright © 2015 Alka Girdhar

Forked Tongue (not mine)

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I am hungry
what do I do?
Cook my food
and relish my meal
or sit watch others enjoy?

I wanna dance
my feet are tapping
Can I be happy
just looking at the crowd
go hyper mad and wild?

Words in my mind
run haywire
Do I pen them down
or just be content
to read what others write?

I‘ve decided!!!
I’ll wear my shoes
and go for a walk
Not sit near the window
while the joggers pass me by

~~~

My poem was in response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Morton’s Fork.”:

If you had to choose between being able to write a blog (but not read others’) and being able to read others’ blogs (but not write your own), which would you pick? Why?

~~~

What is Morton’s Fork?  Read here
Morton’s Fork is a logical dilemma in which a person faces two equally bad options.
Between devil and the deep sea.

But Reading vs Writing…aren’t both these supposed to be equally good options??

© Alka Girdhar 2015