A Return …

This was written for the fourth writing exercise at the Indian Fiction Workshop. As per the exercise, I have written my narration on the basis of a detailed plot given by Rajrupa Gupta at the workshop blog.

The pale, cold moonlight drifts in through the open window and falls on my bare skin as I wake up with a start. My hands go immediately to my neck as I feel the heart shaped pendant that hangs there from an old silver chain.

“Oh Tom,”  I sigh, as a tear slides down my cheek.

I remember it was a knock that woke me up – three short raps on the knocker. But I can’t hear a thing now, other than the content little snores of my son Matt through the walls. Even the breeze that usually rustles through the branches of the old oak is silent today.

“Imagining things again,” I whisper.

I lie down again, and stare at the ceiling. Five years… it has been five long years since I last heard from him. They say he’s dead, that he’ll never return to hold my hand again. If only he had called one last time to say goodbye. I had so much to tell him, so much love left to give him, so many memories left to make with him. If only he had called one last time, so I could have said how much I loved him, and missed him…

I hear the sound of knocking once again and jump up, alert. The bedside clock shows 1:11.

Who can it be at this unearthly hour? The news had reported a burglar in our neighborhood. Could it be him? I had latched every door, shut all the windows downstairs. Maybe he’s trying to trick me to opening the door so he can do his business. Maybe I should call the cops. But if he runs off, they’ll think I’m mad. They already think I’m mad. They won’t come. Even Mrs. McCarthy next door will not think anything if I call for help. I’m alone… all alone in this world, except for Matt. Do I wake him? No. He’s only fourteen. The burglar would just push him aside, maybe even hurt him or hold him hostage. What do I do?

Continue reading at the Indifiction Blog

(January 13th, 2013)

Poetry & writing are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.

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