Pearl D’Costa sit down at her table to count the cash. It’s Saturday and she keeps her Diner open thirty minutes past the eleven o’clock–Pearl’s Half Hour Saturday Special her beloved and regular customers named it. But, she cannot count the cash. Her mind is vagabond from the morning after she saw the morning paper. Restaurant Baron Mr. John Samsa in the city. She had calculated and have re-calculated the years after he has returned–twenty years. A narrow but heavy voice startled her; she got up and peeped out of the kitchen. In his unique “Samsa” manner, he places the order to her daughter, halloa missus, one Pearl Zinger Alley. Before she moved out and hide their eyes met. He has kept her promise.
I had written this 125-words story a few days ago. And then Wednesday came up and my dear friend Bikurgirl’s prompt came up. I had not written for her for last few weeks, maybe a month. So, when she express she hope I’ll join her this week (Week#23) I told her, I might join her with a story I’m writing. I changed the names of the character and the Diner and few things to match her prompt.
She wants to look around, but, she cannot. She is undercover. He had put on her a long coat and trousers with a backpack like human women carries. Everything brightened up round her. He took her up; thrust a wire through the loop of the needle in her hand. These photographers…she whine.
The rain is pouring cats and dogs. The roof shakes as the storm violently brushes over the thatched roof. He looks at the incomplete statue. He has left it in midway ’cause he was not satisfied all of sudden. This also not going anywhere near to his want or imagination. He wants to imagine her face, but, fantasizing the queen is sin.
The incomplete statues still stand tall. When a nonseasonal storm howl over the meadow, local says it’s the scream of the villagers who have got washed away six centuries ago in a flood leaving behind these incomplete statues.
[The story had been written in Historical Present Tense]
Joe look around. The smell is there but dull and weak; he curse his old age for this. He need to search it out to keep his job. He scratch the light graveled earth and after few moments, a clasp protrude out of the earth. He sit down, panting, and woof loudly.
[An old horse was standing under the shade of a tree in Maidan, Kolkata. He was not tied. An old carriage was standing at a distance–dismantled it was. The noon was late and was of late February. This whole image inspired me to wrote down a poem in Bengali titled Mansur Miyar Ghora–after a name of a Bengali cinema released in 2000. There was a picture I had clicked of the horse, but, I had lost it somehow. ]