[Enter Post Title Here]
By Neel Anil Panicker
During the nights the house or whatever remained of it looked even more evil, resting at it were on the very edge of the desolate village, oddly slanted towards the left as a triangular roof jutted out from the centre and met the pitch dark skies above.
A single sliver of the moon’s rays illuminated the horizontal brackish asymmetrical lines that were etched on its marshmallow walls and as Reena peered out from the safety of her car she could make out near faded out markings on those walls, small little indecipherable calligraphic creations that clearly were the works of children, young kids as young as five or six years old.
Etched in her memory, even after the passage of two score years, were the pitter patter of nimble feet and the laughters and smiles and playing and frolicking of one such kid__she herself__ and the wondrous days of a happy childhood spent in her maternal home before the massive far gutted down not just her ancestral house but also her entire family, the only one she had ever had, the only one would ever be able to call her own.
©NEELANILPANICKER2018 #FICTION #100WORDSTORIES #THREELINETALES
Three Line Tales, Week 102