This week’s photo prompt is provided by Thank you artycaptures!

By Neel Anil Panicker

Don Afzal Bhai was thankful the room was sound proof. He had ensured that.

That way when hard leather connected with soft skin and the shrieking and the wailing and the crying and the pleading commenced, it stayed and died within its four walls.

And as the hour rolled over into the next and the shrieks and wails gave way to soft whispered oohs and aahs, a whiff of fresh jasmine wafted around the exquisitely decked up curtained room that boasted of soft low lights peeping out of highly ornate wooden lampshades that otherwise would have enjoyed pride of place in a millionaire’s abode.

Placed at the four corners abutting the master bed that spread out invitingly like the spiralling waters of a giant oceanic wave full of froth and fury, the lights served another larger purpose.

Its beams fell directly on the massive master bed where lay the most feared mafia don of Old Delhi, naked like a new born, eyes shut, body and mind long lost to the sensual and sexual charms of the woman booby strapped to his body.

FFfAW Challenge-Week of August 15, 2017

Hosted by PJ at




Petra, Jordan

A superb fictional travel photo prompt that the wonderful K Rawson challenges us with on a weekly basis  at

Petra, Jordan


Genre: Historical Fiction

Image result for human sacrifice, petra, jordan

By Neel Anil Panicker

Om couldn’t believe his eyes __a hand levelled rocky expanse stared at him.

After a memorable night at the Theater and the Street of Facades, was this really the promised ‘Big One’.

 “And to think that I climbed 800 sign posted steps up a rocky slope for this?” he chided himself.

As if reading his thoughts, Derek, his Australian friend, uttered, “You seem not too happy, mate. Wait till I show you something”.

 “Now what’s that?”, inquired Derek, irritation creeping into his tone.

 “See that raised platform over there,” said his friend, pointing to the left.

Om’s eyes followed the lowered fingers.

Perched on a cliff a heart stopping 170 metres below them was an altar.

There were over a dozen of these, all around 15 m long and 6 m wide. Each altar, set up on four steps, had a wash basin to one side.

“That’s the High Place of Sacrifice. The wash basins drain out the blood which then runs down the mountains. And some of them are of humans.”

(neelanilpanciker2017 #whatpegmansaw#historicalfiction#highplaceofsacrifice

Image result for human sacrifice, petra, jordan


The main alter was for the burnt sacrifice. It contains several small steps and a niche where the fire could have been used. However, there are no evidences of fire at their altar or the other altars around Petra. Built into the two altars are wash basins.

Were there ever human sacrifices at Petra? There is no hard evidence but there is a Nabataean inscription at Meda’in Salehwhich reads “abd-Wadd, priest of Eadd, and his son Salim, and Zayd-Wadd, have consecrated the young man Salim to be immolated to Dhu Gabat.

Their double happiness. The god Al Uzza is also known to have received the sacrifice of boys and girls. In particular, the pagan philosopher Porphyrius states that once a year a boy’s throat was sacrificially cut at the oasis of Dumat some two hundred miles from Petra.


Welcome to Six Sentence Stories

SSS Cue of the Week


Six sentences, no more, no less. Any genre. Use the cue as you see fit


By Neel Anil Panicker

For him, women were just a piece of meat, a 55 kg chunk of gastronomic delicacy to be gorged upon, the ravenous lion that he was.

Once afflicted by the Hunger Syndrome, he would scour the landscape, far and wide, hunting for his  prey, while his victims, the hapless mittens that they were, scampered and scurried about, their terror filled eyes almost popping of their sockets, their fair faces etched in perennial worries.

Egging him on in his ‘Big Game’ pursuits were a dubious bunch of self serving raucous acolytes who were no better than bootlickers, stoking further the embers of his passion as the master raconteur regaled them with salacious details of his despicable ‘conquests’.

And then there were the ubiquitous enemies, those jealous brethren who on bumping into him would simply ask, tongue firmly in cheek, “What’s the score, my friend?”

His rejoinder to that and, one delivered with a straight face and rakish grin, would be a terse,

“Still counting, man.”

He was a player for sure; one who played the game, but definitely not by its rules.

©neelanilpanicker2017 #fiction #sixsentencestories  #182words


Sunday Photo Fiction – July 9th 2017

Hosted at


205 07 July 9th 2017

© A Mixed Bag

By Neel Anil Panicker

“Hey babes, pop your head out of the window. See that blue van parked near the kerb. I’m inside it. Time’s running out. Just pop out and we scoot, ok?”

‘Great, sweetheart. Me and Ronnie…we’ll join you in a sec.’

“What? You bringing Ronnie? Gone mad or what?”

‘But what else do I do?  I can’t leave him alone and you know that.”

“Gawd, what am I hearing? Is this a joke? Can’t you just dump that big boy? He’ll take care of himself”.

‘Listen, Michael. Let me get this straight__I am not going anywhere without Ronnie, you get that?’

“Loud and clear. This is what I get for risking my life and robbing a bank off a million dollars and dreaming of starting a grand new life with you and what do I get in return__the thumbs down, being dumped for a bloody dog. I hate you, you bitch.”

©neelanilpanicker2017 #SPF #fiction #150words



Bogota, Columbia

Hosted by J Hardy at

Bogota, Columbia



Silva House of Poetry - Honoring a Colombian legend

By Neel Anil Panicker

 “¿Podría decirme la ubicación exacta del corazón?”

Dr Juan Camilo, senior cardiologist at Santa Barnara Medical Center couldn’t  believe what he had just heard.

True, in his almost four decade old career he had had patients who made all kinds of demands, bizarre requests, a few outright stupid, and one absolutely insane: ‘Doc, can you stop my heart for ten minutes. I want to experience what it means to die.’

But this one was different, especially so as it came from a person whom all of Bogota nee Columbia respected nee revered to the point of veneration.

He mulled over the entreaty for a moment and then replied, “Claro, si insistes”

The tall young man’s eyes lit up and he replied, “Muchas gracias, doctor.”


It was a decision that the renowned doctor would regret for the rest of his life.

The following day’s newspapers reported the tragic death of  José Asunción Silva, the cause, a single bullet shot through the heart.

©neelanilpanicker2017 #historicalfiction #whatpegmansaw #email:neelanilpanicker@gmailcom #161words


José Asunción Silva (27 November 1865 in Bogotá – 23 May 1896 in Bogotá) was a Colombian poet. He is considered one of the founders of Spanish–American Modernism.

On the morning of 24 May 1896, a housemaid found Asunción Silva dead in his bed with a gun near his body; he had shot himself in the heart the night before. There are many reasons for his suicide, including the death of his sister Elvira, the loss of almost all his work when his ship sank near a quay in the Caribbean sea, and his debts. Prior to his death, he asked his doctor confidentially to mark the exact location of his heart.

He was buried in the Central Cemetery in Bogotá. Perhaps his more important legacy is the house where he lived, which has been converted into a museum, the Silva Poetry House.[1]


FFfAW Challenge-Week of July 4, 2017

Hosted at

Snakes and Ladders

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Kecia Spartin. Thank you Kecia!

By Neel Anil Panicker

Abdul Rahman Mallick had only one passion in life: to make money.

Loads and loads of money. Money that he made by hook or crook. Money that he made in dollars or in Indian rupees, in Bahraini Rials or in Swiss Francs.

Money that he made by smiling or by killing.

For him the means did not matter, the end was more important.

Half a decade of chasing money had still not quenched his thirst.

It seemed making money was the sole reason for his living.

He lived in a remote island off the Arabian Sea, an all glass snake shaped 50 room villa, it was his den, from where he conducted his multi-national businesses, ensconced in his study, seated in all gold King Cobra shaped chair.

Being surrounded by life sized replicas of the deadly reptile was his fetish, his way of ensuring that he never ever forgot his poverty stricken childhood spent in a remote Central India hamlet, and his resolve to find an antidote for the deathly venom of poverty.

©neelanilpanciker2017 #FFfAW #SNAKES&LADDERS  #FICTION#173words


CHALLENGE OPEN: 3rd July 2017 to 7th July 2017

Welcome to Five Sentence Story Prompt Challenge Week 3. 

Rules of the challenge: 

  1. Every week a prompt word shall be announced along with a Genre specification for the participants.
  2. Participants need to incorporate the prompt word itself in their entries or can use the prompt word as the framework for their write-up. 
  3. Entries within “Five Sentences” shall only be entertained and may contain as many words as long as it doesn’t exceed five sentences. 
  4. Add the tag “Five Sentence Story Prompt” in the prompt posts.
  5. The entries may be of any format including poems, micro fiction, scribbles, etc.
  6. Leave a link to your prompt post in the comments below. 
  7. Create a pingback to this post by linking this post in your prompt entry post.
  8. Leave behind a feedback on other’s entries to encourage more active participation.


This week’s prompt word is –

PASSION – strong and barely controllable emotion.


Genre specification: All Genre


Hosted at


By Neel Anil Panicker

As the jubilant captain surrounded by his teammates lifted the glittering diamond-studded trophy high up in the air, the jam packed stadium erupted in joy with the thunderous shouts and war cries of frenzied football lovers.

The loudest of the applauses  were reserved for one man, the winning team’s diminutive but ever smiling coach Frederick D’ Souza.

Later in the evening, during the presser, one of the journalists asked him, “How is it you that the boys you pick are all from the rural hinterlands, from the boondocks, absolute nobodys, who in no time metamorphose into world class players?”

The middle aged coach looked the journo in the eye and replied, without batting an eye, ‘Unlike others, I don’t chase the latest fashion which I know is anyways ephemeral. Instead, I groom ran outsiders who have nothing to show but passion, something that always gives returns as it is permanent.’

©neelanilpanicker2017 #5SENTENCESTORY #FICTION #150words