Sunday Photo Fiction – August 20th 2017

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209 08 August 20th 2017

By Neel Anil Panicker

My name is Galileo.

Galileo who? Galileo what? Did I hear you say?

Well, not surprising, though.

In this fast paced emoji driven, information pumping adrenaline high robotic age whoever has the time for digging out relics of some hoary past?

Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m the one to whom is attributed the famous phrase Eppur si muove.  It refers to my claim that it’s the Earth that revolves around the Sun and not the other way around.

Big deal, you might say.

But I tell you, in my day around 500 years ago what I said was considered a sacrilege.

The omnipotent, omniscient custodians of the Church (read God) took serious umbrage to my utterances.

I was incarcerated in a deep dungeon, and made to drink poison.

Hey, why am I telling you these things? It’s a story long interred and buried in the dustbin of history?


Well, folks, I’m doing this so you and the generations that would follow yours learn to stand up to all manner of wrongs and injustices perpetuated in this world in the name of God, that you understand there can exist a happy marriage between science and morality devoid of mass hatred fueled by religious bigotry.

(neelanilpanicker2017 #spf #fiction #200words

BACKGROUND: And yet it moves

“Eppur si muove” redirects here. For other uses, see Eppur si muove (disambiguation).

And yet it moves” or “Albeit it does move” (ItalianE pur si muove or Eppur si muove [epˈpur si ˈmwɔːve]) is a phrase attributed to the Italian mathematician, physicist and philosopher Galileo Galilei (1564–1642) in 1633 after being forced to recant his claims that the Earth moves around the immovable[1] Sun rather than the converse during the Galileo affair.[2]

In this context, the implication of the phrase is: despite his recantation, the Church’s proclamations to the contrary, or any other conviction or doctrine of men, the Earth does, in fact, move (around the Sun, and not vice versa). As such, the phrase is used today as a sort of pithy retort implying that “it doesn’t matter what you believe; these are the facts.”





Three Line Tales, Week 81

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Three line tales week 80: a pizza oven

photo by Cathal Mac an Bheatha via Unsplash

By Neel Anil Panicker

“How on earth could a man who’s so madly in love with his wife throw her into a burning oven?”

‘Well, well. Even I find that hard to believe though how I wish he were simply humanly and not madly in love with her.

Then he wouldn’t have done what he did, isn’t it?.’

©neelanilpanicker2017 #ThreeLineTales #fiction #50words



Pena, Portugal

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Pena, Portugal

To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:



Image result for sundial, PENA, PORTUGAL

By Neel Anil Panicker




A woman’s face etched in a beatific smile and holding in her arms a barely three-month-old baby girl greets Emily.

A tear drops from her eyes as she places in her pint sized bag the sepia tinged black and white photograph, the sole reminder of the only family she ever had.

Outside, she cranes her neck upwards and peers into the sky.

The bright orb of fire sends a pleasant tingling sensation surging through her veins, warming the cockles of her heart.

‘But why’s there no blast? Why the delay?’

Emily wrings her hands anxiously and peers yet again into the sky.

Slowly, as if goaded by the power of her unflinching eyes, the clouds give way and bright dazzling rays sparkle onto the earth.

And then as if in pronouncement, a huge ear splitting sound blasts through the atmosphere.

It is the sundial’s cannon ball strike signalling noon time.

It’s also the prompt for her to head for the main road.

There awaits Francis, the love of her life, the liberator of her soul.

©neelanilpanicker2017 #whatpegmansaw #fiction #pena,Portugal



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By Neel Anil Panicker

Ali struck out the back of his palm and squatted a mosquito that had settled on his bare legs.

The standard issue prison uniforms were too short for his six foot tall frame. The half length cotton trousers barely reached below his knees. This coupled with a half sleeved collarless shirt made his body a healthy hunting ground for a swarm of blood sucking mosquitoes who lorded over the hapless prison inmates and attacked with a sadistic delight only seen in hardened criminals. It was ironical to see mere flies practicing their deadly skills on hardened prisoners who in the outside world were capable of putting the fear of the devil in the minds of fellow human beings.

Al, the master criminal was slowly getting to learn that the nuts and bolts of prison life were quite different from the world that he came from.

A slight vibration tingled his bones under the trouser pockets.

Ali looked around at his prison mate. He was lost to sleep.

He looked past his cell gate into the long corridor that loomed ahead. It was pitch dark. Not a soul in sight. He strained his ears against the iron bars. Not a single sound either.

It was two hours past midnight. Still a few hours before the change of shift.

The inmates, the guards…everyone was in sleep mode.

Stealthily, he retreated to his corner space and crouching against the wall, retrieved the phone from his inner pocket and then pressed the green button.

The phone came alive in an instant.

“How are you, Ali Bhai?” It was Moosa’s, the man with the whisky scarred voice.

Only Moosa addressed him as Ali Bhai. For all others he was simply Al.

Moosa’s was the first and only voice he had heard from among the gang members ever since his incarceration.

‘You know me, Moosa Bhai. I am an action guy. Can’t sit alone for long.

This jail thing is so boring.’

“Have patience, bhai. It’s just a matter of time.”

A matter of time, bullshit. Today is my  fifteenth night in this God forsaken place. The maximum I have ever been in prison.

As if reading his thoughts Moosa answered, “I know, dear. Usually we are out by a week.”

‘Moosa, I’m losing it. I feel trapped here.’

“Ali Bhai, I feel for you. I wish you were outside; that we were together, zipping off to the countryside__chatting, binging on movies, gorging on aloo paranthas, gulping whisky…VAT 69, you know …

The thought of what he was missing made downed Al’s moods further.

‘I wish the same, Moosa Bhai. I wish I were outside. I wish I were with Liza.’

The phone went silent for a second.

All Al could hear was the uneven, slow snoring sound of his fellow inmate.

“Are you alone there, Ali? Is there anyone around?”

‘I am alone. You can speak. What’s the matter, bhai?’

“I’m hearing something. There are rumours…whispers actually.”

Al pressed his ears to the phone.

‘About what? About who?’

“About You. About you  and Liza.”

‘What exactly did you hear?’

“Can’t really say. Just a hunch.”

‘Just what’s it, Moosa? Spit it out.’

“Just a conversation. Over the phone. Yesterday…while entering the den…”

The den? Ali knew he was referring to Afzal Bhai, their boss’ private room, the one inside which his boss confabulated with only his very trusted men.

‘The den? What did you hear, bhai?’

“Boss had called me about the Dwarka case. He was just ending a phone call. I just heard a few bits…just snatches of it…his last words caught my ear…They were “you don’t spite the hand that serves you” and then… “ I will teach the bastard a lesson he will never forget”.

Sheer cold wave ran through Ali’s spine. He felt a stab of pain in his chest as slow beads of perspiration began to form on his temples.

‘Did he mention a name? Was he referring to anyone?’

“No. He just slammed the phone down when he heard my footsteps.”

‘What do you think? Is it about Liza and me? Does he know about us? Is that what he was referring to?’

“I don’t know. I can find out if you want. But in the meantime, Ali, my bro, be careful. Be very careful.

Al wiped his sweaty hands across his face and said,

‘I will. I will for sure. Thanks, Moosa bhai.’

“Got to go now. Shall call you after I dig some more info, bye.”

As Al slid the phone back into his trousers, he looked upto to see his prison mate

smiling down at him.

It was a slow, hesitant curve of the lips, and in the dead of the night,

it was enough to spur Al’s already racing heartbeats.

#neelanilpanicker2017 #parteightofdangerouslove #dangerouslove#fiction#cat’soutofthebag#795












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PHOTO PROMPT © Kent Bonham

By Neel Anil Panicker

“It will take us places,” he had said, insisting we buy a car.

I had my doubts, though.

The grocer’s was a hop, skip and jump away.

Movies we didn’t dig.


Whoever had the time for others in this day and age.

‘For what then?’ I had countered.

“For those lazy Sundays_ just you, me and the sandy beach,” he persisted, scratching his salt and pepper beard, a half hesitant smile playing on his lips, the same that he employed when seducing me some half a century ago.

Car’s on the shed. Lying idle. He’s gone places, for sure.

©neelanilpanicker2017 #FF #fiction #100words


Welcome to Six Sentence Stories

Six sentences any way you like, any genre, any length, any order…just six. Link up at the turn of midnight! Hop around!

Use the cue SKIP.

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By Neel Anil Panicker

Mrs Lakra stared in horror at the lifeless body that lay on the ground a mere two feet from where she was standing.

Hot tears streamed out of her eyes as she realized that she had become a widow in the prime of her life; that her husband of three years was no more, that there was now no one who she could quarrel with, albeit good humouredly,  as she had done so for almost every waking hour of their shared existences.

As the gravity of her loss gradually sunk in, the tall statuesque woman burst out in wild shrieks, her heartrending cries forcing the colony denizens, most of whom were readying themselves to a spell of nightly sleep after partaking of their dinners, to step out of their houses and rush towards the park.

“He’s Akash from B Block, the affable guy who runs the photocopying business from his ground floor flat,” shouted out a bespectacled septuagenarian, his frail body shaking uncontrollably.

As the muted murmurs and bare whispers gave way to animated talks, a young man who was watching the proceedings from behind a mango tree in the far left corner of the park, quietly stepped away from the lush surroundings and skipped out through a desolated corner gate.

He held on to his wrists from which was dripping fresh blood that marked a trail on the soft earth all the way to a bylane across the road lane into which he disappeared.

©neelanilpanciker2017 #sixsentencestories #fiction #skip #205words


FFfAW Challenge-Week of June 27, 2017

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121st Challenge

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Week of 06-27 through 07-03-2017

For more such fantastic  stories please click on the blue frog below:


By Neel Anil Panicker

All his life Uncle Prasad had said yes, green signalling just about everything; consequences be dammed.

And so it was that at age 4 he joined his cousins and pulled off the biggest heist of the time: stealing bagfuls of the finest Alphonso mangoes from the sprawling orchard of the village headman.

At 7 he was playing courier boy, passing over love psalms between hormone high Romeos and Cupid struck Juliets; by 9 taking off to the hills nearby for a night out with the Big Boys.

At 13, he came perilously close to being shot dead from an alert guard’s rifle while his ‘friends’ ran helter skelter after a bank hold-up gone horribly wrong.

At 16, he was carrying a gun, because that’s what all his peers were carrying.

But then all that’s in the past.

Today, half a century later, he’s jumped ahead, changed, turned respectable, married, even become proud grandfather  to six.

But then, at times he wants to go back to when he was 6 or 7, join his buddies to steal mangoes, flirt with girls twice his age, and maybe rob a bank or two.

©neelanilpanicker2017 #FFfAW #fiction  #195