Six Sentence Stories Cue of the Week-MINE

Hosted by


By Neel Anil Panicker

The eyes turned a blazing orb of fire.

Hot molten rage surged through his veins.

Within moments, as his head bobbed like an unhinged ferris wheel, maddeningly hurtling around in topsy turvy frenzy, his body began convulsing and contorting, emitting blood, bile and sweat from every single pore of his six-foot tall muscular frame.

Shorn of all senses, he slashed around, the knife in his hands slicing and dicing, cutting and chopping into pieces his beloved.

It was her life he had snuffed out, she to whom he had professed his eternal love until his very last breath.

The ghastly deed over, he stood there in the middle of the rush hour traffic, the spectre of a crazed soul, screaming his lungs out, ‘she is mine and mine alone.’

©neelanilpanicker2017 #fiction #sixsentencestories #thestalker #133words


Welcome to Six Sentence Stories

Hosted by the lovely Zoe at

6 sentences any way you like using the cue SCRATCH.


By Neel Anil Panicker

I would like to know the real you?

Well then, for that you need to scratch the surface.

And how exactly do I do that?

To begin with, you can start by being forever nice to me, occasionally taking me out to a movie, preferably Hollywood and one that features George Clooney or next best Brad Pitt; and then winding that up with a delectable candlelight dinner for two at a bespoke Mexican restaurant that has soft piped music oozing out of its kaleidoscopic Rembrandt painted walls.

Wow, that’s quite a tall order?

True, but if you can do all this and a bit more you have found your match and will certainly receive a good catch.

#sixsentencestories #fiction #scratch #117words




The Six Sentence Cue of the Week is….pickle




By Neel Anil Panicker

Memory is a harsh bitch that refuses to leave long after it’s expiry date.It comes unheralded when one least expects or desires for. For Liza, the gateway to her memories are manned by pickles.

Like a massive dam that one can no longer rein in, they finally burst out, drenching her to the gills.For a long time she swam in its waves, cruising through the crests and troughs of past happenings, remembering, forgetting, and re-remembering small, intimate, delectable tidbits, random musings and snapshots flushed out from the attics of a long deadened past.

And then they stopped, suddenly and as quickly as they had come, leaving her furiously famished__ for love, her mother’s love, for the touch of supple fingers on a small child’s head, for the taste of coastal food, for fish, deep fried and blood red, it’s innards little fillets garnished  with the paste of over a dozen hot spices, and then for pickle, bitter mango pickle, her mother’s special, and her childhood weakness.

Overwrought, Liza slipped on her negligee, tiptoed out of her room, and walked towards where the kitchen was, her movements guided by the moon’s rays that ricocheted off the high ceilinged roof tops and clashed against the glassed chandeliers, breaking into tiny shards of brilliance illuminating her pathway.

In no time she was in the large, hall sized kitchen, her hands on the sill, opening and closing a million glass tumblers.Sugar, salt, cardamom, cinnamon, pepper, apple pie…she finds them all but what’s missing are the pickles, her mother’s special pickles, the one that she made on her own and the one that Liza cried for and demanded again and again like the stubborn, spoilt child that she was__a frail ten year old slip of a girl, a girl with pony tails and her mother’s heart beat.

There she stood, bereft and lonesome, staring into nothingness, grieving, craving, lusting for pickles, simply unable to fathom that the past is but a storehouse of long dead if not buried memories.

#neelanilpanicker2017 #fiveofdangerouslove #dangerouslove#fiction#words334










Hosted by Josie at


By Neel Anil Panicker

Call it a momentary lapse in concentration, an slight error in judgement, an inexplicable blackout, or what have you__at the end of the day, it turned out to be a very costly slip.

One that not just turned the fortunes of the match, ultimately leading to the opposition team walking away with the glittering diamond studded five million dollar prized trophy but also one that ensured the sudden, tragic end of Mohan Bisht’s most promising cricketing career.

In the space of one mean full length 22 yard bowling delivery, Bisht’s future nosedived, plummeted, sending him careening into the deep dungeons of sporting oblivion__a dark bottomless pit, a frightful abyss, wriggling out of which was a near impossible task.

In a jiffy one by one his once ardent fans and friends turned into sworn enemies, the near endless bouquets getting replaced with soul breaking brickbats.

Shortly, all that remained with the twenty- something once ebullient cricketer were nightmarish images of that fading November evening when he had let the ball sneak through his open palms while fielding at first slip, that most coveted of fielding positions in the game of cricket.

“How could he…how could he, the best fielder of his team, the one with the safest pair of hands in the entire team, drop this most simple of chances, one that proved to be a most costly slip as the lucky batsman concerned went on to score a century that ultimately won his team the match and the trophy, and with that all the glory that befalls the victorious?”

©neelanilpanciker2017 #sixsentencestories  #fiction  #shortstory #DROPPINGITALL #259words



By Neel Anil Panicker

All his life he had refused to take a stand.

It was as if he had no backbone; was a puppet whose strings were pulled by others; others who rode roughshod over him, used and abused him as they went about fulfilling their individual objectives, he being an impotent bystander, a mere instrument, a disposable syringe to be used, abused, and then cruelly discarded as and when they felt like it.

And among these ‘others’ was also his mother whose pathological hatred for her husband, his biological father, manifested itself in he, their only child,  being used as a bargaining tool to gain the upper hand in what could euphemistically be termed as a ‘marriage not made in heaven.’

And then came the day when he saw her dousing him with petrol; his own father.

Seething with maddening rage, she glared with maniacal rage at her husband of thirty years, the matchstick steady in her hands, all set to roast him alive.

That’s when he took a stand, rushed in and smashed the burning flame from her hands, and as a fitting finale to all this, called in the police.

©neelanilpanicker2017 #fiction #sixsentencestories #stand #190words


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


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.

Hosted at


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