23 J Hardy Carroll 11 February 2018

By Neel Anil Panicker

Inspector Sharma eyed the corridor from behind the staircase walls.

The narrow ill lit pathway ended up in a single door that he was told led to a double room.

Opposite it were three other rooms__single, two on the left and one on the right.

‘Sir, they checked in last night_three men, and a woman,’ was all the informer had to offer.

There could be trouble, Sharma surmised. His fingers tightened on the triggers of the Glock semi automatic pistol.

He turned around and jabbed a finger at the bell boy.

It was the signal that the latter awaited.

He tiptoed past Sharma and stepped into the corridor, his right hand holding on to a tray with a tea pot and two cups.

From behind Sharma watched with baited breath.

It was the then that the unforeseen happened; the lights went off, the entire hotel plunged into darkness.

What happened after this is shrouded in mystery.

Which of the doors opened first, who fired the first shot, who escaped and how? Everything was a matter of conjecture.

A day later Inspector Sharma was suspended and charged for the cold blooded murder of three innocent civilians including a baby_six months old.

©neelanilpanicker2018 #sundayphotofiction #shortstory #200words

Sunday Photo Fiction – February 11th 2018





22 Dawn Miller February 4th 2018

By Neel Anil Panicker

“Have you heard of serial killers,”?

‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

Inspector Sharma repeated his question.

The two were at a forest clearing deep inside the Yerrahahalli forests, some twenty miles from civilization.

Assistant Chief Conservatorof Forests Rajat Pandit squinted his eyes as the harsh June sun bore down at his face and looked across at his childhood mate. A mynah chirped above their heads. Somewhere around, a gang of monkeys gibbered.

“Look Sharma, besides being my best friend, you’re also a damn good cop. But I te/ll you, you’re grossly mistaken here. This is no serial killer’s work.”

“What the body count so far”.

‘A what’?

“I asked how many people have disappeared in the past four months.”

‘Thirteen including the two that went missing since yesterday.

Inspector Sharma looked at the half filled wheel barrow and the timber logs around it. Something on the ground below held his attention. He bent down and inspected the patch of freshly trampled earth. It was then that he found it__the footprints, clear ones, its toes dug deep into the still damp earth.

Getting up, he said calmly, “It’s a serial killer. A man eating serial killer at that, Ish.”


22 Dawn Miller February 4th 2018

© Dawn Miller



20 Eric Wicklund January 28th 2018

© Eric Wicklund

By Neel Anil Panicker

The vows, the marriage vows, the one the two had uttered, every single word affirmed loud and clear, its intonation and enunciation, tone, pitch and volume, the modulation, inflection and elucidation of every single syllabic sound perfect to a T, all merrily cheered by every one of the select gathering of cherished friends and relatives as well as the entire paraphernalia of uncles, aunts, cousins et al __the penumbra of well wishers and gatherers who had come to bless the newly weds at the local church__the momentous event flashed past Jennifer’s mind as a sepia tinged memory that unfolded in ultra slow motion ala a long drawn TV soap opera.

How divinely graceful did she look as the pastor clasped their hands__ hers and Benny’s__ solemnly pronouncing them man and wife.

Alas! The euphoria lasted exactly six years. Six blissful years when hubby dear worshiped the ground she walked on, treating her like a queen, loving and caring for her to the hilt, passionately fulfilling every single need, want, and desire that she had ever nurtured in her bosom.

Then came the day when she became persona non grata; turned into just another discarded woman, left to drown herself in sorrow.


Sunday Photo Fiction – January 28th 2018

Hosted at



20 CEAyr January 21st 2018

© C E Ayr

By Neel Anil Panicker

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

The aphorism fitted Rocky to a T.

He was my childhood buddy, the strapping six foot tall lad with matching swagger; the guy whose unbridled machismo was only matched with a sniggering nonchalance that had well past gone the stage of arrogance.

He loved getting into non-existent fights, was ever scouring the ten  mile radius around where we lived for his daily dose of adrenaline rush.

One such outing proved his undoing.

It was a Sunday, the streets were chic-o-bloc with weekend bargain hunters, the markets abuzz with the cacophonous shouts and shrieks of excited buyers and sellers.

We were skirting past the serpentine lane, heading for our Maths coaching class when someone brusquely swept past us, his wobbly legs tripping Rocky over.

I turned around and saw the man for what he was: a middle aged shaggy haired, smelly vagabond with a groggy eyed look.

A junkie, I hissed and moved ahead.

No Rocky. Moments later he had turned around and raised his fist.

I was a tad late. The man pulled out a knife and thrust it straight into Rocky’s chest.

I watched in horror as life ebbed away. Within moments he was dead, my friend, his blood reddening the ground below as his attacker slipped past the shell- shocked crowd of onlookers.

Rocky, he died as he lived__by the sword.

©neelanilpanicker2018 #sundayphotofictioneer #fiction #shortstory #memoir #231words

Sunday Photo Fiction – January 21st 2018

Hosted by  Sunday Fiction at

For other interesting stories click on 


Sunday Photo Fiction – January 14th 2018

Hosted by at




By Neel Anil Panicker

“I don’t think she will survive this summer, Sir.”

Dr Yashwant Rao Patil turned his vision away from the barbed wires and looked at his junior, Assistant Warden Prakash Sathe.

Under the glare of the mid-afternoon June sun, Patil’s eyes squinted as specks of dust settled around the rim of his high resolution telescopic lens that was mounted on a latest model DSL Canon camera.

Extricating a handkerchief out of his trouser pockets, the Chief Wildlife Warden of Bandhavgarh National Park went about wiping the lens clear of all particulate matter.

‘For once you’ve read my mind correctly, Sathe’.

The two men shifted their gaze back beyond the wires.They watched Sheela step out of her enclosure and take a stroll, barely ten feet from where they stood.

“Look at her, Patil Sir! It beats me to think what sane mind could even think about plucking a snow leopard from the Himalayan foothills and depositing her in this tropical heat.”

The senior colleague shook his head in disgust and spat out, “Not if the learned gent who took this decision happens to be this State’s Chief Minister and one known for his inability to distinguish between a rat and a cat.”

(c)2018neelanilpanicker #fiction #flash #SUNDAYPHOTOFICTION #200WORDS



222 01 January 7th 2018

By Neel Anil Panicker

“Srry, Ritz drlng. Am held up. Urgent biz con. Will take 4 hrz.  Luv, Inder”.

The slimy bastard! Still carrying on with his old ways.

In the dark, Rita felt her grip tighten on the tiny Glock 45 pistol.

Her face turned a ghostly mass as she inserted the silencer onto the weapon, cold finger tips caressing the trigger.

For one last time, she peered out through the windshield, her gaze falling on the second floor apartment.

Dim fluorescent light emanated from behind thick bedroom windows.

‘So this is where he holds his urgent business conferences.’

Hot molten blood swirled, churned, and burnt her insides as she felt herself being swept away in a massive tidal wave of maddening anger.

Sorry…Ritz darling…meetings…Luv Inder___all mere words. Not a penny’s worth. It was time she put an end to this sham.

Time she called off the marriage. Time she silenced him, eased him of all pleasure; eased herself of all pain. The woman, too. That cock sucker bimbette of an office secretary__it was time for her to go too.

She stepped out into the cold and made her way up the stairs, unmindful of the lone dog that was wagging its tail.

©2018neelanilpanicker #fiction #flash #shortstory #200words #sundayphotofiction



By Neel Anil Panicker

Om Baba watched nee studied her, his eyes, a demon’s, red and bulging out of their sockets as they bored into hers, lasciviously running through every inch of her voluptuous figure.

“My lord, what more can I do. Haven’t I done enough already. Can’t you see that I have nothing more to give?”

Baba darted his charcoal black tongue out, ran it languorously over his thick swarthy lips.

He knew what she was saying.

In the past six months, she had done all that he had ordered__walked barefoot to his ashram, located a good three kilometers deep inside the jungles every single day to recite some incomprehensible Sanskrit verses that he had told her to mouth ten times a day; ensured zero contact with her husband (even going to the extent of sleeping in separate rooms); served him daily the tastiest non vegetarian food that he had ever eaten__his favourite chicken breast, deep fried and liberally sprinkled with spicy condiments.

Each offering had brought her closer to her goal, or so she thought.

“You need a son. Tonight your wish will be granted. God will grant it to you, through me, his medium.”

She braced herself for the final offering.