three line tales, week 107: diaries, roses and bobbins with sewing thread


By Neel Anil Panicker

All summer he was just a kite flyer, one more among several other ten year olds whose psychedelic kites soared the skies.

Until one day when the winds of change blew.

As his nimble hands expertly manoeuvred the thread, he looked to his left.

It was then that he saw her.

She was on the opposite terrace, reading a book.

She lifted her head and spotted him spotting her.

From that moment the controls switched.

She had taken over the steering wheel of his life, their lives, for the next sixty odd years.

Thereafter, it was roses all the way.

©neelanilpanicker2018 #fiction #flash #100words #kiteflyer

Three Line Tales, Week 107

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By Neel Anil Panicker

‘Remember me? You were my crush three decades ago. Oh no, how will you ever? I mean how the hell will you_Champion Number One, Alfred the Great__ever remember anyone from his long interred past, especially a mere slip of a thirteen year old girl who also was his twin sister’s BFF, a puny pony- tailed acne scarred foor foot high skinny apparition that answered to the rather rustic sounding ear splitting name of Bhuvaneshwari Vatsalyam?’

“A what? And who? Excuse me, but do I know you? I mean have I met you before”

‘Ah! there you go. And that’s exactly my point. That you never knew me and that I never knew you and that we never knew each other and that we never ever lived in a small hill town called Darjeeling and that we never ever went to Saint Mary’s High School, and that we never ever got scolded and ass-caned by Reverend Father F.J.W. Z. Lombart, the seven foot tall Belgian principal, incidentally also the best goalkeeper in all of West Bengal, and that I am so super blessed that our paths, that isyours and mine, never ever crossed and never ever would. So goodbye, Mr STRANGER.”






By Neel Anil Panicker

‘Hey sweetheart there, do you realise how ugly you look when you get this angry? Cutting a very sorry picture, standing there like a spurned lover against an ncreasingly darkening windy blue sky. I mean look at you, your nostrils have all flared up, the eyes have turned blood red and bulbous, like two massive balloons that may burst out any moment, and look at those horns, they’s twisted  so much I’m afraid they may break any moment.’

“Stop it Blessy! Don’t try to mollycoddle me. I’m not your sweetheart. Your sweetheart is that new white guy who takes you out every morning around the steppe; the one who sits astride you and Gods knows what he does, where all his hands go. Go, go to him if you like him so much.”

“Oh my, my poor handsome yak, how jealous of you to even think like that of dear old Johnny. He is such a loving old man. It’s pure work my darling. He needs me, needs my droppings, needs them to warm his hut, to cook food, to survive in this harsh Tibetan clime. Just a relationship. You can call it daughter and father. Nothing more, nothing less”.


Three Line Tales, Week 105

Three Line Tales, Week 105


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three line tales week 104: an abandoned house in the Arctic circle

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.


Three Line Tales, Week 102


Three Line Tales, Week 104



three line tales week 103: Andy Murray on court in Melbourne during the Australian Open 2017

By Neel Anil Panicker

The moment the ball careened off to his left hitting the asphalt tennis court with the intensity of an unhinged tsunami wave, Ashmit knew pursuing it was an effort that would go waste.

‘Love-Forty’ boomed the referee’s voice over the microphone as the jampacked centre court crowd slowly got up from their seats, the oval indoor  stadium erupting in catcalls and wild booing.

‘Love-Zero’, he muttered under his breath as he smashed his racquet onto the ground, finally realizing the career destroying error he had made by falling for the hot as molten lava charms of a seventeen year virago.

©neelanilpanicker2018 #ThreeLineTales #100words #fiction #flashfiction

Three Line Tales, Week 103

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Three Line Tales, Week 101

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three line tales, week 101: a gold number eight five zero 850 painted on an old-fashioned chest or suitcase

By Neel Anil Panicker

Like ghosts they moved in and out of railway yards, crossing lines, jumping over wooden tracks, ever careful not to fall under the high beams of the tower top halogen rays.

Their shraggy hairs and shabby visages laden heavy with soot, grime and grease that had attached itself to their blackened bodies made them look like black owls as they crouched under their favourite eight_ five_ ooh that late July  summer evening waiting for the golden midnight hour to fall when they would effect their next big ‘strike’.

From his post half a kilometre away Rambagh Railway Police Inspector Aslam Beg took his eyes off the night vision goggles and wondered how long it would be before the infamous ‘850 Gang of Four’ ended up behind bars.



Three Line Tales, Week 100 (!!!)

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three line tales, week 100: a ferris wheel in Paris with soldiers patrolling


By Neel Anil Panicker

Two dead in late night pub shootout…Drunken revelry ends in six dead…Roof Top party ends in smoke…City erupts in violence.

New Year’s newspaper headlines never changed, they only got worse as Inspector Sharma heard his wife slam the phone down on the other end, supremely pissed off by his pithy explanations for once again not being home to ring in the start of 2018.

Sharma sat down resignedly at his desk, splashed a large swig of McDonald’s Whisky onto his face, mumbled something which was incomprehensible to even his own ears, and then looking across to his Man Friday Constable Pandey slurred, “Whoever said ‘the old order changeth to give way to the new’ was a big asshole”.

©neelanilpanicker2018 #fiction #flash #ThreeLineTales