By Neel Anil Panicker

One moment it was a picture post card scene of sheer happiness; the very next it had turned into madness, with everybody running around helter skelter.

Who invited whom? That was the question on everyones’ lips, every single one of the men and women who had converged on the beachfront, hoping to partake of the salubrious climate, wishing to enjoy the sheer sight of the frothy waves as it lashed against the jagged rocky edges, leaving behind a sea of sand, shells and the excited squeals of children running and playing about with unrestrained joy.

“Hey, did you hear that? It sounded like a bullet shot.”

Deepak’s eyes traced the trajectory of Kiran’s fingers that were pointing towards a stage fifty yards from where they stood.

Jostling, howling, jabbering, screaming, shouting, yelling : that much he could see and make out as he watched with intent eyes the makeshift wooden stage on the northern periphery of the mile long beach.

A group of men, all clad in pure white dhotis and silk shirts, their heads outfitted with ubiquitous Gandhi caps were yelling and screaming, jostling and jabbering, a few even engaging in fist fights with one another.

His eyes narrowed down on a face.

A swarthy face, the top three or four shirt buttons ripped off to expose a thick flock of silvery haired chest, the seven inch long thick gold chain hanging loose around the ‘thick as a bull’s’ neck and glistening in the sand blasted mid-afternoon Sunday sun that was scorching the coastal city of Cochin.

“It’s a party, our Mayor’s. He’s come here; uninvited, of course. He’s just won again. Is celebrating. Looks like trouble. Let’s move. Where’s Priya  and Raghu?”

As Kiran gathered her brood and the family wound their back to their car, a couple of bombs exploded, cracking open the skies.

“Wonder what would happen were he to win the Assembly elections”, hollered Deepak as he hurriedly ferried his wife and kids to safety.


Creative Writing Prompt | Sentence Starter Prompt | Creative Writing | Writing Prompt | Flash Fiction |





three line tales week 119: colourful rocks in the desert

By Neel Anil Panicker

Come weekends and the beach was the go to place for the two as little Stella loved them, those stacks of coloured ball-sized stones, one on top of the other, that rose into the azure blue skies.

Making himself comfortable on the sands, her father Tom would keep an eye on his six year old as she played hide and seek in the sandy shores, frolicking around her ‘Five Uncles’,  laughing and screaming and shouting her lungs out as children of her age are wont to do.

After a while, when the sun came down, the two would head back home but not before Stella planted her customary kiss on each of her ‘Uncles’ blissfully unaware that under one of them lay buried her mother, a victim of the massive tsunami that blew away the coastal town a couple of years ago.

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Three Line Tales, Week 119





By Neel Anil Panicker

Ever since Stella’s death, he had taken to the sea with a vengeance. However, unlike the sun, sand and surf seekers who descended on Kovalam beach, Paulose preferred the peripheries__ the near secluded far off jagged corners that had long fallen off tourist maps, where boats didn’t stray into, and where the air was sans the edifying aroma that wafted around, emanating as it were from the ubiquitous king size beach side tavas in which stirred and deep fried ‘Southern Special’ delicacies such as Smoked Chilli Chicken and Crab Finnito.

The last one his wife loved.

Something he now hated.

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100 Word Wednesday: Week 69

100 Word Wednesday: Week 69



three line tales, week 109: inside the wave

By Neel Anil Panicker

Life’s a beach, thought Mehul as he ogled on the endless stretch of near naked bodies in various stages of copulation, the sun’s rays making shimmering patterns on the sandy pebbles as human desires crested to stratospheric heights with every swig of the beer bottle and puff of cigarette.

Like pure honey dripping down one’s throat, sip by sip, the words of his mentor, Shobhan Bhai, trickled down his brain, tickling him no end: “Remember, when you are filthy rich no one cares how you earned them. Simply enjoy”.

Mehul Hitenbhai Choksi, until yesterday just another struggling small time jeweller, but today better known nee notorious as the master fraudster who had swindled Indian banks off trillions of dollars smiled into the sea, a slow, languorous spread that became one with the vast all enveloping spread of the froth filled crystal blue waters.

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Three Line Tales, Week 109


FFfAW Challenge-Week of October 10, 2017

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By Neel Anil Panicker

Inspector Sharma hurriedly rifled through his trouser pockets.

He was a tad late; by the time he retrieved his handkerchief, he had puked__pungent bile dripping all over his freshly ironed police uniform.

“Sir, what to do now?”.

Bloody fool, can’t he see, what else to do now.

With great effort the senior cop controlled his burgeoning rage .

“Pandey, call the Forensics. Also, have the postmortem done. And…keep your trap shut.”

He watched his deputy turn away.

Then, despite himself, he looked down one last time at the body.

Young, maybe 22-23, white skinned, plausibly a foreigner, he surmised. His eyes noticed the half torn ultra chic clothes, a blue top furiously ripped apart, half exposed oval shaped breasts, and a criss cross of knife engravings on them.

He turned around.

Despite the early hour, it was as if the entire village had congregated.

A couple of men slinging cameras headed his way.

‘The vultures,’ he muttered, ‘already out for flesh even before the meat has turned cold’.

(c)neelanilpanicker2017 #fiction #flashfiction #FFfAW #180words


ELIXIR  (250 words)

By Neel Anil Panicker

When I finally told Shabana about wanting a divorce,  she laughed and said, “You must be crazy. Where will you get another woman, rich and beautiful like me?

I replied that I wanted peace.

To which she had shot back, “ No one can get peace.” It’s all in the head. Either you have it or you don’t.”

People say that all the time, especially those close to you, as if it’s all so very obvious.

But is it?

That’s the problem with people. They think peace is related to the acquisition of materialistic pursuits; to the construction of an earthly paradise on the most prized landmass available; of coveting things beyond an ordinary man’s grasp.

They envy what I have: a fancy bungalow, a stinkingly wealthy heiress for a wife, one whose external beauty needs refurbishing through quarterly botox shots in the face, chest and God knows where.

But if one were to think of peace as the avoidance of such acquisitions, they’d understand how achievable it is.

Take me for instance. It’s been a week since I divorced Shabana and escaped to this shack by the sea. There’s only me, the sun and the sands.

And man, am I at peace?. Truth be told, I am dripping in peace.

And if that’s possible for a week, then it must be possible to string together one entire month of peace, and then an entire year of peace, and then several years of peace.

Well it’s difficult, but it’s doable.

©neelanilpanicker2017 #fiction #THURSDAYPHOTOPROMPT

Written for

Thursday photo prompt – Shore #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt – Shore #writephoto