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









Thursday photo prompt – Twilight – #writephoto


Written for weekly flash fiction photo prompt challenge hosted by Sue Vincent at


By Neel Anil Panicker

For Pramila nothing’s changed, or so it seems. The sky above is bathed in the same golden brown hue that she’s been seeing for twenty years or so. That’s  roughly the time she’s spent, all by herself, in this bare boned one roomed hutment sans any electricity, heating or other discernible appendages of modern living.

Here she lives, in near seclusion, in this quaint old fishing village so far cut off from mainland Bengal that it would fail to show up on even the most advanced search engines.

There she’s out, in the open, under the stars, below the blue skies, her bald head glistening a silvery white under the glare of the half moon. All she sees is the silhouette of the waves; the tumultuous crests and troughs of the high seas reminding her of her own topsy-turvy existence.

Standing there, her frail self a sodden figure in the twilight afterglow, she travels back in time to those halcyon days when she ruled the streets of Kolkata as a gangly fire spitting knife wielding all woman gang leader. Murder, kidnapping, extortion, bootlegging…you name it, she’s done them all.

Pity she ended up in Tihar Jail, the place where they send you when your crime dossier would make Al Pacino look like God’s chosen messenger of peace and love.

In the twilight of her life, does she ever ponder, wonder, or even look yonder?

Honestly, she cares a damn fig.

Been there, done that.  Know what I mean?

©neelanilpanciker2017 #thursdayphotoprompt  #fiction #250words


By Neel Anil Panicker

This darkness brings with it a mélange of horrific images

peace is the villain that plays hide and seek with me through ages

the harshness of the present leaves me simply all too aghast

torturous are these years that have bound me in a cast

wonder if I can reprise sepia tinged memories of years past

when laughter and smiles ensured my days were a sheer blast

bewitching were those nights that were spread so vast

when I gazed at the ships that sailed by at full mast

can’t erase such memories of enchanting days yore

I yearn for a time when my life’s float once more turns ashore.