By Neel Anil Panicker
“Nothing, nothing is the matter”.
Rajesh opened his mouth to say something but then quickly checked himself.
She’s definitely hiding something, for sure, he said to himself.
He flipped boringly through the pages of ‘The President is Missing’, the book he, an absolute non-enthusiast of political thrillers, was trying to read.
” Read it. For once, you will fall in love with realistic fiction”, were Shelly’s words as she coaxed him into ordering the latest bestseller from  a premier online site.
He decided to try another route. Turning around to his wife who herself was immersed in a book, ( another racy political or crime thriller___her favourite genres__), he said, his voice a practised casuality,
“Darling, what’s the name of that intern who was linked with Clinton? I keep forgetting her name off and on.”
The second s ticked by. He waited; waited and watched.
There was no response. Zilch. Cipher. It was as if she wasn’t even there in the bedroom.
As if she, her mind, were somewhere else.
‘So there was definitely something; something that was bothering her, playing on her mind so badly as to render her absolutely oblivious to her surroundings, to others around her, to even her husband, her hubby of over a decade.”

Rajesh watched her face, still immobile, inscrutable as a rock, and wondered whether it had anything to do with Harsh.
The thought made his blood boil and sent paroxysms of pain shoot up through his veins.
In no time and despite the air conditioning, he began to perspire.
As tiny sweat droplets began to trickle down his temple, he lifted himself from the bed and stumbled into  the balcony abutting their fourteen floor two-bed room apartment, the one he had bought and shifted to only six months ago.
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Short Story Sunday 216: Nothing






By Neel Anil Panicker
It took a while for her to understand but ever since his last indiscretion__ a quickie weekend fling couched as an urgent out of town meeting with
“some VIP clients who wanted to sign a big ticket deal__she had stopped to shed silent tears in the vain hope that he would he would mend his wayward ways and turn over a new leaf.
“Only those who feel guilty can ever hope to ride the path of Reformation,” was  the solemn pronouncement of Beatrice, her bestie and go to person for all times.
And she couldn’t have agreed more.
Except that one day, she, fuelled by righteous indignation and unbridled rage, decided to take matters into her own hands.

And so it was that one fine morning when hubby dear was lost to sleep, that she climbed on top of him and severed  his organ, the one that was that was the main culprit for his uncontrollable libido.

It’s another matter that she spent the rest of her yeas battling the forces of guilt, leading her wasted existence behind prison bars.
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It’s Six Sentence Story





By Neel Anil Panicker

The thieves took everything except the dog. Probably, they thought, whoever they were, what harm were an old ever wheezing half blind apology of a dog who could barely walk on half a limb.

But then the band of highway robbers who climbed the ten foot high wired fence after cutting off the power supply and putting to sleep the four guards stationed round the clock at the perimeters of the acre-long estate showed that they were after all just human and could be outwitted by a mere four legged doddering German Shepherd who had long passed his  expiry date.

Or, how else could one account for the fact that the entire gang, the half a dozen who committed the midnight heist and made off with the booty that included among others a couple of rare paintings, a steel trunk that contained gold and silver artefacts, and four bespoke limited edition watches, each worth at least a million dollars, was behind bars within 24 hours of the crime?

 “Those Picassos were the rarest of the rare. But that’s besides the point. What’s more important is that Tiger’s instincts are still top class, what say, my dear lady?”

Duchess Mary Margaret of  Lancashire looked admiringly at her husband before replying, “Tiger’s instincts plus yours. So thoughtful of you to plant that micro chip camera onto to Tiger’s neck belt.”

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First Line Friday: May 25th, 2018

Your line for this week is:

The thieves took everything except the dog.



Dog & Grave Headstone

By Neel Anil Panicker

‘It’s a miracle she’s alive. They almost broke open her skull. I know it’s police work. But still don’t trouble her much.’

Inspector Vincent Pala of Kozhikode Rural Police Station nodded his head as Dr John Abraham walked out of the third floor ICU room of Mary’s Hospital.

As the door closed behind him, the senior cop turned around and walked towards the hospital bed.

He knew he didn’t have much time.

He gingerly flicked open a pocket notebook and pen in hand, directed his gaze at the septuagenarian.

“Mrs. Sebastian, I know this is a very wrong time. But I hope you understand it’s a crime we’re dealing with here.  I will ask you some questions. Blink your eyes once if it’s a yes; twice, if it’s a no? Hope you understand?”

The elderly lady blinked her eyes once.

 “Mrs Sebastian, at the time of the attack you were at your house alongwith your paralytic husband, your eldest son Vinny, his wife Inglieas and their four-year-old child Esther, right?”

She blinked, once.

“Do you know who killed them?”

 She blinked, once more.

Inspector Vincent bolted upright.

“Ok, who’s it?”

“Spitz …”.

Inspector Vincent wondered how he would interrogate a family dog accused of murder.

#neelanilpanicker #sundayphotofiction #flash

Sunday Photo Fiction – May 27, 2018



By Neel Anil Panicker


MorgueFile April 62433e902

‘I think this person is the murderer.’

Akshay Rawat, senior inspector of Simla Police Station looked from across the table at his friend Detective Chacko.

The two, known to each other for the past seven years, had struck up a lively friendship ever since the famous detective from the coastal state of Kerala had helped nab an absconder, a notorious scamster, and handed him over to the Uttarakhand cop.

As a quid pro quo gesture, Chacko had come over to the hills and was partaking of the hospitality of his policeman buddy when the triple murders took place.

A woman and her two daughters were found dead inside their two storied bungalow just off Mall Road, the mile length tourist hot spot of Simla.

But this man was in Delhi at the time of the murders. See this photograph of him against the backdrop of the Red Fort. He says he clicked it on January 23, the day the murders took place.

Detective Chacko peered into the photo.

‘Look, the photo has him staring into the clouds. I have the weather report of that day. It says it was a clear sunny day with no clouds; leave alone nimbus formations’.

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Written for





three line tales, week 121: together for yes

By Neel Anil Panicker

There was a time in Esther’s life when everything was a neat binary; all that life threw at her, be it in terms of myriad problems that needed to be tackled, choices to be made, relationships to hold onto or dump, or even everyday issues as hackneyed as should she have coffee or tea for breakfast, or instead should she simply settle for hard drinks, either whisky on the rocks or plain old rum with soda.

All that changed with the entry of Philip into her life.

Ever since she fell hook, line and sinker for her local church parishioner and eloped with him after a blink and you miss high octane dalliance, Esther only operated with one dictum to guide her life which was saying  a resounding affirmative ‘YES’ to every single thing that her “man” asked, demanded, even expected of her, for it was her firm unshakeable belief that he could do no wrong.


Three Line Tales, Week 121



By Neel Anil Panicker

Ever since Olivia died__and that’s hardly six years ago though it seems as if it were several moons back__I have not been myself.

Things that I had taken for granted have suddenly turned complex; a simple walk in the park is no longer the pleasurable activity that it used to be; instead it’s she and her memories that cloud and blur and assault my mindscape turning each single cellular movement, every single nano step that I take into one excruciatingly torturous experience.

The agony spills over into the day, infiltrating by being, making deep inroads into every single mental and emotional crevice that’s left unguarded, seeping deep into its innards, skimming and sapping it dry off the last ounce of energy.

They, and that includes though who claim to know me__the legion of fellow survivalists__are quick on the draw, inundating me with a deluge of homelies, lathering me with beaten to death aphorisms, ramming their ‘sure shot’ know all advices down my reluctantly sore throat.

I guess they have given up on me as I have noticed that with each passing day there’s that wee bit lessening of such lathering along with the thinning of my vaunted much touted long list of ‘friends and well wishers’.

And now with each passing moment I find myself drowning in utter loneliness where the only sound I hear is the echo of her heart inside my heart though I wonder how on earth could that ever be possible as hers had long ago stopped beating.


Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt!