24 Sascha Darlington February 18th 2018


Major Vijaykant Chauhan studied the two teenagers who stood quivering before him, their heads bowed and hands shaking.

Under the glare of the lone bulb, their farm fresh faces quivered like two frightened kittens.

A slow whistle escaped the Army officer’s lips.

“Tell me, where did you find them?”

‘Sir, I was on patrol duty when I heard voices from inside the Canteen adjacent to Gate No 5. Fearing them to be thieves or worse, I tiptoed forward and flashed my sten gun bulb. Sir, that’s when I found these two. They were…err…I am sorry sir…”

“What exactly were they doing?”

‘They…they were naked, Sir…I saw them…’

“Stop! The canteen you said, right? We have CCtvs there.

Can I get it’s footage?”

“What Sir?”

‘I said I need CCtvs footage of their err…antics”

Havildar Muthuswamy nodded his head.

A slow smile crept across Captain Vikram’s swarthy face. Finally, he ordered, “Ok, release the two now and don’t mention a word about this to anyone.”

As the three trooped out of the room Captain Vikram gloated at the fortune that had landed on his lap.

Now he could blackmail the City Police Chief with pictures of the latter’s daughter’s nocturnal peccadilloes.


Sunday Photo Fiction – February 18th 2018



By Neel Anil Panicker 
It started out pretty innocently, a casual dalliance, a mere fling, one of those outings that two high ranking and married individuals engage in when work demands drive them to spend endless hours closeted together on weekends.
But in between poring over voluminous data and  decoding intricate red and green squares that blipped on Excel sheets and pie charts, the two stumbled upon each other’s eyes.
It was not very long after that the peering shifted onto other contours of the human body.
Thereafter, the flood gates of unbridled passion were smashed open and the two succumbed to the  undulating pleasures of the human flesh and found themselves drowing in the maddening sea of lust.
By the time the two lust driven waywards realised the gargantuan folly of their debauchery and put an end to their nocturnal indiscretions it was too late.
It had cost two bitter divorcees besides leaving behind a retinue of severely disaffected young ones, their collectives fates hanging in limbo.
 (C)2018neelanilpanicker #fiction #shortstory



PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

By Neel Anil Panicker

‘Son, see that tree over there?’

“That’s barely a tree, Dad.”

‘Son, that’s the work of man. Evil men. Precisely, a few evil men.’

“Dad, what do they want?”

‘Son, they want to claim the tree for themselves, roots and all. Each warring group has laid claim to its ownership.’

“But dad, what’s there to fight over a tree? A tree that gives us fruits and flowers, provides shelter, and even supplies us with wood?”

‘Exactly my son, but try telling that to grown up men.’

“Dad, if this is what grownups do then I’m better off remaining a child.”




2 February 2018



By Neel Anil Panicker

It is a couple of hours after midnight, that still born hour when the entire world and its backyard have taken a sabbatical; that  pregnant pause, that briefest of brief interludes before the deluge begins all over again, before the rambunctious merry go round wheels of life start all over again, spinning forth in a furious abandon__ entrapping man, woman, and all manner of being in its wondrous cosmic cycle.

From the edges, Robin stares at the never ending carpet of blue that spreads out all around him. He cranes his neck and bores his eyes at the waters below. His face has come alive in a flotilla of little concentric rings ala a young girl’s floral dress as it swings and sways around in gay abandon.

For an interminably long time Abdul stands there, his frail body transfixed to terra firma, his dog eared mind in limbo.

Soon after, the memories came hurtling by much like a not so welcome guest that’s long overstayed one’s hospitality.

An oft repeated scene, albeit in painful slow motion, plays out in his mindscape. There he is, a young boy, rail-thin, the bones jutting out like broken down bamboo shoots from around his waists, an apology of a khaki half pant wrapped around them, his hands, equally frail and trembling, desperately holding on to his mother’s fingers as the two, along with his father and his two elders brothers and a sister and a host of others, all relatives and cousins and people from his village run forth, ducking and dipping as all around them ring the thunderous blast of gun shots. A scream and a thud follow. Someone’s fallen, the ground under his feet turns a carpet of red. The last words he hears before he blanks out are, ”Kill them all, bloody immigrants”.

©neelanilpanciker2018 #fiction #ThursdayPhotoPrompt #shortstory

Thursday photo prompt – Blue #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt – Blue #writephoto



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

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FFfAW Challenge-Week of January 2, 2018

Hosted by Priceless Joy at


By Neel Anil Panicker

Dolphins shoot up and down from the limpid blue waters, each splash creating concentric rings through which peer out shiny  little red tailed fish, their dove shaped eyes glistening brightly in the glory of the afternoon sun.

From the harbour Lisa watches on, her mind reflective, her eyes finally resting on the ships yonder, on one of them in particular as it readies to depart, the final hoot echoing into the distant skies.

Her mind floated to exactly a year ago. There she was, utterly exhausted and famished, dragging her bedraggled bare boned frame, gingerly stepping onto the deck, taking her first tentative steps in an alien land, a land over a thousand miles away from home, her marital home, a home that turned into a living hell, a 24-hour torture chamber in the almost three years that she remained locked and chained in it.

A swan flapped her wings and floated by.

Watching it, Lisa felt she was one, a fairy in white.

Her heart filled with peace.

At last she had escaped.



100 Word Wednesday: Week 50

Hosted by bikurgurl at



Photo by Brooke Lark

By Neel Anil Panicker

Inspector Sharma pulled himself away from the body.

His eyes centred on the table.

Arrayed in neat rows were small saucers filled to the brim with cubed fruits. An eclectic range of tall multi-hued glasses stood vigil next to them like poker faced foot soldiers in full royal regalia.

One particularly held his attention.

An half-filled glass of orange juice.

He knew he was staring at the murder weapon.

Slowly letting out a muted half whistle, he turned around.

Facing him were five men and one woman, all under twenty.

One among them was the murderer.

©neelanilpanciker2017 #flash #fiction #shortstory #100words