Flash Fiction Word of the Day: Deal

“Deal me in,” agreed Roger, not a hint of doubt in his voice now.

But the decisiveness hadn’t come easy. For days, he had been agonising over what to do. He had pondered over his childhood, his elite education, his career as a financier, and his family. Most of all, his family. His lovely, and currently very nervous, wife and his two remarkable sons, still just 4 and 8. 

Everything in his life spelt respectability. And here he was considering someone’s murder. 

He wasn’t preoccupied with being caught (though that played on his mind too). It was karma that worried him. He knew could get away with murder, but could he really get away with sin. For the first time in his life, he found himself terrified of God. 

Then his 4-year-old told him about his innocent day at school and just like that his decision was made. 

The Age headline: Xenophon urges 'pissant' pollies to strike asylum deal.

The Flash Fiction Word of the Day: Fix

Sanjeev desperately looked on as Veena packed her bags with a frightening lack of speed or anger. It was the quietness of her movements that told him that this time, she was really leaving. 

“Fine”, he thought meanly. “Let her go. I’d love to see how she manages without me.” But he knew the problem was the opposite. He wasn’t sure, he could manage without her. 

A sorry was all that was needed to fix it. 

But try as he might, he couldn’t croak it out. Yes, he had hurt her in a million different ways. But every hurtful, stupid thing he had ever said or done went back to some hurtful, stupid thing she had said or done to him.

He couldn’t say sorry because he didn’t feel truly sorry. 

He always knew his honesty would do him in one day.

The Age Headline: Australia must fix asylum approach: Indon MP

Flash Fiction Word of the Day: Threat

Nisha’s hands stopped short as the the Commonwealth Bank logo flashed past.

“I am strong. I am STRONG,” she repeated inwardly, as stared at the bank letter. The rest of the stack had already slipped and now lay scattered on the dining table. 

“One month. That bitch had said she had a month,” she hissed. A heavy darkness seemed to be descending around her and she found herself short of breath. 

She had lost her husband, had no job and a year-old baby, and now the bank was threatening to take her house away. 

What should she do? What should she do? Nisha throught frenzily. Sell her gold. Sell the car. Call Rohit’s parents. Borrow. But she knew they didn’t have much themselves. 

If only she could find a job.  

She heard Vineet wailing from the bedroom. 

“I am strong,” she chanted, as a sob finally escaped through her. 

Headline of the Day: Rinehart's Fairfax Threat

Flash Fiction Word of the Day: Age

Poornima peered at the mirror before her. Was that a wrinkle? 

No. She would not stand for it. She would not. 

She had accepted the graying with stoicism. No, she had accepted it with humour. She coloured her hair diligently. She constantly changed her parting to hide the worst of it. And she made fun of it before her friends. 

But it hurt. 

It hurt because the greying reminded her of all the goals not achieved by her in life: travel,  fame, love, husband, kids and family. 

And now there was the wrinkle staring back at her. 

It’s not fair, she screamed silently, before feeling her shoulders sag at the thought of all the massages, facials, moisturisers, anti-ageing creams, and the jokes she would make about them before her friends.

At the venerable age of twenty four, Poornima felt the full force of an empty, inconsequential life before her.