Mihir Kamat

Tag: flash fiction

  • The crush

    The boy focused his eyes at the empty arch staring back at him. With every twist and turn of its ornate stone, it spoke to him of the days gone by. Barely twenty-one, he felt like his scrawny arms had shouldered the weight of the world.

    It came to him as if it were yesterday. He was just another fresher dotting the ground floor of his college, some four years ago. His lifelong dream of getting an engineering degree was just getting started. He looked around to find a lot of fresh faces, some of which he’d get to know shortly.

    He remembered his first day at class; trying to keep his eyes open while concentrating on the teacher droning away the laws of Thermodynamics. Sixty others around him might have been feeling the same way, but none made it plain. The ceiling fan seemed more interesting that what might have been going on in front. He looked around the class to spot his colleague, a young girl, sitting one bench away to his right, and drifting away in the background. Her head oscillated in her stupor, conscious enough to keep away from the edge of the table, and dazed enough to be swaying away to the boring lullaby recited in front. He saw the seat next to her empty and jumped ship while the teacher had his head turn. He put a chubby book under her chin while her head troughed and it settled cleanly as it made contact. That was it, lights out. In that instant he’d made a friend, a friend he’d assisted sleeping in class.

    He’d never had a friend who was a girl before. Blame it on the convent schools, which had separate branches for boys and girls while he grew up. The experience was new, fresh. He’d never known what it meant to hold a girls hand, to look at her in a different light, or to begin and end his day with her, but within a year, he’d done it all. He’d met someone who’d smell extraordinary, who’d dress differently, like diverse things, and one who’d enjoyed his company. All he knew was that she made him smile and he liked taking care of her.

    As the folded paper cups of coffee piled on an already cluttered desk full of five-pound books, one would make out that exams were near. The gloom and doom that surrounded hours of poring through dreary textbooks and meaningless reference guides was starting to sink in. The elevator rides spent in reading and revising anecdotes captured in a previous class. The facial expressions conveying words of wisdom right before a spot quiz. The manner they’d complete each other’s sentences. The way they’d point to the same thing and giggle. The way she’d suck on a lollipop and force him to do so in front of everyone, and he would risk it all doing so willingly. In every moment spent in each other’s company. In every examination conquered with excellence. In every second that passed, he grew warmer to the girl that made him feel different.

    Every second passed, right across these now vacant halls.

    He couldn’t help but shed a tear. He recalled that day, their last day together. He’d held her hand as she’d checked out her result. She had passed, and he had too. Yet somehow, the music faded in the mist. For her the journey ended there. She had agreed for marriage, an arranged marriage, a week after her graduation. He held her hand as she broke this news to him, shaking with excitement. He felt his heart sink deep into his stomach, wrenching his gut, as a tornado would leave its victims. He decided to do nothing but smile, because he couldn’t explain what he was feeling, or why he was feeling that way. He could only watch as she placed her hand on his head, smiling and asking him to keep in touch, but he knew it would never happen.
    The boy focused his eyes at the arch right in front of him. He sees a boy and a girl laughing, looking much younger than he remembers. With a blink of an eye, the duo looks back at him, their eyes imploring him to look beyond the emptiness left behind. He’d known now the hard way what it meant like to lose a friend. What it meant like to have a crush.

    What it felt like to fall in love.

    © 2014 Mihir Kamat

    Inspired by this week’s writing challenge.
    Image courtesy of Cheri Lucas Rowlands.

  • Sipping coffee

    Sipping coffee

    The first ray of morning sunlight creeps into the room through dusty window panes, fragmenting the light that it allows to pass. The floorboards are rickety, with the eerie creaks getting louder as a furry rodent scurries lightly across the hallway. The fresh smell of varnish on the oak sideboard heightens the senses, and plays with my sense of smell. Browns, blacks, and grays; the colors of time gone by surround me, and as I pass them by, I am hit by a weird sense of nostalgia.

    It’s six a.m., and the kitchen is filled with musty smells and I get a putrid hit of food rotting in the dustbin. I see a chubby rat feasting on the remains of last night’s meal, which almost feels like a grand spread for the little critter. It’s still dark outside; I throw a light switch to illuminate the room, revealing the mess of dishes strewn across the sink. I’ll deal with those later, I decide, for I had important things to tackle first.

    The pot of coffee lies neglected in the file cabinet, where I’d put it after brewing my morning cup yesterday. I take it in my hands, inspect it, and verify that it is clean to my liking. I fill it up to the brim with tap water, place it gently on the stove and turn on the heat. I rub my eyes as I watch the water, calm at first but slowly disturbed as the slow heat does its thing. The water simmers over the flame, carefully and wishfully, as if it was trying to savor every moment it was on the stove. The calm soon ends as the water comes to a feverish boil. It’s time to put in the coffee, I think to myself, as I scoop a generous helping of the brown powder into the pot of boiling liquid. The smell wafts, and teases my nostrils as I add in the sugar and milk. My body feels wide awake, and my senses are whet by the sweet smell of my coffee. I feast on the visual grandeur that is my cup – the milky brown elixir now topped with a dollop of cream swirling on top of its surface. I indulge my taste buds as I sip on the magical concoction, feel the warm and bitter tinge at the back of my tongue, savoring the mild sweetness and gentle creaminess of its additives.

    I realize that the greatest joys in life could be really simple. I’m now ready to tackle whatever life throws at me today.

    © 2013 Mihir Kamat

    Inspired by this week’s writing challenge.

  • NotionPress contest – need your vote!


    Dear readers,

    I’ve entered my short story “Vanquished” in the NotionPress Short story contest. The prize up for grabs is pretty awesome – 10,000 INR and a chance to have my story published in an upcoming book by NotionPress!

    I appeal to you to please read my entry and vote for it; every reader vote is worth 10 points in the bank. The higher the points, better are the chances to win.

    To read and vote for my story, use this link – https://notionpress.com/story/view/538969
    To know more about the contest – click here: https://notionpress.com/contest

    P.S. You may have to login using your Facebook account to vote; allowing the NotionPress app to display your vote on your wall is optional.

    Thank you for your time. As always, you are most important to me and I’ll be back with some great content for you shortly!

  • Story for a rainy day

    Story for a rainy day

    The rain lashed on for hours; the constant patter on the glass sounding like guns blazing in the distance. Steve Dreyfus had always been a reserved man; he never did like company. Though he felt like he could use some today.

    He’d made a quiet home for himself just outside the city, off the interstate. He preferred living alone now; he’d given up life in the big city, with all that traffic, crazy routines, and nosy neighbors. He was now retired and loving every moment of it.

    Right until now. He felt like a prisoner trapped inside a well furnished prison cell. He tried to take a nap, but the thunder booming outside wouldn’t let him nod off. He’d try to catch a few winks, and then wake up in a flash as soon as the clouds roared.

    “Thank God I’m indoors”, Steve thought to himself, as he got up to make himself a cup of hot chocolate. He hated getting wet, and he didn’t like the wheezing and a runny nose that usually followed. He was bored out of his wits; there was nothing to do at home since he was holed in and the power was out since afternoon. The old rustic clock on the far wall showed six, but it didn’t make any difference to him. Time had come to a standstill for all he knew. It was dark out throughout the day, and now it began to get even darker.

    Steve was about to take a sip of his chocolate when the doorbell rang.

    “Who the heck is crazy enough to be outside in such horrible weather?” Steve cursed, curious to know who could be bothering him when he knew there was no one who lived close by. He shouted lazily, “coming”, and hobbled to answer the door.

    Hands trembling, partly with age and partly because he didn’t know whom to expect, he turned the knob on the latch that fastened the door. Slowly, he pulled the door towards himself to look at whoever was calling on him at this late hour.

    To his surprise, a beautiful young woman was standing at his door. He wouldn’t have guessed who it was in a million years. He placed her to be in her late twenties, with short brown hair and a fair complexion. Her eyes were blue, heavily accented with eye liner; which now created a black mess as the droplets of precipitation trickled down her face. She had full lips like the ones you’d find on a sultry actress. Her ears were small but clearly jutting out, and she had a long neck, making her look taller than she actually was. She wasn’t wearing any jewellery. As expected, she was soaking wet. He surveyed her for a moment, hoping that she would explain herself without him needing to ask.

    “May I come in?” the woman asked politely, “my car broke down on the interstate and it would be great if you’d let me stay indoors while the rain subsides.” Steve mulled over the request for a second, and relented. He opened the door to let the woman in. As she walked in, he studied the tattoo on her neck. It looked like some sort of weird bar code, something you’d find on a grocery item bought at the supermarket. Kids these days, they’d go to any lengths to look “cool”. She wore a beige trench coat that covered her up fully, except for her neck and head. The coat was tattered and torn in places, as if it had ripped on some sort of barbed fencing. He couldn’t make out her build from under the coat, but judged that she was taller than him. She wore ragged black army boots that added to her height; very much out-of-place for someone with such a pretty face. He figured he’d let her get cleaned up, wait for the rain to subside, and then send her away. And then maybe he’d catch some sleep.

    Steve never liked visitors. He couldn’t manage conversation, especially with women, that’s why he never married. He was sharp though; always paying attention to the little details. With age his eyesight grew weaker, but his senses were still good. This woman gave him a bad feeling he just couldn’t shake off.

    “The bathroom’s this way”, Steve pointed to a door, “if you’d like to freshen up”. She looked at him, her eyes trying to convey her gratitude; her lips curled up in an awkward smile. Apparently she wasn’t good at conversation either. The woman walked through the door and locked it behind her. Steve took in a deep breath.

    He looked out the window; the rain still lashing on the sill, trying to enter through the small opening between the hinges. He took his place on the couch, picking up a magazine he’d read before. It was something that he could pretend to read if the woman came back after doing her business; anything was better than making conversation with a strange woman.

    It felt like five minutes when the power came back on. What a relief! He fished for the remote and turned on the TV. He pressed a few buttons to tune into the news; he was curious to know what was going on outside. He flipped on a few channels, trying to browse around but found nothing that would catch his eye. That was until he flipped to channel 7.

    Steve froze. He saw a face, a face he’d seen mere five minutes ago. The black lining on her eyes intact; deep blue eyes on a clear face. The headline read, “Escaped from the state penitentiary, wanted for 3 murders”. He stared into those menacing eyes, and turned ever so slightly as he heard a door click, only to find the same look staring back at him from across the room. He now found certain madness in her eyes, and she found raw terror in his. His jaw dropped; he couldn’t speak a word. He only conveyed how he felt by wetting his pants. She opened her now untied trench coat to pull out a compact hand gun. Silent but deadly. He knew what was going to happen, but felt his body slump in bitter surrender. She aimed the gun directly at his forehead and pulled the trigger. The last thing he remembered was a loud click followed by flash of light. Then darkness.

    The jolt pulled Steve out of his drowsy stupor. He immediately checked his head for any signs of blood or bullet holes, but found none. He heaved a huge sigh of relief; his idle mind was playing tricks on him. He was sweating, his heart clearly racing from his worst nightmare. The power now came on, and he felt slightly at ease, feeling more alive than ever. He would be all right, he just knew it. He turned on his TV, half hoping only to see news of an odd fallen tree or a waterlogged suburb. Instead, every channel he clicked on, he saw those eyes, looking back at him again. His head felt lighter, and his sight began getting darker. He tried to control his fear, reminding himself that it was only a dream.

    But dreams don’t knock. He could now hear a pounding on his door. His fear had him in a tight grip, and finally got the better of him. In a moment, he passed out.

    The man standing outside the door didn’t know what was going on. He kept thinking to himself, “What a lousy day to sell insurance”.

    © 2013 Mihir Kamat
  • Extinct

    Extinct

    He fought the feeling with every ounce of his strength. A feeling that he was about to die. That his species would end. And his world would be over in an instant. Extinct.

    He despised the humans. He thought maybe he was one of them, or maybe not. But he knew that it was they who brought this suffering on him. He was subjected to unthinkable pain only because of them.

    The experiment had gone horribly wrong. What originally started as an attempt to create a fully grown human being out of nothing but the very best DNA, turned into a living nightmare. He was the nightmare. Someone had contaminated the DNA with strands of dog hair. The scientists had thus managed to create a beast; a human-like life form with animal features. They realized what had happened only twenty days into the experiment; by then it was too late to pull the plug.

    The experiment went on for a month. The scientists watched as the transformation took place; recording every moment for future playback and making copious notes of the creature’s every movement. The sample evolved into a blob-like embryo in their glass incubator; it was specially fabricated so they could watch as it happened. The blob developed limbs, a musculature followed by human like bone structure. They watched as the skin grew in, barely covering up the grotesque life form. In due time, the figure developed facial features, hair, teeth and male genitalia. The creature’s face was human for the most part; with the addition of sharp canines, a snout like nose and silky hair. The scientists watched as his muscles developed; they observed that this creature was very strong. By the end, the creature could stand and walk upright, but he seemed subdued by all the attention he was receiving.

    He didn’t know why he existed. They called him wolf. He liked to see the fear in their eyes as they walked into the room. Their stares of amazement were fodder to his ego. He was after all, partially human. But he knew he was more than that. He hated being caged, chained and fed raw food. He felt uncomfortable in the clothes he was forcibly dressed in. His taste and intellect had developed manifold. As the months passed by, so did his animal desires. He was superior to them all; he had mastered the English language within two months of hearing his first words. He abhorred that they did tests on him every day, as if he were a mere object only meant to be studied. He grew stronger day by day and began to resist confinement, and he grew violent as the days progressed. Their response was simple; they began to tranquillize him.

    He decided to bide his time. He knew escape was near; he just had to wait for the right moment.

    Thirty five days later. The moon shone brightly in the night. The light in the gallery stirred up something within him. It was as if he was responding to a natural urge; somewhat like a reflex. He began howling; he felt extremely agitated and was growing restless in his cage.

    The scientists knew that they couldn’t control him anymore; they would now have to end what they created. They injected something into his bloodstream. The substance made him drowsy and alert; all at the same time. The neurotoxin was aimed at slowing down brain activity, which would eventually turn him into a vegetable.

    He fought the feeling with every ounce of his strength. A feeling that he was about to die. That his species would end. And his world would be over in an instant. Extinct.

    But in the next instant he felt relieved. Whatever they gave him wasn’t killing him, only making him stronger. He felt his muscles growing larger and larger by the second. He felt strong; free. The humans were going to pay. They were the ones going to be exterminated.

    His chest expanded in fury. The shackles broke under the strain, the bars too soft for his superhuman strength. Vengeance was his for the taking.

    * * *

    The boy watched as the lights to his home went dim. He ran over to the front porch, only to look at the building right across the horizon. His mommy had told him that scientists did all kinds of cool stuff in there; and he’d seen the lights flicker there before. Wow! He started imagining all sorts of things. No one was home; his parents were out leaving him under the non-existent supervision of the baby sitter. She apparently had better things to do; like make long distance phone calls to her boy friend across the country. The lights went off; the emergency generator kicked in. He could now see the building across from him in pitch darkness; almost as if someone had flipped a switch. He gazed in awe at the moon, which shone brightly above. He heard a long howl which scared him to hell. He clutched a wooden chair and stood there, frightened. He saw a figure walk up towards him. His limbs froze. As the figure came closer, the horror in the boy’s eyes grew by the second. The boy couldn’t take it anymore, he wet himself. The monster was going to get him.

    The “monster” put his hand on the boy’s head and spoke, “So you’re going to be the boy who cried wolf”.

    © 2013 Mihir Kamat
    Inspired by this week’s writing challenge.
  • Remember

    Remember

    I feel a heavy throbbing in my head that gets unbearable by the second. I open my eyes, but everything appears to be pitch black in what looks like a tiny room. I seem to be surrounded by walls on all sides. I try to stand up, pull open the curtains right above my bed spread. The sudden gush of light blinds me. I try to shield my eyes, waiting for them to adjust. I give it a minute before I start to ponder over some unanswered questions. Where am I? What am I doing here? Who am I?

    The room is cluttered with rubbish. Old antiques, pictures of famous buildings, takeaway boxes strewn around. I see a single bed near the wall, the one that I inhabited a few minutes back. The sheets were brown with layers of dust collected over many years. Springs were popping out of the mattress that seemed to have taken my shape, permanently. There is a clock on the wall, but it has stopped at ten fifteen. I don’t know if that’s the right time, and I don’t know what day or year it is. Talk about losing time.

    I study the far wall and see a single door standing out. I am curious as to where this might lead to. I might just sit here doing nothing, but I have to clean myself.

    I grab the doorknob and twist it ever so slightly. The knob clicks, but the door doesn’t budge. I see the door is jammed, and I have to give it a slight jerk to force it open. It relents. I pull the door to myself, not knowing what to expect on the other side.

    I see a calendar, pinned up to the wall. It has bold, block letters that can’t be missed. The calendar is set to May 2013, with the first five dates canceled out. I see a felt marker tucked at the top of the calendar; I pull it out and mark the sixth. I know what this means. Today is the sixth day of May. The year is 2013. Quite a weird way to find out.

    I continue to look around. On the right, I see a wall with myriad pictures, wall hangings, newspaper clippings and colored paper tacked up with words scribbled on them. Like a freaky storyboard. I see a mirror at the far end of the wall; I run towards it to get a good look of what I might look like. Why don’t I know what I look like? The question gives me a headache. I see a middle-aged man looking back, ragged, flaunting what looks like a three-day stubble. I’m wearing a plain, deep blue t-shirt that has no markings, on top of light blue shorts. I have a scar on my forehead, a remnant of a deep bruise; a reminder of some sort of serious injury. I look into the mirror and see the reflection of a sign on the other wall, written boldly in red. I look back and study the marking that says “Start here”, just above a bunch of pictures. What next? The sign is pretty obvious.

    I come across a series of pictures, neatly arranged and numbered. Like a sequence; a photo album made up in space that occupied on the wall. The first picture is labeled “John”, and I see a younger and brighter me looking back, smiling away. My name is John. I search for and find the date the picture was taken; some day mid 2002. Maybe there were clues of my life strewn around in the rest of the pictures. I walk around the wall studying each of the exhibits. A bizarre exposition of my life.

    A picture of my family followed. I have a mom, dad, and a kid that looks like me. Maybe a brother. The picture says “Mom, Dad and Steve”. Steve. Doesn’t ring a bell. A picture of both of us at graduation, taken sometime in 1995. Too many faces and dates followed. I get ahead of myself and walk towards one of the newspaper clippings. The date reads November 12, 2007. The photo shows a car crash; a red wagon mangled and engulfed in flames, what was left totally unrecognizable. The headline reads, “3 dead, 1 injured in horrific car crash at Easton”. I continue to read, realizing that the one that survived was me. I couldn’t hold back tears realizing that the family I had just found was no more. I felt empty, alone, helpless. And I still didn’t know where the hell I was.

    I kept reading and found out some facts about myself. That my name was John Keaton. I was 30 years old, and this was my house. I’d lost everything in a car crash a few years back; my family, my job, my memory. A little more reading unearthed the fact that I’m unable to retain anything more than a day’s information. My mind is a clean slate every morning. Like a crazy hangover that lasts a lifetime.

    Imagine walking through a door, only to rediscover your life. Every day. I could think of it as a nightmare put together by the various puzzle pieces I left behind for myself to find. Or as a brand new start without any baggage. The choice was mine and only mine to make. The fact that I’d survived meant a lot. I think I’d made the right choice today. To continue down the path of hope.

    I see the last piece of yellow paper tacked to the wall that says, “Tomorrow never comes”. As if I’m going to remember tomorrow.

    © 2013 Mihir Kamat
    Inspired by this week’s writing challenge.
    Image courtesy of Google.