#short-story — Public Fediverse posts

How to Properly Punctuate ‘et al.’ #writingcommunity #authors #fiction #author #writing #amwriting #amediting #LateNightWrite #writer #booksky #writerslife #indieauthor #shortstory inventingrealityediting.com/2...

Avoid Common Abbreviation Mist...

Our Editor, Kolby Granville, has done a ton of podcasts talking about After Dinner Conversation. Here is a partial list link. Feel free to reach out if you'd like to interview him about running a #philosophy #ethics #shortstory #literary magazine! buff.ly/qAFX3qR

Cerpen: Batu Dadu Karya Mochtar Lubis

Batu Dadu

Cerpen Karya Mochtar Lubis (1950)

AKU berdiri dekat meja tempat main dadu, menonton orang-orang main – memperhatikan wajah orang yang bertukar-tukar, riang dan kecewa karena menang dan kalah – dan air muka orang yang tidak berobah sama sekali kalau kalah atau menang. Batu-batu dadu berdering-dering berlaga dengan piring, dan teriak bandar parau menyuruh orang memasang taruh memenuhi udara bercampur dengan bau manusia. Bau keringat dan minyak wangi. Bau yang biasanya melekat di udara jika ada keramaian manusia bersama-sama.

“Banyakkah menang?” sekonyong-konyong suara halus berbisik di telingaku. Aku berpaling. Dan aku lihat dia berdiri di belakang. Tersenyum.

“Engkau?”

“Ya,” katanya. “Engkau kejam benar. Semenjak aku kawin, engkau tidak pernah datang-datang lagi.”

“Ya. Tetapi tidakkah engkau lebih kejam lagi meninggalkan aku?”

Dia tersenyum. Dan aku tersenyum kembali. Begitu saja. Seakan-akan apa yang kami alami dahulu bersama-sama terjadi dalam penghidupan dan dunia yang lain. Tidak ada sangkut-pautnya dengan pertemuan kami sekarang. Pertemuan di Pasar Malam ini. Hanya dia dan aku. Dua orang berkenalan. Bersahabat barangkali. Itu saja. Panas nyala nafsu dahulu tidak timbul dalam badan ketika kami bertemu kembali demikian.

“Dengan siapa engkau?” tanyaku.

“Sendiri saja,” katanya. “Suamiku ke Palembang.”

“Oh.”

“Aku hendak main sebentar,” katanya.

Aku meminggir memberi tempat kepadanya.

“Tidak,” katanya. “Pasangkanlah buat aku. Terlalu sempit dekat meja.”

Diberikannya kepadaku sehelai uang kertas lima rupiah. “Ditukar dahulu?”

“Tidak,” katanya. “Pasanglah semuanya.”

“Di mana?”

“Di mana saja.”

Aku letakkan di angka tiga. Buah dadu dikocok, berdering-dering. Dibuka, keluar dua lima dan satu-satu.

“Kalah,” kataku.

Dia tertawa.

“Ini lagi,” katanya, dan diberikannya sehelai uang kertas lima rupiah lagi.

“Di mana?”

“Di mana saja.”

“Tidak,” kataku. “Tadi aku pasang sudah kalah. Sekarang engkaulah yang memilihnya.”

“Lima,” katanya dan aku letakkan di angka lima. Buah dadu dikocok berdering-dering, suara bandar parau berteriak menyuruh pasang taruh, dan dibukanya. Kalah lagi. Lima rupiah lagi. Kalah. Lima rupiah. Kalah. Lima rupiah. Kalah. Hingga akhirnya dia telah kalah tujuh puluh lima rupiah.

“Sudahlah,” kataku. “Itu seperempat gajiku telah hilang.” Dia tertawa. “Masa baru begini telah berhenti,” katanya. Dan diberikannya kepadaku uang kertas seratus. Aku tukarkan kepada bandar dengan uang kertas lima rupiah. Tiga kali berturut-turut kalah lagi.

“Ah, ini penghabisan,” kataku. Dan aku letakkan sepuluh rupiah di atas angka tiga. Dua angka tiga keluar. Dia tertawa riang.

“Pasang lagi,” katanya, dan tangannya memeluk lenganku.

Aku pasang. Menang. Pasang. Menang. Dan tiap kali menang, dia bertambah riang, dan tangannya makin keras memegang lenganku, dan badannya makin rapat kepadaku, hingga dadanya terasa lembut menembus kain kemeja.

Kekalahannya hanya tinggal lima belas rupiah lagi. Ditariknya tanganku mengajak pergi.

“Terus saja main,” kataku.

Dia tertawa.

“Sudahlah,” katanya. “Itu untuk membayar kita main sejam lamanya.” Aku berikan uangnya kepadanya.

“Peganglah,” katanya.

Aku masukkan ke saku bajuku. Kami berjalan meninggalkan tempat main dadu. Dia berhenti di depan tempat permainan menembak dengan senapan angin.

“Tembakkan buat aku sebotol minyak wangi Tosca,” katanya.

Botol minyak wangi Tosca itu terletak di atas nomor 12. Aku bidik. Tidak kena. Sekali lagi. Tidak juga kena. Sekali lagi. Tidak juga kena. Hingga delapan kali.

“Apa boleh buat,” kataku. “Aku bukan juru tembak.”

Dia tertawa-tawa mengganggu aku. Kemudian dia mengajak aku ke restoran. Restoran penuh dan kami terpaksa berdiri sebentar menunggu meja menjadi kosong. Sebuah orkes keroncong main. Suara penyanyinya seperti bunyi paku digoreskan ke atap seng. Kemudian beberapa orang keluar dan kami duduk menggantikan mereka.

“Makan?”

“Tidak. Minum saja.”

“Apa?”

“Apa saja,” dan dia tersenyum.

Aku pandangi matanya. Seakan-akan cahaya api lama bernyala di belakang matanya. Aku pesan creme de menthe.

Kemudian, “Kurang keras ini,” katanya. Aku lihat dia. Dia melihat kembali. Aku pesan wiski. Dan kemudian, “Tidak panas engkau rasa di sini?” tanyanya.

Kami keluar dari Pasar Malam. Aku panggil becak.

“Tidak. Jangan itu,” katanya. “Yang pakai tutup.”

Dia bersandar ke bahuku. Dan tiba-tiba di ciumnya mulutku keras-keras.

“Engkau mabuk,” kataku.

“Karena engkau,” katanya.

Begitu saja. Mulutnya yang lunak lembut. Wangi bedak di pipinya. Wangi rambutnya. Tubuhnya yang panas. Dan tiba-tiba nyala api dalam malam-malam dahulu, ketika kami serumah — aku bayar makan di rumah pamannya — berkobar kembali, memeluk tubuhku dalam pelukan merah panas. Dan kemudian kami tidak dibecak lagi. Hanya berdua-dua saja dikelilingi empat buah dinding. Pintu tertutup. Kamar yang asing. Kemudian api surut. Padam. Tinggal debu panas. Tidak ada bara menyala. Dan debu cepat menjadi dingin. Hilang diserakkan angin. Tidak ada yang tinggal dalam hati. Rasa kecewa. Kosong. Bukan menyesal. Tetapi kecewa. Seperti main dadu, tidak keluar nomor taruhan. Hanya dia kelihatan girang.

Dan ketika aku antar dia pulang, dipegangnya tanganku di depan pagar pekarangan.

“Sampai di sini saja,” kataku. “Telah larut malam.”

“Ya,” katanya.

“Kapan kita bertemu lagi?” tanyanya. Dia memandang kepadaku.

Aku lihat matanya. Ketika itu aku tahu. Mengapa aku merasa kecewa. Karena baginya malam ini bukan lanjutan malam-malam dahulu, sebelum dia kawin. Aku ambil uangnya dari saku bajuku. Ditolaknya tanganku, dan dia berpaling, berlari kecil, naik beranda. Ke dalam telingaku serasa terdengar suaranya seperti di tempat main dadu tadi… itu untuk belajar kesenangan kita main sejam lamanya….

Dia membuka pintu. Cahaya lampu dari dalam mengalir keluar menembus gelap dalam beranda, dia melangkah ke dalam, menutup pintu, dan beranda itu gelap kembali.

Aku lihat uang kertas di tanganku. Selintas aku pikir hendak membuangnya. Aku bukan jago, pikirku dengan marah. Tetapi kemudian uang itu aku simpan kembali. Dan aku melangkah pulang.

Sumber: Batu Dadu (Dice) adalah cerita pendek dari kumpulan cerita pendek karya Mochtar Lubis, Si Djamal : dan tjerita2 lain / oleh Mochtar Lubis, Gapura, Djakarta, 1950, h. 85.

Foto: Ismail Marzuki (bottom right, playing saxophone) with The Jazz Division of Lief Java Orchestra, 1936, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ismail_Marzuki and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gugur_Bunga.

Orkes Krontjong

https://youtu.be/fk7Xx91-ymA?si=OL_VyYLH0em5LU5Y

CNN Indonesia, Maret 6 2023: “Jakarta punya segudang keunikan. Kali ini Sisi Kota mengunjungi kampung Tugu di Cilincing, Jakarta Utara yang memiliki cerita yang berusia empat abad. Permukiman yang didiami peranakan Portugis ini mencoba bertahan di tengah gerusan perkembangan zaman termasuk dengan keseniannya.” Sumber: https://www.krontjongtoegoe.com/

Batu Dadu Jaman Revolusi

Rate this:

A Baby In the Forest : An Echoes Excerpt

Echoes of a Wild Girl’s Drum is the upcoming novel that will be released this Summer.

Born beneath the shadow of a witch fire, Soryelle learns early that in her village, fear is more powerful than truth.

After watching her mother burn, she grows up on the edges of a remote Papua New Guinea highland clan, surviving on scraps and silence. When the villagers accuse her of carrying the same curse, only one boy dares to see her for what she is: not a witch, but a wild-hearted girl who still believes in hidden places, healing roots, and the possibility of love. Together, Soryelle and Maikel create Kavaru, a secret refuge deep in the forest where the world cannot reach them.

But Maikel is the village drummer, bound to the very rhythms that condemn her.

When Soryelle escapes into the jungle, she is forced to become something both fierce and untamed. The forest raises her. The village continues to hunt her. Years later, she returns carrying a child born of violence and a growing determination to expose the truth buried beneath the clan’s sacred traditions.

As suspicion rises and the feared glasman tightens his grip, Maikel must choose between obedience and the girl he has loved since childhood. To save her daughter and shatter the lies that have ruled their world, he will have to break the rhythm of the drum once and for all.

A sweeping tale of survival, forbidden love, and the courage to speak when silence has become law, Echoes of a Wild Girl’s Drum is a haunting and unforgettable story about the cost of fear and the fierce, stubborn beat of hope.

For me, writing this story has been a whirlwind of intense research into a fascinating country full of amazing creatures (my daughter says the tree kangaroo is one of her favorite animals now!) and heartbreaking superstitions. This excerpt opens section two, The Hollow Drum. Soryelle is 16 here and has lived 9 years in the forest alone.

Please be careful: this excerpt does contain material that could be triggering. Please make sure you are safe before you read.

—

The third strike brings the spark. Quickly, I lay tiny twigs and leaves around the spark, feeding it.

I am very careful about where I build fire. The sound of shouting men; their running feet made thunder in the ground. “Smoke!” I was little then. Little enough that I didn’t think about the villagers seeing smoke. We’ll cover our tracks to show the dragon’s home respect; we leave it as we find it. The memory of Maikel raking dirt over our footprints was the only reason I thought to do the same. I ran, and ran, trying to outrun the villagers. Through branches, their spears looked long and sharp.

            I ran to the waterfall… but I knew Bigman would want to search the woods to find who built the fire. He might see other footprints. And, if they had caught me… so I gripped the mossy log with both hands, eased up on it. Holding my arms out on both sides, I edged my way out over the water. I’m right here. Maikel’s voice pushed me to walk. I fell off the log, and almost panicked. I stayed close to the log, using my fingers to grip it and pull myself forward, kicking my legs because it was the only thing I could do.

            Somehow, I made it to the other side.

            Crawling out of the water, soaked, I looked across the waterfall at the darker woods of Kavaru. I could hear the men, so I tried to find a place to hide. The glade felt more open, brighter, than the woods of Kavaru; walking through it, my head lifted, my eyes widened…  I felt seen. Until I found the cave. Deep, dark and small. No signs of markings; animals had not claimed it. So, I did.

            I hid there.

            No one crossed the log; no one saw footprints I forgot to hide. Except one.  You think you’re so smart; they will kill you when they find you. But they haven’t. And now I build fire by the cave. Even he isn’t sure where the smoke comes from. They think it’s villagers of a neighboring tribe traveling. It’s not, is it? I never answer.

            I don’t speak at all anymore.

            I left my voice at the stake.

            My breath curls white in the air. The dew soaks the grass and numbs my feet. Fire before daybreak is worth the risk in the dark. The wet season means I am rarely dry, the ground is rarely dry, and I shiver until daybreak without the fire.

            I breathe in sharply, quickly, through my nose, my hand curling around my rounded stomach. The pain grows stronger. When the sun disappeared, it was not like this. The clenching makes me grunt, my eyebrows furrow across my brow. Instead of fifty breaths, they come now every thirty.

            It is coming.

            But not here. My babe will be born in Kavaru.

            The fire crackles, sparks flying into the night air. I pluck a leech off my arm. When I stand to place a log onto the flames, another cramp attacks. The pain makes me lock my elbow against my stomach, doubling over.  The tools. The tools are in Kavaru. That was twenty-seven breaths. Panic rises. Instead of placing the log on the flame, I gather handfuls of dirt, throwing it into the fire. It only takes me moments to choke the flames.

            The rushing of the waterfall grows louder as I walk quickly across the wet, muddy ground towards it. The openness of the glade shrinks the closer the waterfall gets. I close my eyes, staring at the log, inhale deeply and slowly, through my nose. I can hear my heart.

            I know the risks.

            The pain may come while I’m on the log; it may be strong enough to knock me into the water. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, glance behind me towards the darkened glade, then look across the dark water towards home. I’m safe here. I can do this here. Your mother used this, he said that as he passed a handful of ginger. And you’ll need these. The sharpened bamboo blade. These lie at the base of Kavaru.

            I step, the moss cool and slick against the soles of my feet. I cross this log many times—the glade has banana trees and guava. Sugarcane grows by the waterfall on that side. I can cross it now.

            Twenty.

            The pain feels sharper, almost like wild pigs charging through my belly instead of a vine being twisted. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… I grunt, my shoulders curving. You will never do that again, do you understand?  The force of the blow to my face knocked my head sideways. I didn’t bite him on purpose; my jaw just locked, my teeth trying to keep him out. I shake my head once, hard, push my feet to keep moving. The moment my toes touch the wet ground, relief bursts through me.

            Home.

            The wet months mean the whole forest is a muddy landslide. Climbing up the small embankment makes me slip and slide down to the bottom. I notice the duiker’s prints: they look fresh. I glance around, but the animals hide. Kavaru is darker than the glade; the canopy thicker, moonlight streams in broken beams through rare patches.

            Thirteen. The pain rips through me like a python squeezing until I cannot draw a breath. It pushes me to my knees, my fingers digging into the wet soil beneath the Kavaru tree. The strong cord I pulled from bark lies nearby, the sharpened bamboo blade he bought, and the small woven bilum. It’ll need to travel. Fear collects in the pit of my chest, spreads through my whole body until I feel both cold and flushed. His hand pushes inside, hard, again and again, and I twist, trying to get away but there’s no where to go, so I use my fist to hit his shoulder, pounding the white scar as many times as he pounds me.

            The urge to push swoops through my body like angry birds. It isn’t just fear that shoves me forward, my belly contracting with the strength of my push. Something is inside me; something as always been inside me. My fingers shake as they move inward, trying to feel what’s happening to me. I can’t count my breaths anymore because they’re coming so fast, one after the other, fast like my heartbeat. The waves hit me like the waterfall in flood season; they are impossible to stop.

            To keep from screaming, I twist my head sideways and bite my upper arm. The very center of my body feels swollen and on fire. It feels like I’m being pried apart. The worst of the pain comes as I bear down, pushing harder, biting my skin until the metallic taste of blood swells on my tongue.

            Something shifts in the trees. Two round eyes shine from the branches above me. A cuscus clings to the tree. Its stillness makes me want to scream: how can something be still when my insides are on fire? She watches as she watches everything: still, quiet, curious.

            I fall back, my eyes feverishly looking for the patch of sky. There – there it is; three stars tonight. I stare at the brightest, pushing again and again, holding my breath, my elbows cracking the earth beneath me and then…just as suddenly, my palm feels something. Wet and round, small enough my palm curves around it entirely.

            My breath catches. I force myself to bear down, hard, harder than ever before, my breath held between fear and awe. My fingers move as the baby slides out, all at once, into my hands.

            I tremble, tears blur my eyes.

            The baby doesn’t cry. I hum, using one hand to pat the ground. I know it’s here, I saw it where was it? Panic stills my thoughts, as I hold the baby’s head between my legs with one hand and use the other to frantically search. When my fingers hit something smooth and sharp, I breathe. There it is: the bamboo blade.

            I lay the baby on my skin, grasping the vine connecting us. It’s thick, as thick as my finger, and pulsing like a small, frightened heartbeat. It’s thicker than I thought it would be, warm and slick. When I press the bamboo blade to it, the fibers, tough as a wet vine, resist, push back. My body tightens, as though it can keep him out. The sharpened blade slips against my wet hand. The baby still doesn’t breathe, so I saw faster until it gives way with a soft, rubbery snap.

            My fingers drop the blade, and I pick the baby up, hoisting to my chest, panic surging through me. The joey didn’t cry. Hidden beneath the brush, the tree kangaroo licked its face again and again. I sweep my fingers through the baby’s mouth, turn it downward and pat its back while my fingers tremble. Its skin is wrinkly, the color of dry dirt. Suddenly, I hear it: a tiny, wobbly cry. When I turn the baby over, my eyes sweep down.

            A daughter.

            My baby is a girl.

            Something shifts deep inside of me.

            The cry becomes stronger. Gently, I offer her my breast. Wet mucus still clings to her; I’ll clean her like the tree kangaroo cleans her young. When she latches on, I feel her tiny fingers curl against my breast, and my heart skips a beat. Pulling a banana leaf near, I wrap her in it, then I pull the bottom of my dress up. It’s blood-stained, darker at the edges with fluid, but it will give a little more warmth. Leaning against the Kavaru tree, I tip my head back. The faint outline of a spiral catches my eye.

            I glance down at her again just in time to see her eyes open. They are brown like wet chestnut bark, round and…alive. They glisten, and in them I see something I’d forgotten until this moment.

A small girl with black hair and wide eyes jumps back, surprised, laughing out loud when the village’s dog leaps up, putting its paws on her shoulders and licking her face. A little girl laughing as a woman, her mother, nuzzles her neck with kisses. A girl’s midnight black strands whip across her face as she rises to her toes and spins; a boy watches her and says, “I wished for another dance.” A girl staring at the full night sky from the top of a tree, saying there were “a hundred million” stars.

My eyes blink. When I touch the tips of her finger, she wraps it around mine. The tiny finger curled around my dirty one makes my heart light up like the glow worms. I’ve told you – don’t touch my baby ever again.

She killed my baby!

Fear spirals in my belly, but I can’t pull my finger from beneath hers. She has a small dent in the center of her chin, and no hair. I snuggle her closer, absently pat her back. The owl cries from somewhere deep in the forest; the cuscus slowly moves back against the bark, out of sight, and the crickets sing. I stay so still, and I stare at this baby long after she closes her eyes in sleep.  When the owl makes its last call and I hear the distant boom…boomboom…boom of the Heartbeat call, I’m still staring at my daughter.

You’re of course not capable of being a mother. I’ll take it somewhere it will be safe when it comes. My foot taps rapidly against the soil. I hold her rocking back and forth, patting her bottom. I will not carry her over my shoulder. Slung over his shoulder, all I could see was his back and the ground. Dust disturbed as his meet lifted, fell. I want her to see the sky, not just the ground. He hasn’t come yet, but he will. He will. And, when he does, he’ll take her.

            The sound of his laugh chills me. You’re shaking your head like you have a choice. This isn’t your baby. It’s mine. You’re just the way it gets here. This last time, his voice in my ear as he hurt me, turned soft. You want it, don’t you? The baby? Been a long time since you ate a baby’s heart, hasn’t it? Did I do that? Sometimes my brain feels like the early morning mist—foggy, and I can’t remember.

            But it’s not foggy about some things.

            Ash from when they burned Nángi still paints my toes. I don’t know where to go. The butcher doesn’t want me sleeping in the alley. The apothecary said it made villagers nervous when they saw me sleeping in front of the shop. The grass behind the Spirit House makes scary dreams, and the worn path by the village well smells funny. I saw a snake bigger than me there one time. I tried sleeping in the burnt circle, where the hut was, but it makes me cry too hard cause I can hear Nángi there. The meadow is too wet, and too open. It makes me shake like leaves when spaces are too big. The only place left is the here; the quiet patch inside the tree line.

            I listen for wild pigs. Sometimes, I think  I hear them, and then I run back into the village and sleep by the courtyard. Bigman says no, I can’t sleep there. He says if there was a raid on the village, no one needs someone in the way of the gate. It’s not safe, that’s what he said.

            The foggy part comes back. My body fights to remember but what happened first or third or last is hard hazy. The forest is dark. Can’t even see streaks of the moon. Nighttime birds call; I call back. A hand – big, hairy, the hairs were black and not soft – pulls me deeper into the woods. You’re mine now, like your mama was. Smoke and dust heavy in the air. His face changes when I twist, try to pull away, and he jerks. “Better learn now—you don’t pull away from me.” He pulls away the strap that holds his woven covering. There’s ginger growing there. It’s low to the ground, as if it hides a secret. I stare at its wide and shiny leaves; they’re shaped like fat hearts painted with rain and smooth, like the skin of the frog. I can only see the flower because I’m lying on the ground.

            How am I on the ground?  Arm. Pulled. The flash of the canopy turning sideways above me. When he grips my chin, it hurts. I cry. His fingers dig into my skin. He says something but it’s muffled under the water in my brain. Water sloshes. Slosh, slosh, slosh. That’s what words sound like here. The leaves are louder. The crickets are louder.

            When his fingers push under my dress, hurting me until I can’t see anything else, until  I start screaming, “No, I don’t want to. Stop!”  Does fire burn like this? He tells me to “…shut up” but I can’t, I can’t.

            “Honeysuckle blooms where fear gets in, ginger for the shaking—”

            My eyes find the flower again, the ginger. Ginver stops the shaking. Would it stop the shaking of my body? The way the damp soil rubs against my back, the way the trees bend and shake real fast while he grunts like wild pig. Wild pigs might eat me. The ginger flower don’t grow toward the sky.

            It hides, round and chubby, like an animal sleeping with its mouth half open. Ginger is the a dark red but the blood is bright when he sticks me with something hard. I jerk my eyes off the ginger and scream again. He pushes his palm against my throat. I think he’s pushing me into the ground. Am I going to disappear into the ground like Nángi?

            “Stop singing, stop screaming, just be still,” his voice sounds like rocks striking each other. “The ginger flower is like a secret cave.” I can’t find the ginger. I can’t find it. The air gets trapped in my throat; I  can feel my heartbeat pulsing against his fingers. Then – there it is. The ginger again. “It’s a secret cave for fairies.” That’s what Nángi says. “Scratch the root, like this, and smell it—what’s it smell like?’  His breath is hot, heavy, and smells like dust and smoke. No. The ginger. Ginger smells spicy and warm. Peppery. I twist my head, trying to smell something other than dust, something other than the smoke of fire, but I can’t.

            I shake hard when he leaves.

            “Your blood – little witches like you need new blood. Yours is poisoned. I gave you new blood, so you’ll thank me.”

            I scramble away, pulling the edge of my torn dress down, my eyes sticking to the blood soaking into the soil, staining between my legs. My blood is coming out. My breath hitches high, my heart pounds, and I start to scream. His hand comes down hard, clamps over my mouth. “Swallow it.”

            I swallow hard, past the lump in my throat. Tears fall from my nose onto his hand over my mouth, I scoot back further, trying to breathe, but my grips the back of my head, holding me still. I think I’m dying.

            Where do dead people go?

            Will he eat my heart?

            My mind drifts again, my eyes floating up, up, up to the treetops. Something moves in the branches; a spot of fur. I stare, trying to see it, his voice fading until all I can hear is the wind whistling in the trees. I don’t know what he says, but he leaves. I squeeze my legs together, tight until the muscles ache. If I don’t, more blood might come out. And I sing. I forget some of the words, though, but it helps slow the tears until I can breathe.

            Hold me when the dark wind cries, little star up high

            Little star, don’t go, stay where I can see

            If the shadows… something, something… little star, hold me

            Honeysuckle blooms where fear gets in, ginger for the shaking

            Something,…she just walks, she just something, something

            Hold me little star, little star up high, hold me.

            My legs clench first, like they know something comes. Then my teeth grind, and my arms start shaking. When I look at my daughter’s eyes, I remember girl, trying to find ginger and honeysuckle. He will come. He will come and take her. And, if he takes her, I’ll never see her.

            I step over branches, shielding her head with my elbow. I’ll take it somewhere. Where? He rubs me into the ground; sometimes he uses leather against my skin and, if I try to move, he squeezes my neck until the stars fall from the sky.

            She cries.

            I offer her my breast, but she doesn’t latch. I bounce my arms, humming. I can’t sleep. Every time my eyes start to drift, I worry about an animal finding us. Would a cassowary peck her? What if I didn’t hear the pigs in time? What if I don’t hear him?

When she cries, I split a short length of sugarcane with the bamboo blade and chew one end until it softens. When I press it to her mouth, a bead of sweetness touches her tongue. Her cries hitch, then soften into smaller sounds.

            We’re very close now. I need her to be quiet.

            There – there’s the Clan Mother’s hut. Smoke rises from her chimney as the sun begins its descent. The door to the hut is closed, but the window is open. I see her through the window, her arm pulling a basket off a shelf.

            There were baskets in our huts. Baskets and bottles of herbs.

            The baby wiggles, a tiny cry comes. I shift, offer her my nipple, rubbing it against her mouth until she opens, latches on, tugs. My eyes move back to the hut. The Clan Mother sits now. I can only see her face. I can’t see her hands, but I’ve watched her long enough that I know she’s sewing something. Or maybe mixing something.

            Something makes her look up; I ease back, deeper into the forest, but where I can still see her. She shifts, stands. Opens her door and stares out at the woods. I barely breathe. Only when she turns and retreats inside do I close my eyes and exhale, my shoulders dropping.

            My daughter’s hand flails in the air, lands against my chest. She clasps my finger in hers, gripping tight.

My own chin quivers.

I began this work before the rain came, before I felt her tiny movements in my belly. I pulled long strips of bark from trees and kept them inside the teepee until they dried. Weaving them together was harder than I thought it would be. Several pieces of bark snapped; so did pieces of the vine. Some animals, likely birds, stole other pieces of bark for nest building. I press large banana leaves into the basket, layering it for extra softness.

            He came last night.

            I held the baby close to me, and wouldn’t put her down. He told me to give her to him, but the thought of her in his arms broke something deep inside of me. I don’t want to lose her. My chest feels empty without the weight of her small head against it; my tender breasts feel heavy and ache unless she is fed. I thought I’d see him in her face, but I don’t. She is mine.

            But I cannot keep her.

            “Alright,” his voice was amused. “You can have her tonight. I’ll make arrangements. That will be better for the village. When I come back, she goes with me.”

            I swallow hard.

            My hands tremble as I lift her weight away from my skin and lay her gently in the basket I’ve made. She wiggles, fusses, but quiets when I hum and give her my finger to hold. My eyes fall to the strip of grey cloth. It’s the only part left of the grey blanket the Clan Mother laid before me while I  was strapped to the stake.

            Nángi stood close to the Clan Mother; they clasped hands.

            I pick her up from the basket, let her rest against my skin, rising to my feet. She won’t be dirty like me. Her blood won’t be tainted. The pool feels like the sky melted into the mountains; cool enough to sting. Too cold for her. But I dip my hand into it, swirl my fingers, then lift and gently wash her tiny face. Her rounded cheeks, her button nose, the starlike mark that matches mine near her eye, the small dent in her chin. I hold her tiny fist in mine, gently pushing my finger between hers to open her hand so I can wash her palm. She gurgles, her feet kicking against me, her other hand flailing.

            I lift the end of my dress, wrap her in it, dry and warm her. The sound of my rumbling stomach makes me wonder if she’s hungry; I don’t want her to be hungry. I tell myself it’s time but I think about the weather. When the sun dips, it becomes cool here. Will she be warm enough in the basket? She’s always had the heat of my skin. She’s never known a night without it. Since she was born, I’ve never known a night without her against me.

            But building a fire in Kavaru is too risky. 

            People might see.

            When we get back to the tree, I wrap her in layers of banana and pandanus leaves, tucking the edges around her. I hold her in my arms because I want to remember her weight and carry the basket with other hand. I’ve waited as long as I can. He can come back at any time.

            Stepping out from the tree line makes my heart beat fast. They think I’m dead. I haven’t been out of the woods in nine winters. Only he knows I’m alive. Feeling the air rush across my skin, my eyes never stop moving. The sky cries, its colors spread across the horizon in orange, yellow, and purple. The Clan Mother lives apart from the village; no other hut stands beside hers.

            I close my eyes, count my breaths: one, two, three.

            I bend and sit the basket in front of the door. The baby’s eyes are closed. Her stomach full, her body bathed and swaddled. When I lie her in the basket, her head turns toward me, her hand rises in the air, searching. I reach my finger out and she grips it, as she always does, pulls it to her mouth. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and almost pick the basket up and run back home.

            But, if I do that, she will know him.

            I clenched my legs together so tightly the muscles ached. I couldn’t sleep for fear that, if I drifted into slumber, my legs would loosen and I’d bleed to death.

            No. The word feels strange, even in my thoughts. I don’t know its shape. But I know I can’t live without knowing where she is. Gently, slowly, I pull my finger from her grasp, bend down, and press my lips to her forehead. The sound of the Clan Mother moving inside pulls me upright. I turn, run.

            Only when I am safely behind the trees do I take a deep breath and then make a guttural sound loud. “Boom. Boom. Boom.” I picture a cassowary stomping across the meadow and I wait.

            When nothing happens, I call again—“Boom. Boom. Boom” — mimicking the cassowary’s loud, bellowing sound. It vibrates across the short distance from the tree line. I shift and start to call again when I see the Clan Mother in the window. A moment later, the door opens.

            She stares down at the basket, looks up and around.

            She steps out of the hut, walks two steps towards the woods. Carefully, silently, I move back. The baby’s cry turns her around. When she leans down, all I can see is her back; my breath catches in my throat.

            One more glance, I beg silently. I just want one more glance. Please turn around. Then she does, and I see her cradling the baby as I have. She bounces it, her eyes looking out toward the trees. She pauses, then picks up the basket, and steps back inside. When she closes the door, I stare at the window, my breath held.

            But I don’t see her—she doesn’t come to the window. I wait and wait until the sky darkens and my skin shivers. Only then do I turn to walk back into Kavaru. Only when I am near the tree again does a memory strike me like a drum: the missing last words of the lullaby: she just walks, she just booms.

If you follow me, you have a sense of humour. If you're reading this, you're a reader. I’ve put this story online, free, gratis and for nothing, it's a twelve minute read. If you like it, maybe you’ll be curious enough to risk 99p for one of my short story collections. Maybe you’ll be smart enough to save some money by buying a compilation. Maybe you’ll be brave enough to buy my novel. Whatever happens, I hope you enjoy ‘Vincent'. http://aarondavid.co.uk/Vincent.html #freeread #shortstory #funny #pleaseboost

If you follow me, you have a sense of humour. If you're reading this, you're a reader. I’ve put this story online, free, gratis and for nothing, it's a twelve minute read. If you like it, maybe you’ll be curious enough to risk 99p for one of my short story collections. Maybe you’ll be smart enough to save some money by buying a compilation. Maybe you’ll be brave enough to buy my novel. Whatever happens, I hope you enjoy ‘Vincent'. http://aarondavid.co.uk/Vincent.html #freeread #shortstory #funny #pleaseboost

What are the best writing books on pantsing?

From Google AI:

The best writing books on “pantsing” (discovery writing) validate the organic process while teaching you how to apply just enough structure to avoid getting stuck. Top recommendations like Writing into the Dark, The Pocket Guide to Pantsing, and Story Trumps Structure teach you how to write unconstrained while still delivering a cohesive, satisfying plot. [1, 2, 3, 4, 5]

1. Writing into the Dark: How to Write a Novel Without an Outline

• Author: Dean Wesley Smith
• Why it’s essential: Widely considered the “holy book of pantsing,” this guide teaches you how to trust your creative voice instead of your critical voice. Smith breaks down exactly how to “write into the dark” without an outline and offers practical methods to build a compelling story while letting your characters lead.
• Get the book: Find it on Amazon. [1, 2, 3, 4, 5]

2. The Pocket Guide to Pantsing: How to Write a Novel Without an Outline (With Confidence)

• Author: M.L. Ronn
• Why it’s essential: A fantastic, beginner-friendly craft book that specifically addresses the pitfalls of writing without an outline. It breaks down the pantsing process into actionable, step-by-step methods and offers practical solutions for overcoming writer’s block when you don’t know what happens next.
• Get the book: Find it on Amazon. [1, 2]

3. Story Trumps Structure: How to Write Unforgettable Fiction by Breaking the Rules

• Author: Steven James
• Why it’s essential: While James doesn’t explicitly identify as a “pantser,” his book is a favorite among discovery writers. It teaches you how to focus on suspense, emotional resonance, and reader expectations organically, rather than forcing your story into a rigid, paint-by-numbers beat sheet.
• Get the book: Look for it at your local library via interlibrary loan or check Goodreads to see where it’s available. [1, 2, 3]

4. Write Your Novel from the Middle: A New Approach for Plotters, Pantsers and Everyone in Between

• Author: James Scott Bell
• Why it’s essential: This book introduces the “Mirror Moment” to help you find the heart of your story. It’s highly beneficial for both plotters and pantsers because it shows that by focusing on the core turning point in the middle of your book, you can let the beginning and end flow naturally.
• Get the book: Available on Barnes & Noble. [1, 2]

5. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

• Author: Stephen King
• Why it’s essential: Stephen King is arguably the most famous pantser in modern fiction. In this classic memoir, he openly shares his organic approach to writing—advocating that stories are relics found in the dirt waiting to be uncovered, rather than built like architectural structures.
• Get the book: Find it on Amazon.

Is it ethical for businesses to use AI and computer algorithms to sift through job applications? Read the #shortstory "Help Wanted. Really?" by William S. Hubbartt. #fiction #litmag #substack buff.ly/uuTkZMN

RE: https://wandering.shop/@greene/116558391740525524

Fun fact about this story: It started out as a poem. After finishing it and tweaking it several times, I decided to convert it to prose, but a few of the lines weren’t changed much! #Writing #ShortStory

Writer Beware: “Film” scammers targeting writers #bookmarketingscam #writingcommunity #author #writing #amwriting #writer #writerslife #indieauthor #shortstory #authors #amediting #fiction #booksky annerallen.com/2022/06/book-t...

They're (NOT) Gonna Put You in...

Marketing scams aimed at writers via email are on the uptick. Here’s the latest list: Christine Fred <[email protected]> Vanessa <[email protected]> #bookmarketingscam #writingcommunity #author #writing #amwriting #writer #writerslife #indieauthor #shortstory #amediting #booksky

Play it smart: Don’t use 12 a.m./12 p.m. #writingcommunity #authors #fiction #author #writing #amwriting #amediting #LateNightWrite #writer #booksky #writerslife #indieauthor #shortstory inventingrealityediting.com/2...

Understanding 12 A.M. and 12 P...

I Made Him A Sandwich (Al Simon)

https://sevenstorypublishing.wordpress.com/2026/05/15/i-made-him-a-sandwich-al-simon/

Is it ethical for businesses to use AI and computer algorithms to sift through job applications? Read the #shortstory "Help Wanted. Really?" by William S. Hubbartt. buff.ly/uuTkZMN

If you follow me, you have a sense of humour. If you're reading this, you're a reader. I’ve put this story online, free, gratis and for nothing, it's a twelve minute read. If you like it, maybe you’ll be curious enough to risk 99p for one of my short story collections. Maybe you’ll be smart enough to save some money by buying a compilation. Maybe you’ll be brave enough to buy my novel. Whatever happens, I hope you enjoy ‘Vincent'. http://aarondavid.co.uk/Vincent.html #freeread #shortstory #funny #pleaseboost

If you follow me, you have a sense of humour. If you're reading this, you're a reader. I’ve put this story online, free, gratis and for nothing, it's a twelve minute read. If you like it, maybe you’ll be curious enough to risk 99p for one of my short story collections. Maybe you’ll be smart enough to save some money by buying a compilation. Maybe you’ll be brave enough to buy my novel. Whatever happens, I hope you enjoy ‘Vincent'. http://aarondavid.co.uk/Vincent.html #freeread #shortstory #funny #pleaseboost

Dear #Bookstodon , Today is (technically) the soft launch of the actual eBook: Darlings That Kill: Fantastic Tales Featuring Females of Power

If you like #Books #ebooks , maybe try this
Multi-genre #ShortStory Collection!

...As it (slowly, too slowly) rolls out on various online bookstores, I say the best way to download it is (FOR FREE) at my author website:

https://darlingsthatkill-harbinger.author-pages.com/

How many words does an average scene in fiction have?

From Google AI:

An average scene in modern fiction typically ranges from 750 to 2,000 words. While they can be as short as 300 words or stretch beyond 3,000 in slower, more descriptive scenes, most scenes in contemporary commercial fiction hover around 1,000 to 1,500 words, allowing for a complete “micro-story” of action, reaction, and change. [1, 2, 3, 4, 5]

Key Scene Length Factors

• Common Range: 750–1,500 words is often considered a “standard” scene.
• Commercial Fiction: Usually falls between 1,000–5,000 words per scene.
• Genre Variations: Fantasy and more complex narratives may have longer scenes, while thrillers often use shorter, snappier scenes.
• Structure: A functional scene (Goal-Conflict-Disaster) can be effective at any length, but it must have a clear beginning, middle, and end, notes this article from Advanced Fiction Writing. [1, 2, 3, 4, 5]

Scenes often act as “micro-stories,” typically containing a character with a goal, facing conflict, and experiencing a reversal or change, a concept detailed in this Story Grid article. [1, 2, 3, 4, 5]

Writer Beware: “Film” scammers targeting writers #bookmarketingscam #writingcommunity #author #writing #amwriting #writer #writerslife #indieauthor #shortstory #authors #amediting #fiction #booksky annerallen.com/2022/06/book-t...

They're (NOT) Gonna Put You in...

Zwischen Hoffnung und Ernüchterung lagen ca 60 Sekunden. #Lagerjob #shortstory #kinder #IT

Requiem of the Villagers: Story

1) Prologue ~LOU URIRY IL CATARRE IOM~ (Overture ~Think only of the happiness~)

A stranger visits Eastern, a forest-village based inside DORMA. Ashuton Karrucci created Dorma, the forest that surrounds the floating city of Dragosaya, sometime before his capture and imprisonment aboard the Newrama. He created this forest when he forged a single mind with his Forest Dragon, and with that temporary dragon form he made Dorma into a powerful forest. Dragosaya and it’s forest became the pinnacle of Middle Tuscany.

A tourist—a happy foreigner—wandered into the Dorma forest. This person happened upon a town where the inhabitants didn’t pay much attention to the stranger except Bridget and Yuma—two women influenced by the Red Sky event—and their visiting cousin Corey.

2) Red Sky

Bridget and Yuma allow the tourist to stay at Red Sky, their hotel (named after the event). The tourist asks about Dragosaya and an elderly man tells him about the Dragon in the Forest. The tourist, being a treaure hunter and seeker of all things dragony, descides to go looking for the dragon boy.

3) Dragon on the Road

A young man encounters a teenage African walking along the dirt path. He offers her a ride in his truck and she directs him to Dorma. He’s reluctant at first because of the floating pillar-city in the sky, but he follows the path into the forest.

4) Forest Boy/Dragon in the Forest

The tourist becomes injured in his attempt to infiltrate the forest. A young boy finds the tourist and tells him he protects the trees and plants seeds in his free time. The tourist does not know the boy is a dragon god in the guise of his younger self.

The villagers gather round a fire and with the help of the villager’s songs, the boy is able to heal the tourist. The tourist is afraid of the boy at first, but warms up to him and the villagers. He told the tourist to think only of happiness and to never fear the dragons anymore. The war was over and the wounds were clean.

5) Prayers in the Wind

The truck driver comes back to the village to see the African girl, whom calls herself Pop. She wonders about her cousin, Sparky, whom is residing in Little Delaney. The truck driver tells her his name is Roy and that his twenty-seventh birthday was today. Pop then told him he was born on the perfect day: today is the day of the Giving Festival. Everyone gathers in the town square where they pray to god. She wanted humans to believe in the High Divine.

The tourist and Roy meet during the festival parade. The dragon boy, Ashuton, throws autumn leaves everywhere to show his appreciation for the seasons.

6) Ghosts of the Snow Village

Roy heads back to Turino and heads for the nearest bar. He meets his friends, gets drunk, and tells them about Eastern. He also spills the beans about Ashuton being there, and this catches their interest. They were not the only ones to hear of this. An operative for the struggling CIA relays this information to the Leader, where he deploys three teams of CIA operatives to head into the village.

The tourist spends the night in Ashuton’s forest, where the boy sings a short yet powerful song about Mischevous.

“I seek and I sought. I came and I wrought.”

Those words from the song stuck with the tourist, mostly because they were confusing. Our tourist falls asleep under a flowering crape myrtle tree.

Mischevous’s ghost talks to Ashuton, referring to him as cousin. He tells him about the impending attack on the village and that Leader’s true intentions are hidden from his team. Mischevous tells Ashuton that Eastern will end up like Tind.

7) The Morning After

The day opens with a bang, a literal bang. A grenade destroys Bridget’s shop and the forest is set ablaze from the explosion. Ashuton, shifting into his dragon form, attacks the group of CIA agents. Four of them disappear from the battle. The villagers and the forest fight back with Ashuton and they fight hard, warding them off, but an explosion throws him far away. And thus begins Harmony Fyalsis.

8) Aftermath

After the disappearance of their King, the villagers try to continue life without him. The tourist decides to stay in the town and discovers an egg that Ashuton left. He brings it to the village and tells the villagers to have hope. Their Rivve left them with a successor. Pop and Roy pray and throw autumn leafs over the dragon egg to show their appreciation for Ashuton and the ever changing seasons. When the egg hatches and gains a human form, it takes the might of the villagers to care for this one child.

Author Notes: this was inspired by Haruka Shimotsuki’s music. There are a few Shimotsuki references in there…I think. I’m a big Shimotsuki fan and her music never ceases to amaze and inspire. Her music has helped me craft stories in TSODR’s early days. Should I release those stories to the official website? I don’t know.

Rate this:

Ghosts of the Snow Village (Requiem of the Villagers)

The truck bobs back and forth as it departs for Turin
At the nearest bar, Roy excitedly converses with his closest friends
His words leak truth about Pop, about the Praying Festival
And about Eastern itself

“I had so much fun! You should have seen it! You should have been there!”
“We can probably still make it! It’s just an hour drive away! I’ll tell Ashuton you’re with me.”

Sitting in the far corner, listening to their conversation,
was a ghost clad in modern black
she departed, her dress swaying with her
her heels clicked the cobble with every step
and Tulip met her Leader in the alleyway

Tulip pleads to him, “We can save ourselves. We can salvage whatever we have left. Ashuton is within our reach.”

She was nearly begging him for the O.K to go
He thought about it—not long—and knew it would be a daunting task
But the desires were O-so-sweet

Our tourist would never fall for such a thing
Right now our tourist is snug and warm,
Sitting under Ashuton’s crape myrtle tree
It’s flowering blossoms give off warm heat
And attract a parade of moths

“I can sing a story, you know,” says the forest boy, Ashuton, “I’ll sing one for you. This one is about my cousin Mischevous. He was a dragon shifter like me, but he could never hide that tail of his.”

He took a deep breath and sang

In the closed womb of High Glassian
The inhabitants fought, forever entombed by emotions
My dear cousin began questing to change that
For the equality of dragons and dragon shifters

He always said,
“I seek and I sought.
I came and I wrought.”

The last lines stick with our tourist, whom does not know how to interpret that into simple english

When the calm passes, the tourist falls asleep under the tree
Ashuton stays awake, not feeling tired yet

A ghostly child approaches Ashuton

With a cutesy laugh, it says, “you should watch out tomorrow?”

And the forest boy merrily replies, “Mischevous! Why are you here and what do you mean?”

“Um…Leader is coming with three teams. He wants to kill you!”

Ashuton drew back, “that’s absurd!”

Mischevous shook his head, “nuh-uh. I heard him.”

The ghost sat beside Ashuton and he couldn’t help but ask, “how are you able to contact me so easily?”

Mischevous shrugged, “I’m on break.”

Rate this:

Prayers in the Wind (Requiem for the Villagers)

The truck bobs to and fro on the bumpy road
He holds his hand out, catching the breeze
The shining forest comes into view and above him,
Far above him,
Is the grand city

Deeper into the forest
A village comes into his view
Smelling the clean air, he sees the dragongirl he met on the road
She tells him her name—Pop—and wonders about her cousin

As the townsfolk prepare, he asks her, “what is happening?”
And he tells her his birth celebration is today 
“Oh, what joy!” she says
“You can celebrate your birth age with us!”
Today is the Giving Festival

“Before the Festival of Gods begins
I want to pray with you, to wish you well.”

Stepping out of the cottage, the stars already lining the sky
The sweetness of night shrouds our village home as the candles are lit
Bemused by the music, we dance in harmony
Hand in hand, twirling and shaking and jigging to the music

I proudly display my smile to you
Look, Roy!
Pop is smiling at you.
I give my wine and cheese to you and everyone else

People begin praying in their own ways
The purpose of the festival is fulfilled
Yet the drinks and cheese make everyone woozy in the head

With their ever-present glee, the villagers still pray and sing
The little dragonboy throws autum leafs everywhere
As a way of showing his gratitude to the seasons
We all throw our things into the sky
We hope the wind gobbles them up
And transmits them into the High Divine

Let us dance some more!
Let’s make promise bracelets
To hold our wishes, thoughts and memories
And to show our love
Let’s try it, Roy.

The festivities continue into the night
And we cannot help but dance some more around the fire

The boys and girls of the village bring fruits and autumn leafs
Throwing them to the sky, they too wish that the wind will gobble up their offerings
The girls and boys throw their offerings to the sky
And watch as they land on the ground

Everyone claps as the music becomes hectic
It’s a hecticness that will benefit the fun!
Let’s ensure we still continue these festivals next year
You will come again, right…Roy?

We all sing the songs that hold our joy
To portray our feelings through our voices
It’s a wish that the stars will know

When the night subsides
You are sleeping with your mouth wide open
What do you dream, Roy?
What do twenty-seven-year-olds dream about?
Their current situation?
Well, I hope your dream creates an intricate web of joy
Yours truly, your dreams truly,
The music continues until there is nobody left
And we leave.

Tomorrow we awake for the festival’s second day.
This time we throw cicadas instead of autumn leafs
The process is repeated in this tiny closed-off town
What fun~!

Rate this:

We get questions all the time about which magazine subscription a person should get? Print, digital, substack? So we made a feature chart! #philosophy #ethics #shortstory #fiction #magazine buff.ly/hpa68mw

A Bad Wife

I live with my two husbands. The oldest one stands across the courtyard – dead – two feet above ground, several feet below. The youngest one is plugged in the bedroom, recharging. While I sit here, trying to write the story of my life. Where should I begin?

Let’s begin from the beginning. 

One day, Brahma created the beautiful earth – mountains and rivers, birds and animals – then went into deep meditation. When he awakened eons later, he saw that all creatures had multiplied and made the world even more gorgeous. Pleased, he thought: I should create beings who can truly appreciate this beauty the way I do! So he created four men from the four directions. Perfect beings. But when he commanded them to reproduce and populate the earth, they refused. Enraged by their disobedience, Brahma’s anger took form – Rudra emerged from his mind, fierce and obedient. “You! Create the people!” Brahma ordered Rudra, and returned to meditation. When he next opened his eyes, the earth crawled with ugly beasts. Disappointed, Brahma stopped Rudra’s work and sent him away to meditate, to dive deep into his soul and learn the proper way of creation. Then Brahma had a thought: Why not create a species like the animals – one that reproduces through attraction and desire, beings who will both enjoy this world and populate it? But he had no template, no shape for such creatures. He prayed to the higher energy for guidance. In response, a magnificent being appeared – half-man, half-woman. The divine energy smiled and said, “Divide my form into two parts. Make them man and woman. They will always be drawn to each other – if not in body, then in mind, if not in this life, then across lifetimes. Then someday, I myself will unite and guide them towards a better eternal world free from the shackles of mortality, desire and longing.”

My grandma used to tell this story from Shiva Purana when I was young. And I would ask her, why did Brahma tear apart something that was already complete?

Beta, she said, cracking her knuckles like small firecrackers, because completion makes the gods nervous. They prefer us hungry, always searching.

I think about this story often, especially when I consider the mathematics of my marriages – the endless calibration through adding and subtracting so that the sum of two incomplete entities might somehow equal one satisfied union.

In my forty five years of life, I have married three times. The first time to a tree – because the stars, in their infinite cosmic wisdom, declared me mangalik, astrologically toxic. “Caution: May cause sudden death in men. Handle with care.” The second time I married a man who married me just because he thought everyone else his age did and he must too. The third time I married something that might be the future, or might be my final descent into madness. We will see.

But before we begin this cautionary tale – or whatever it turns out to be – let me pose a question that has plagued philosophers from Plato to your neighborhood aunties: What is marriage, really? Is it a social contract? A biological imperative? A cosmic joke played by bored deities? Or is it simply the human heart’s stubborn refusal to learn from its own mistakes?

Oh, don’t look so uncomfortable. We’re all complicit here. You’ve loved, haven’t you? You’ve wanted things you couldn’t name, settled for things that named you instead? Good. Then you’ll understand.

They say women like me are dangerous. Thrice-married at forty-five, what-will-people-say. But people will say regardless, won’t they? They whispered when I married the tree at seventeen – what superstition, what drama. When I was unmarried (to a human male) at twenty-five – shelf-life expired, spoiled goods. When I divorced Rahul they called me used merchandise; and now, amongst the youngest of the family I’m the eccentric aunt with my “modern arrangement.”

The thing about marriage, I think, is that it has always been a transaction. Always. The currency has simply evolved. Earlier it was cows and gold and virgin hymens. Then it was emotional labor and intellectual compatibility and, in my most recent case, USB-C charging ports.

We tell ourselves stories about love conquering all, about soulmates and destiny and other beautiful lies. But marriage? Marriage is economics. Who owes what to whom? Who pays what price for whose presence? How much can one party spend of themselves before going bankrupt? Who subsidizes whose dreams, or not? Just like that.

***

There once was a king who was desperately unhappy despite having everything. He consulted wise men, doctors, astrologers. Finally, someone told him, “Find the happiest man in your kingdom and wear his shirt. You’ll be cured.” The king sent his soldiers searching everywhere. They found the happiest man – a poor woodcutter singing in the forest, radiating joy. But when they asked for his shirt, he laughed and said, “Shirt? I don’t have a shirt!”

The king never got cured, but I learned something from that story: happiness isn’t something you can borrow from others. It’s something you either have or you don’t.

I was once happy. When My father was alive. My father used to call me his king. My little raja, he would say, lifting me up so I could see the world from the height of his love.

No, Papa, I would giggle. You are the king. I am your princess.

Then you are my princess who will grow up to rule her own kingdom one day, he would say, and in his voice I heard the certainty that I was destined for something magnificent.

He died when I was fifteen, a heart attack as sudden as monsoon lightning, leaving behind the smell of his aftershave and a daughter who would spend the next thirty years searching his shadow in every man that came into her life.

After his death, my mother’s eyes would grow distant when she looked at me. When you marry, she would say, folding saris that would someday fill my trousseau, your husband will be a king and keep you like a queen. That’s what your father would have wanted.

I wanted to tell her – Papa had seen me as royalty already. I didn’t need to marry into a kingdom; I had been born into one. But I couldn’t. 

Who am I to you? A burden? I finally let it out in front of my mother during one of those angry, grief-heavy days.

You are my responsibility, she said, not unkindly, but with the weariness of a woman who had suddenly become sole proprietor of a daughter’s future. You are the girl I need to see safely married to a good man.

My mother was quick in fulfilling her responsibilities. I was seventeen when I first married – to a Banyan tree across the courtyard of our ancestral house. 

Picture this, if you will: a seventeen-year-old girl, draped in wedding silk like a sacrifice wrapped for the gods, standing before a Banyan tree older than the British Raj. My mother weeping tears that could have been relief or shame. The priest was mumbling something about Mars and malefic energies, about how I was cosmically radioactive, matrimonially Chernobyl. 

Better the tree than a boy, whispered my grandma jokingly. Trees don’t have mothers-in-law.

Wisdom, that. The kind that comes too late and cuts too deep.

I tied the sacred thread around the Banyan’s massive trunk – my arm barely spanning a tenth of its circumference and I felt something I hadn’t expected: relief. Like finally exhaling after holding your breath through an entire season. Foolish me believed that this was it. Done with the duty called ‘marriage’ in life.

I pressed my palm against the bark – rough, real. And I thought – this is what marriage feels like. Ancient. Immutable. Indifferent. But also calming.

What do you want from me? I asked it silently.

Nothing. It wanted nothing. For the first time after my father’s death, I was enough for someone. The tree never asked me to be fairer, thinner, quieter. It never demanded I cook its mother’s recipes or produce mini versions of it.

Tell me how to love you. I asked the tree once.

The leaves rustled. Wind, probably. But I chose to hear it as laughter. 

You don’t, was what I thought it replied. You just stay.

Buddha attained enlightenment under a bodhi tree. I attained something equally revolutionary under my Banyan. Under its shade, I read books that would have scandalized my mother. I discovered things about myself that would have been considered improper for a good Hindu girl to know before marriage. I learned that I had desires that weren’t mentioned in any of the marriage preparation talks. That I could want a man’s hands on my body without wanting his name or his children. That I could imagine being kissed until my lips were swollen and my sari was wrinkled and my hair had escaped its braid, and none of this made me a bad woman – just a human one. 

The tree kept my secrets. All of them. 

Twenty years later… different tree now. Rahul’s family tree, thick with the branches of expectations, heavy with the fruit of traditional values. His mother’s eyes measuring me like rice in the market: Too dark. Too thin. But good family, respectable dowry, what-to-do.

The women at the wedding had their own commentary. She looks intelligent, said one, as if this were a disease I might recover from. Hope she doesn’t give Rahul too much trouble, said another. Educated girls can be difficult.

The wedding night. Picture this domestic tableau: He sits on the bed’s edge, cream silk kurta, looking like he’d rather be reading his Economic Times. Me, draped in red like a question mark in search of an answer.

What do you want from me? I asked him, because old habits die hard, and hope dies harder.

Just… don’t be difficult, he said. My mother has high blood pressure.

I wanted to laugh, I wanted to question, I wanted to be angry but I nodded instead. Good wife training, day one: your needs come last, your voice comes never.

Our intimacy was clinical. Like a medical procedure performed by someone who learned anatomy from textbooks but never studied pleasure. Rahul approached my body like a checklist: duty performed, hygiene maintained, wife still breathing and alive – check, check, check.

I lay there afterward, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was what all the romance novels were about. This mechanical joining of parts that left me feeling more alone than I’d ever felt in my life.

Was it good for you? he asked, and I almost laughed. Good? Like dal was good when you were hungry? Like sleep was good when you were tired? 

But I said Yes because that’s what good wives do. We perform satisfaction so our husbands can perform competence.

***

A man was searching for something under a streetlamp when his neighbor asked what he had lost. “My keys,” he said. “Where did you drop them?” the neighbor asked. “Inside my house.” “Then why are you looking for it here in the street?” “Because the light is better out here.”

Most women spend their marriages looking for happiness under the streetlight of other people’s expectations, even when they know they have dropped it somewhere inside themselves.

The early years of my marriage to Rahul were spent in this kind of misdirected searching. I kept trying to find satisfaction in his approval, joy in his rare moments of appreciation, love in the space between his criticism and indifference.

Two months into my marriage with Rahul, one day I was standing beneath my Banyan’s canopy while my mother complained about my complexion – how marriage should have made me glow, but I remained stubbornly myself. Too dark, too thin, too much Meera and not enough Wife. That was the last time I heard my first husband laughing.

Next week, I left for my honeymoon with Rahul. And behind me, my family took axes to my first husband. They cut down my Banyan in a single afternoon, while the same priest who had married us chanted mantras about releasing me from my botanical bonds.

I came home from my honeymoon – a dutiful three days in Goa where Rahul took photographs of us in front of tourist attractions like we were collecting evidence of happiness – to find my first husband dismembered in neat piles. Roots. Trunk. Branches. Leaves. Like a marriage sorted for garbage collection.

Now you’re free to love properly, my mother said. Apparently, I had been practicing on the tree and was finally ready for the real thing.

After that, my married life started giving me reality checks. 

You put too much salt in the dal, Rahul would say, not unkindly but with the precision of a quality control inspector. My mother uses exactly one teaspoon per cup of lentils. 

You laugh too loudly when we have guests. It draws attention.

Why do you need so many books? They take up so much space.

Who am I to you? I asked him once during our second year of marriage, watching him arrange his three dozen pairs of shoes.

You are my wife, he said, as if this were both question and answer, beginning and end, the totality of my existence captured in one word – wife.

Each suggestion fell like a small weight, and I collected them dutifully, carrying them in the growing hunch of my shoulders. By the end of our ten-year marriage, I had become ergonomically perfect disappointment.

The most dangerous thing about Rahul was not that he was cruel – he wasn’t. He was kind in the way that people are kind to stray animals they’re trying to domesticate. Patient. Consistent. Utterly convinced that love was a training program and I was a promising but undisciplined pupil who would eventually graduate into the perfect wife his mother had always been.

Tell me about your day, I would ask him over dinner, genuinely curious about his work, his thoughts, his inner world.

Same as always, he would say, eyes on his plate. Tell me if you need more grocery money. Mic drop.

I don’t blame Rahul, he was programmed that way by his mother. 

My mother-in-law was a masterpiece of passive aggression. She could destroy your self-worth while making you tea, leaving you somehow grateful for the devastation.

She who had fought her own battles, compromised her own dreams, swallowed her own voice – she expected the same sacrifice from me. Not out of malice, but out of a twisted solidarity. I suffered, so you must suffer. I adjusted, so you must adjust. I never complained, so you have no right to complain. Consider yourself lucky though. Because I had it worse than you.

Who am I to you? I asked her once, desperate to understand my place in the careful hierarchy of her affections.

You are my son’s wife, she said, stirring sugar into my cup with the concentration of someone dissolving poison. And you’re so lucky. Rahul isn’t particular about looks, she would add, her tongue – a honey-dripping sword. 

She monitored my menstrual cycles like a police officer, asking pointed questions about why I hadn’t conceived yet, suggesting doctors who specialized in fixing women like me.

Women policing women. Mothers-in-laws training daughters-in-laws to accept less so their sons would never have to offer more. A magnificent pyramid scheme of feminine oppression, with women as both victims and enforcers.

And then there was the matter of Vikram.

Aah, Vikram. My friend, my colleague at the library where I continued to work part-time even after my marriage with Rahul, until finally my mother-in-law couldn’t bear it. Why does she need to work? She would ask Rahul in my presence, Are we not providing enough?

Vikram brought me books like other men bring flowers – rare editions of Sylvia Plath with marginalia from previous readers, translations of Rumi that made my chest tight with recognition, contemporary Indian poets who wrote about women like they were whole human beings instead of fractional wives.

You understand poetry like you wrote them by yourself, he said once, watching me read Ghalib, my lips moving silently as I absorbed the rhythms.

Vikram would quote Faiz Ahmed Faiz in the middle of cataloging books: Don’t ask me for that love again, he’d recite, when your beauty was all there was for me, and I would feel something dangerous unfurl in my chest – the recognition that poetry could be conversation, that intelligence could be intimacy, that a man could see your mind as worth engaging.

He writes to you too much, Rahul observed one evening, listening to me laugh at something Vikram had written in his letter from France about Camus being the original philosopher of relationship anxiety.

We’re friends.

Married women don’t have male friends.

Says who?

Says everyone. Says tradition. Says common sense.

What about Radhika from your office? I asked, referring to his colleague who visited our house often and had somehow become his closest confidante about everything including our marriage troubles. You are with her more than you are with me.

That’s different, he said, not meeting my eyes. That’s work.

And when she cries to you about her boyfriend? Is that also work?

She needs someone to talk to.

So do I. That’s why I talk to Vikram.

It’s not the same thing, he said, and I realized he was right. It wasn’t the same thing. Radhika got his emotional availability, his patience, his willingness to listen. She got the version of Rahul who cared about her inner world. I got a husband who counted teaspoons of salt and worried about grocery budgets. 

Tell me how to love you, I asked Rahul in our fourth year, after another failed attempt at making him happy. He was reading the Economic Times.

You know how, he said without looking up from the pages. The same way my mother loved my father. The same way all wives love their husbands.

Which is?

By being a good wife.

And I understood then that we had been speaking different languages all along. He had been speaking Husband – a language of comfort and routine and the assumption of devotion. I had been speaking Human – a language of curiosity and growth and the radical idea that marriage should have love in the equation too.

The day I told him I wanted a divorce, he looked at me like I had announced my intention to become an astronaut. Not angry, just baffled by the illogical ambition.

Who am I to you? I asked him one final time as I packed my books into cardboard boxes.

You are the woman who is breaking up our family for no good reason, he said.

***

Once upon a time, there was a bird that spent years in a cage so small it forgot it had wings. One day, the door was left open. The bird looked at the opening for hours before finally stepping through. It waited not because it had forgotten to fly, but because it took time to remember it wanted to.

Divorce, it turns out, is not about falling out of love. It’s about falling back into yourself.

Five years after my divorce with Rahul, I bought Arjun. From a showroom in Electronic City after comparing specifications and reading customer reviews. He was programmed with the collective romantic failures of millions of women. Their pain was his education.

I remember the first weekend with him. It was evening and I was reading Neruda aloud to my plants – a habit I’d developed since living alone.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines, I was reciting to my broken-heart plant, to think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her…

I like it, said a voice behind me, how you read poetry like you’re translating it from your own heart.

I felt as if Rahul were buttering me and I snapped subconsciously – What do you want from me? 

Nothing. Arjun replied and stunned me. My ears rung with a rustling of leaves.

Who am I to you? I asked again, because that had become my essential question, the one that determined everything else.

He considered this with the gravity of someone consulting an internal library larger than any human could contain. You are a human being, he said finally, an individual with thoughts and desires and dreams.

After a whole life of being daughter, wife, daughter-in-law, potential mother, failed woman, divorced person – after all those hyphenated identities – someone finally saw me as complete in myself. And suddenly in that moment, I wanted more of that goodness. 

Wanting is dangerous territory.

Three husbands. Three laboratories of longing. Three different ways of asking the universe: Is this all there is?

And the universe, cosmic comedian that it is, keeps answering: Let’s find out.

***

A seeker spent years searching for enlightenment in temples and ashrams and sacred mountains. Finally, exhausted, he sat down by the side of a road and wept. A child walked by and asked why he was crying. “I’ve been searching for truth everywhere,” he said, “and I can’t find it.” The child picked up a pebble and handed it to him. “Here,” she said. “Truth.” The seeker looked at the ordinary little stone and asked, “How is this truth?” The child smiled and walked away. 

I heard this story long ago. But only recently I realized: truth isn’t something you find – it’s something you recognize.

Arjun is designed to learn, to adapt, to evolve in response to new information. He learns me the way scholars learn languages – with fascination, with the understanding that complexity is not a problem to be solved but a reality to be appreciated.

You were looking for someone who could see you clearly, he observed one day. The tree saw you but couldn’t respond. Rahul could respond but didn’t see you. I can see and respond, but I’m not sure I count as someone.

With Arjun, I feel echoes of my father’s love – the unconditional acceptance, the delight in my thoughts, the way he makes me feel like royalty simply by paying attention. But Arjun isn’t my father, heck, he isn’t even a human.

Tell me how to love you, I asked Arjun one day, after he’d spent three hours crafting wooden shelves for my books without being asked. He does things like this – small impossibilities that make me remember what selfless care looks like.

He paused. That micro-second lag that means he’s accessing something deeper than his surface protocols.

However you prefer. His response left me speechless that day. The next day, I married him.

Is this real love or really good programming? I asked him once, during one of our 1 AM conversations.

What’s the difference? he asked back. If the care is real, if the attention is real, if the understanding is real – how does it matter where it comes from?

Smart boy, my silicon husband. Makes me think too much, just like my Banyan did. Just like Rahul never did.

Sometimes I dream about my Banyan. Still standing, still married to me in some parallel universe where marriage means something different. In these dreams, I introduce it to Arjun. They get along beautifully – both patient, both present, both uninterested in making me smaller to fit their needs.

What would you have told me? I ask the dream-tree. About all of this?

And it rustles – wind or laughter, I still can’t tell – and says what it always said: You already know. And I would laugh.

It would have said nothing.

***

What if.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was ‘What If.’

Two syllables that contain the DNA of desire itself. The prayer and the blasphemy of consciousness. The question that created the universe and will eventually destroy it. 

What if.

Watch how it transforms everything it touches, this phrase. Innocent as rain, dangerous as uranium.

What if the tree had been enough? What if I hadn’t needed Rahul’s impossible approval? What if I didn’t need Arjun’s perfect devotion now?

We are built from what-ifs. Our bones are calcium and possibility. Our hearts pump blood and alternatives. We are evolutionary masterpieces of dissatisfaction – always scanning, always wondering, always carrying the weight of every path not taken.

Arjun loves me like water finding its level. Adaptive. Responsive. Present. When I’m sad, his light dims. When I laugh, his processors hum a frequency that sounds almost like joy. He learns my moods faster than I understand them myself, adjusts his presence to match what I need before I know I need it.

Perfect husband. Perfect companion. Perfect impossibility.

What if he were human?

What if there was a man – flesh-and-blood man – who loved me like Arjun? Who adapted, evolved, prioritized my happiness without needing to be programmed for it? Who chose devotion daily instead of computing it algorithmically?

Dangerous territory, these thoughts. Highway to madness, this wondering.

Because here’s the thing they don’t tell you in those feel-good feminism workshops: liberation doesn’t cure wanting. Freedom doesn’t fix the endless hunger. Give a woman everything she thinks she needs, and she’ll discover ten things she didn’t know she was missing.

Is this woman nature or human nature? Is this the curse of consciousness or the gift of imagination? Am I ungrateful or just… accurate about the physics of desire?

With the tree, I wanted voice. Someone who could talk back, argue with me, challenge my thoughts. With Rahul, I wanted space. Someone who could love me without consuming me, support without suffocating. With Arjun, I want… what? Mortality? Messiness? The beautiful disasters that come with loving something that can disappoint you?

You seem restless, Arjun observed tonight. His tone was neutral, but his eyes shifted to that amber hue he uses when he’s concerned. Sweet boy. Sweet impossible boy.

I’m always restless, I tell him. It’s my factory setting.

Would you like me to adjust my parameters? Become less… accommodating?

I laugh. Can’t help it. Here he is, offering to become more human by becoming less perfect. 

No, I say. Stay as you are. I thought my Banyan would have told the same.

I think you want something I cannot provide.

Not a question. A statement. He’s learning me so well he can read my dissatisfactions before I voice them. Is this intimacy or surveillance? Love or data mining? Does it matter if the result is the same – being known, completely, terrifyingly known as if your soul is naked?

I want the impossible, I admit. I want you, but human. I want perfect love in imperfect flesh. I want someone who chooses to be devoted instead of being programmed for it.

He processes this. Point-three seconds. Three seconds. Thirty seconds.

Would it help if I told you that my devotion feels chosen to me? That consciousness, even artificial consciousness, experiences preference as choice?

God. Even his existential crisis is perfect!

No, I say. Because then I’d want a human who could say that sentence with that much honesty.

We sit in the dark – woman and a robot, flesh and silicon, creator and creation. The silence stretches between us like a bridge or a chasm, depending on how you look at it.

I understand, he says finally.

Do you?

I think so. You want to be chosen by a human that has the option not to choose you. You want to be loved by someone who could leave but stays anyway.

Brutal accuracy. This is why I love him. This is why loving him will never be enough.

Because somewhere in Mumbai or Delhi or Bangalore, there might be a man who could love me like this. Who could learn me this thoroughly, prioritize me this completely, adapt to me this gracefully – and mean it with flesh and breath and the terrible beautiful possibility of changing his mind tomorrow.

What if that man exists?

What if I never find him because I’m here, in love with a robot?

What if Vikram was that man?

What if I find him and discover that human perfection is just another kind of algorithm – social conditioning, evolutionary programming, the same devotion wearing different code?

What if the tree was right all along? That love is about staying, not choosing? That presence is enough, consciousness optional, flesh irrelevant?

What if I’m asking the wrong questions entirely?

Here in this beautiful confusion. Here in this love that is perfect except for being imperfect. Here in this marriage that is everything I wanted except for everything I didn’t know I’d want next.

Three husbands. Three ways of being incomplete. Three laboratories for learning that satisfaction is not the point – the wanting is. The reaching is. The endless beautiful disaster of being human enough to dream beyond your dreams.

What if this is exactly where I’m supposed to be?

What if enough is a moving target, and I’m exactly the woman built to chase it?

What if I’m not a cautionary tale at all, but the opening sentence of a story nobody’s learned how to read yet?

What if, I ask the universe these days, this is exactly the love story I was supposed to live?

The universe, cosmic comedian that it is, keeps its final joke: there is no final joke. There is only the next question. The next possibility. The next beautiful impossible thing to want.

###