Friday, June 20, 2014

Bellhop (Flash Fiction)

found on google images


“Here, just give it to the bellboy,” Thom fished in his pocket and drew out a scrap of folded paper. “Hurry now, would you?”

His niece looked at him, then at his hand and rolled her eyes as she took the proffered tip. “He’s not even here helping us,” she complained. “Why do we have to tip him?”

“Because he’s not the bellboy, he’s our bodyguard. Now go and give it to him. The one with the scar at the desk. If I go, they’ll know something’s up. Hurry.”

His niece hesitated for a moment, then turned towards the reception desk. “You’ll still be here, right?” she asked.

“Of course I will,” he lied. “I would never leave you alone.”

(c) Sara Harricharan

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Duct (Flash Fiction)

found on google images


They put me in the air duct.

The one between the kitchen and the library. A piece of burlap was thrown over the top, so I could see out and no one could see in. I had to hide, you see, because no one could know I existed. My existence was wrong. Terrible. Horrible. Never should have happened.

At least, that’s what they told me.

I’m scared. So very scared. I can’t stand to be found. I can’t find be hidden. I’m afraid to live and I’m terrified to die.

Terrified. Scared. Afraid. I don’t know. This is confusing.

I’m not sure when I started asking them to hide me, but I wish that I hadn’t.

(c) Sara Harricharan

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Billiards (Flash Fiction)

found on google images


Allen leveraged himself up onto the billiard table, careful to keep one foot touching the ground. he tried not to make a face at the mess of colored balls scattered across the table top. Personally, this wasn’t his favorite version of the game.

His version usually involved a lot more personal space and sharp things. Very sharp things.

“Keep your elbow down, darling,” Veronica said, touching his arm as she glided past. Her hand settled on the crook of his elbow, then dropped down to smooth over his thigh as she maintained her perfect hostess smile.

He lowered his elbow a fraction of an inch and resisted the urge to scowl at her. “Is the coffee ready or did I miss something?”

“You didn’t miss a thing,” Veronica’s smile morphed into a smirk. “And you’re really not going to hit anything like that.”

“I’m not trying to,” Allen stopped. He aimed at the nearest pocket and jabbed the cue stick awkwardly in that direction. He felt the whistle of the wind right before he saw the actual result.

The dainty scone knife was buried in the face of the panicking Gareth and all the other players had instantly drawn their weapons.

Allen rolled off the edge of the table and snatched the gun from his ankle holster. Veronica joined him on the carpet, her eyes alight with an eerie blue fire. “You could have warned me!” he hissed.

“Oh but darling, it’s glorious!” She looped one arm through his. “I know you hate playing billiards, so don’t make such a face. They can’t see us anymore anyway.

(c) Sara Harricharan

Monday, June 16, 2014

Cornered (Flash Fiction)

found on Google Images


“This way, this way!” The officer shouted. He scrambled over the trash cans in the back alley and pushed off against the brick wall of the buildings. He ignored the narrowing of the space and continued on, listening for the frantic footsteps of his quarry.

“I see her, she’s here!” Another shout came from off to his left. “She’s in sight!”

“Take her down!” The cheif’s voice crackled through the shared communicators. “I want her dead, do you hear me? Take her down!”

The officer skidded around the corner and came to an abrupt halt. He felt something slam into his throat and his head smacked into the brick wall, hard enough to send stars dancing through his vision. He sucked in a breath and shoved back, shaking his head to clear it, and lashing out with his free hand.

A soft grunt met his ears, right before a sharp kick to the legs and a heavy weight bowled him over from behind. He lay sprawled on the floor, aware that there were no others present, no backup in sight and the alley was very dark and very small.

“Did your brains catch up to you yet?” The woman asked, hefting a brick in her hand. There was a dark smirk on her face. “That’s alright, doesn’t really matter to me either way.” She approached him, the smirk becoming more twisted. “What was that he said? Cheif Holding said–ah yes, kill her? Don’t spare her? Don’t stop to listen to what she might have to say about corrupt badges parading around and handing out tainted justice?” She laughed, loud and mocking.

“D-delia…” the officer gasped. “Please don’t do this.”

“Oh, lovey,” Delia crooned. “I don’t want to do this, but you’re not giving me a choice.”

“You sold us out!” he cried, desperately. “You’re a traitor!”

Delia dropped to a crouch beside him and gently rested the brick on his buzzing head. “So you think I’m a rat?”

“They–they have evidence.”

“A cornered rat, always bites back,” Delia said, sadly. “Congratulations–I’m cornered.”

(c) Sara Harricharan

A/N: This was just working off the prompt of cornered. It's not a part of anything larger at the moment and it was written in three minutes

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Dear Dad (short story)

found on google images

Dear Dad,

Happy birthday! It’s me. Your favorite (and only!) daughter. I was thinking about you last night and trying to write a matching poem for your card. You'd better like it, it took forever to rhyme. 

I kept remembering all these crazy memories instead, so as a birthday present, I’m going to list them for you. Ready? 

First, remember the day we were fixing the front porch? I was holding the light for you and talking about everything I did that week, including my newest story. You weren’t really paying attention and just for a laugh I said. “So I can keep on talking and you’ll never hear a word I say, right?” And you said. “Right. Hand me that screwdriver.” 

Second-That one time I went with you to work and you forgot your cell phone, I told you to “Call home and tell mom to bring it.” We laughed halfway to work. 

Happy memories, huh? I finally upgraded my driver’s license. The picture came out good and they finally took off that little red bar that says “under 21”. I never would’ve gotten it without you. Thanks for taking the time to teach me to drive. 

I remember my first time driving. I was so scared. You weren’t helping much either when you kept pointing out everything on the road. For example, the dead can and leaf.

And the first time I went to get you coffee? I was terrified I’d plow right into the side of McDonald’s. I was in such a hurry to get going, I forgot to say hi to the girl who took my change and couldn’t hold all the creamer in one hand, so I dumped it on the passenger seat. This, in case you’re wondering, is the reason you stepped on one the next day. Afterwards, I had to park in a corner to get my nerves under control. I was shaking so bad-it was ridiculous. All for a cup of coffee. 

Remember the first time you taught me to make instant? You told me to use your favorite cup, heat it for a minute and a half. Get the coffee and add a half teaspoon and stir. Check the color. Add another half teaspoon and stir again. It should be black and then add the creamer. 

I did exactly what you told me, except for the coffee didn’t get very black, so I had to keep adding more. I guess I got it backwards though, because I only put in two spoonfuls of creamer and that made it turn a nice brown. No wonder you said it was three cups in one. 

Oh, and that quiz. The one that said you were a lion for leadership and managing skills. I really thought I would be just like you and instead I turned out to be a beaver. Which meant I was a perfectionist and liked things to follow in a logical order. 

I guess that’s kind of like when people tell me I look like you. Sometimes I think it’s a compliment. And then I remember it’s because we work so well together. 

Anyway, this letter is turning into my latest novel. I’ll end it here and wish I was there to help eat your cake (and the frosting!).


Your dearest, darling daughter,


(c) Sara Harricharan 
A/N: This is a "repost" from an old FWC entry for the topic of "humor" in honor of Father's Day for my Dad--who did actually warn me about a dead leaf during those long-ago days of driving school. ^_^

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Instigator : Snippet Prompt


“Well, obviously, he’s the instigator,” Alven tipped his head to the side, his fiery eyes gleaming. “Don’t you agree, Cameron?”

Cameron shifted uncomfortably, his blue-eyed gaze never lifting to reach Terrance’s silver ones. “You probably should just let it go,” he muttered.

“Did you say something?” Alven countered, pleasantly.

Cameron made a sound in his throat, part frustration, part annoyance. “You have a difference of opinion, let’s leave it at that,” he snapped. “Let’s go.”

“I’m not ready to go,” Alven said. He glared at his friend even as his russet hair burst into the characteristic flames of his fire element. “I’m definitely not ready to go. Because for a moment, it sounded like you were suggesting that we run away with our tails between our legs.”

“Look, Lathmore may not be paying attention or maybe the kid isn’t ratting you out, but if you do this–on the grounds of-”

“On the grounds that he’s an annoying little-”

(c) S Harricharan

A/N: I'm using the characters from my Twilight Trial universe here, between three characters, Alven(fire), Cameron(water) and Terrance (Metal). They're about to get into a fight. Happy weekend!

Friday, June 13, 2014

Watchtower (Flash Fiction)

found on google images


"Get to the watchtower, the watchtower!" The field general barked. He threw a hasty glance over one shoulder, sending a silent prayer heavenward that his wife and daughter would have taken advantage of the precious few minutes his regiment had gained for the civilians to escape to the craggy, cruel mountains.

Crusted in snow-blown ice and carved by nature herself, these mountains were nestled at the far end of their little trading town and at the very top, with a spire worthy of a church and jagged, barbed points, the watchtower held the ghost of a guardian from an age long ago.

"Sir, hurry!" his aide appeared beside him, a glowing blue transportation orb in his outstretched hand. "The others are coming, but if we don't have you, we'll fall." He shoved the glowing ball into the general's hands. "Get!"

The general bit back the words in his throat and opted to simply give the aide ad pat on the shoulder as he accepted the ball of light. There was a burning sensation in his hands, even though the armored gloves, before a painful, searing sensation ripped through his entire body.

When the pain subsided, he gasped in great gulps of icy air and looked around to see where the orb had brought him. The wispy strands of whiteness glistened in the faded afternoon sunlight as the general straightened in a mixture of awe and shock.

The watchtower.

It had brought him to the watchtower.

(c) Sara Harricharan

Sunday, June 8, 2014

To Write Courage In Her Heart (Short Story)

Maya Angelou

I cried when Maya Angelou died. 

It was as if I’d woken to some terrible dystopian reality. The news stared blankly at me from my cellphone screen. Her news. Her death. 

I got out of bed. 

Shoving my feet into slippers and my arms into my fuzzy bathrobe, I stumbled out of my bedroom and into my empty apartment. 

I went straight to my workstation, snapping the laptop out of standby and turning on the hot water maker. I filled my chipped mug with steaming liquid and padded back to my digital lifeline. 

Article after article. Essay after essay. Poem after Poem. Memory. 

One memory. 

I read until my stomach growled. I drank more water and I wrote a blog post. I tried to say things in the same, beautiful way that Maya had. I had to pay tribute in the only way I knew. 

Snatches of memory danced through my head. The first time I heard her name. The first time I read her work. The first time I heard her voice. The first time I saw her face. 

What a contrast! What an inspiration. What a phenomenal woman. 

The blog post was written too soon. I had so much to say for my poor, humble little tribute. My fingers quivered, my hands shook. My third cup of hot water turned lukewarm. I sat in my desk chair, long after I’d hit the published button.

I thought back to that first memory. To the moment where my world had grown beyond the confines of my mind, because of those beautiful words, raw and evocative, meaningful and painful, had stabbed through my very soul. 

Attending classes had been exquisitely excruciating. I was too shy to sit in the front. Too quiet to answer any question. Too nervous to defend my own work. Too afraid to be right and wrong. 

There was little place for someone like me, a slip of a shadow that barely understood what her sun was. I just wanted to survive, to finish and to fade away, a nameless echo, without any trouble, struggle or interruption. 

I wanted to be a ghost of myself, because it was safest. 

But Maya…

She made me want more. To want to stand up and live strong. To be proud of myself and what I’d done. To be braver than I’d ever been. I recited her poems from heart, because I read them so much. Her words buried themselves in my hurts and soothed them all away. 

Be strong. They told me. Stand tall.

I went to sit in front of the apartment door. I let my head rest against the cool metal and I listened to my neighbors. How they walked across the hall, went up and down the stairs, laughing and talking with each other. 

How they lived. 

I waited for tears that wouldn’t come—yet. 

When the ache in my head matched the one in my heart, I gave in. I clasped my hands together. I prayed. Angry, hurt and hurting, I spoke to my forever friend.

It hurts—it hurts—it aches. She didn’t know I existed, but she was my friend. I'll miss her. You gave her words. Thank you. When I read her work, courage imprinted itself in my veins. Thank you. For giving me an example of someone who had the strength to make something of her life Thank you.

I cried. 

Silent tears, hunched shoulders, head pressed to that hard, cold door. I thought of that first, beautiful memory. The moment when I realized that beauty could be broken, but still beautiful. That poetry was more than mere rhymes. 

Maya, who wielded her God-given talent like a true wordsmith. Her words wrapped around me. Her memory settled. 

In a little while, I would play ‘Gulf Coast Highway’ on my laptop. I would sing every word, stuttering lisp and all. I would take the voice that was mine to celebrate her life for all she was to me, a friend, a mentor, an inspiration. 

That’s what friends were for. To lift you up when you wanted to crumble. To stand beside you when your knees buckled. That’s what Maya had done for a timid, invisible girl like me. 

I would let her memory rise and take comfort in her legacy. I would stand tall and follow her example to leave a mark behind in the best possible way, reaching out to someone who didn’t know they needed it. That’s what I would do.

(c) Sara Harricharan 

A/N: this was submitted to the FWC for the topic of "Bestie" it ranked 13 out of 52 total entries and is less than 750 words. Maya was an amazing writer and a significant inspiration to me. This story is my tribute to her--she was truly a phenomenal woman. Thanks for reading!