ii/iii 15 Days of Fiction: The Minimal Stream of Consciousness

A collection of 15 micro-stories of nearly 100 words, which I scribbled one story a day during Nov–Dec 2015; inspired by Susannah Breslin’s 30 Days of Fiction


SIX: The First Fix Is the Deepest
SEVEN: The Firstest with the Mostest
EIGHT: Mission Unaccomplished
NINE: The Boy Who Became a Bottle
TEN: Of Observers and the Observed

i/iii 15 Days of Fiction: The Minimal Stream of Consciousness
iii/iii 15 Days of Fiction: The Minimal Stream of Consciousness

The First Fix Is the Deepest

Mr Husband cannot afford to get up alone—it was as always killing. When Mrs Wife got up, he only wished the stuff should not be diluted like the previous day. Mr Husband had tea and a cigarette; Mrs Wife had tea and chewing tobaccos. Mr Husband and Mrs Wife left home for the ghetto. Mr Husband loitered around the sinus-friendly alleys while Mrs Wife went for her first ‘go’ inside a shack that reeks of urine. Fifteen minutes later, Mrs Wife appeared to Mr Husband’s delight and they had the first shot of heroin for the day. Mr Husband left gladly, dreamily, while Mrs Wife re-applied her red-hot lipstick and eyeliner over her junky-doe eyes.  

The Firstest with the Mostest

In films, the police always arrive at a crime scene when everything is over; but in the valley of Meetheebongtambaal, they get there before the crime. That’s the difference between real and reel lives. The police officers and the personnel wield the latest assault rifles and travel in groups like a pride of lions looking for the tastiest venison. In our valley, which is never short of crime, it is often a wonder how they are so quick. The next day’s paper front-page headline reads: ‘Police shot dead a schoolboy.’ Nobody knows how long had they been at the shooting spot before the murder.

Mission Waakok

The preparation was over for a military strike in a corner of Tamenglong. The 11th Regiment took the main position while focussing on Area Defence. It comprises four divisions with seven artillery units each. A helicopter arrived on the dot as the combat service support raised the black flag. The battle handover line (BHL) was still 7.56 miles away. As the helicopter took wing and soared closer towards the BHL, the grenadier heard some loud thuds. When the pilot steered, a group of teenagers in camouflage were struggling to hit the helicopter with their 15–20 feet long bamboo sticks. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!

The Boy Who Became a Bottle

The ten-year old child was lost: he didn’t know where he was, neither how he got there. He had a pale face and mumbled in a foreign language. After a tedious process of police complaint, taking him into police custody, informing the childcare committee and getting response from the committee, the child got a home. On the first day the caretaker spent five hours but it seemed the child, speaking nothing, had decided he would be what he’s made into. He would become a desk if he is asked to. A table. A window. Anything. He became a plastic bottle.

Of Observers and the Observed

The first thing Mr Editor ever did when he woke up was to check the day’s papers, especially which were not his. His paper, he can scan it in the toilet later. Every day’s literally eventful for him in his hometown where guns and bombs are as ordinary as the days and nights. People were envious of him for his widespread contacts. He had insiders everywhere who gave him verified exclusives and sometimes he’d just smell around and get to the day’s editorial. He confided to his subordinates that the trick lies in observation. Last night, he was shot dead.



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