iii/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

ELEVEN: A Zero-Sum Name
TWELVE: The Small Bachelor with Big Money
THIRTEEN: Guerrilla Blues
FOURTEEN: Artificial Reality


A Zero-Sum Name 

The girl said, ‘Nothing is strange in this world if people can name a hill as Taumatawhakatangihangaoauauotameteaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu.’ The boy said, ‘Nothing’s really strange but how do you explain Los Angeles’s full name? El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciuncula? It is even strange how they can tell that its abbreviated form, LA, is 3.63% of the original full name!’ The girl said, ‘I take back my word. Who in the God’s ass can name a place as Thinungei or Khonghaampat? Everything is so strange.’

The Small Bachelor with Big Money
For PG Wodehouse

Around Blandings Castle, William Tell Spoke Again about Quick Service and the Joy in the Morning. He said it’s The Mating Season of the Bachelors Anonymous and The Cabaret Girl and Jill the Reckless and Piccadilly Jim and Bill the Conqueror and Sam the Sudden and Doctor Sally and Psmith. I’m unsure whether he was high on Laughing Gas or under the spell of The Code of the Woosters or he ate just too much Eggs, Beans and Crumpets. He said he was A Gentleman of Leisure but got The Heart of a Goof. To me, he’s always The Small Bachelor with Big Money.

Guerrilla Blues

The rebel had been swimming, head inside the water, along one of the ubiquitous 10-feet wide rivers in Imphal valley. His leader had been convincing how he should once in a while—duck out of the water—to tickle the ass of the establishment. Out of the water once in a while there can be fishing, dinner parties and a review of the action plan of revolution for morale’s sake. One evening, the rebel was hanging a red star on a banyan tree to commemorate his organisation’s golden jubilee celebration when the police appeared out of nowhere and nabbed him.

Artificial Reality

We are alone together. That’s the battle cry of living in a metro. People are worried when they have no anxiety. In similar places elsewhere, they say the book on The Guinness Book of Records holds the record for being the most stolen book in public libraries. This is the place where the Guy Fawkes and Robinhoods are born. Oxymorons and ironies everywhere—while the kind of living as well as making a living would beat a sophisticated robot hands down. But I live here. I fight with the robots daily in the same pathetic ways as we mourn for the daily death back in my hometown.


A bar. Thousands of glasses: Collins’, dizzy cocktails’, shots’, highballs’ and steins’. Thousands of bottles: whisky and rum and vodka and gin and brandy and beer. When the old man was running his eyes over the shelf out of boredom, he found Manipur. He saw men of unknown faces in their occupational uniforms with large visible price tags pinned on their collars: A million for sub-inspectors; two for inspectors and three for deputies. A million for junior doctors and two for the seniors. He brought home two bottles of whisky, a police inspector and a gastroenterologist.



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