By Prabhu Gowda
Lonelyville has rains all year round. Drizzles, just enough to keep our sadness from running dry. My father lived and died in infamy here; fifteen murders to his name.
“Sins are catching up with us,” my gran says. “Your father’s.”
Us apples, my brothers and I, fell far from the tree, albeit not far enough for the sight of his sins. Not a penny to our name, nothing on the horizon, and questions of a thousand dreams.
Every day after Bible reading, I step out and face the grey skies. I beseech for rains, heavier—enough to wash away our sins.
Very poetic. Beautifully told
Thank you, Mr. Hussain.
The journey of a thousand miles to escape our past begins with one simple step.
Indeed. Thank you.
Kind of has a parable feel to it …
Thank you.
It’s often sad how the past can so ruthlessly impact the present. Well written. Liked it a lot!
Thank you.
This is one of those rare 101s that is not only a story in itself, but seems to offer up a much wider picture of a situation that makes a reader want to know more and read on. Very well done!
Thank you, Alex.
You are another Coleridge
You’re too generous. Thank you for the overwhelming compliment, Mik.