Sunday, 5 April 2026

Yvonne - The Tennis player - short story

 



Yvonne got into the lift. The morning had been eventful. She had just finished playing tennis, and her body felt the aftereffects of the match. Benji, her tennis partner, had thought that since she had not had enough practice recently, he would win the match easily. Ha, she had proved him wrong, and he had to buy her lunch after the match. That had been their bet when he had boasted about winning before the match. Now, as she looked at her reflection in the mirror in the lift, she felt deeply satisfied with herself. The rest of their tennis group had cheered her on as Benji lost the three sets 3–6, 2–6, and 4–6.

She was now mentally noting that their next match as a group of friends would take place in two weeks. She really loved tennis and had always been passionate about the sport. Luckily, her car was still working fine, and she could drive herself to the club when needed. The car was getting old, and soon she would have to get it inspected and certified to be on the road for another year. She put the thought aside as the lift door opened, and she walked into the corridor she shared with her Indian neighbour. She wondered if the lady was at home, as she wanted to give the neighbour’s children the Easter eggs she had purchased for them.

The light in the corridor came on as she moved along, searching for her keys. She struggled to find them but finally did. She found herself mumbling as it was difficult to focus and fit the key into the slot. She thought it was probably the one cold beer she had had with her lunch that was playing tricks on her sight. As she struggled, the door across the corridor opened, and the Indian neighbour, who had heard her, asked if she was alright. Yvonne turned around and saw the lady standing there with one of her children just behind her. “Yes, yes,” she said, as she felt the key finally enter the slot and heard it turn.

When she got into her apartment, she stood at the doorway and told her neighbour, “I have something to give you later. I just came from tennis, so I need to freshen up a bit. Are you at home this afternoon?”

“Yes,” said the neighbour.

They both wished each other a good day and closed their doors. Yvonne placed her keys on the side table near the main door.

Once inside, the neighbour’s child asked her mother, “She still plays tennis?”

The mother replied, “Yes, she’s impressive, isn’t she? To still play at 89. What a woman!”

#strongwomen #womanlivingalone #independentwoman #independence #eastereggs

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The Old man in the metro - Fiction - Don't judge a book by its cover


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Friday, 3 April 2026

The Old man in the metro - Fiction - Don't judge a book by its cover

 

illustration by Carole Declerck


The old man entered the metro carriage with his cane. It was not very crowded at the moment, so he easily found a seat. Gilbert was now 81 years old. He had been lucky that all the escalators and lifts had worked as he made his way to the platform at the Gribaumont stop in Brussels. Sometimes they did not work, and then it was hard to get from point A to point B in the labyrinth of the Brussels metro’s underground network.

He always carried his cane when he decided to take public transport these days. Sometimes even the sidewalks were hard work. Now he found himself wondering whether he had switched off the gas in his apartment. He snapped out of that thought, knowing it would lead to other hypothetical worries. That would be a waste of time, he decided. So he brought his attention back to the people around him in the carriage.

It was funny, he thought as he looked around, no one looked at anyone anymore. Everyone was riveted to their telephones. During his youth, public transport had been full of people talking as they travelled. Now, the only people who spoke were the beggars who always seemed to be present whenever he travelled.

As he sat contemplating and looking around, the Indian woman in her forties sitting opposite him was watching him. She thought how admirable it was that this older gentleman was still moving about on public transport. She wondered if he lived alone, how he managed, and how in her home country older people usually had help to get things done. She looked at Gilbert again and was about to drift into thoughts about how sad and lonely his life might be when she suddenly saw him get up from his seat with surprising agility and move to his right, using his cane.

No one else had noticed, but a young boy with a school bag seemed to be choking. He had begun making strange sounds, and most people remained unaware. Nearly everyone on the metro had their earphones plugged in and were engrossed in their music or videos.

As the Indian woman began to panic on seeing the boy grow paler, she also noticed the older gentleman position himself behind the boy. He had actually registered the danger the moment the lollipop slipped off its stick and the boy swallowed it inadvertently. She had no idea that the man she had quietly pitied would be trained in first aid. He wrapped his arms around the boy’s waist, tipped him forward slightly, and performed the Heimlich maneuver, making a fist and using both arms to dislodge the piece of candy. It fell onto the floor near the feet of other passengers. That was when most people noticed that something had happened.

The boy, shaken, turned to look at his saviour. Just as the Indian woman, the boy, and a few others were about to speak to him, the old man picked up his cane from the floor and moved toward the door as the train pulled into the next station. He kept glancing back to make sure the boy was all right. There was a silent acknowledgment between them as he nodded gently and stepped out.


You can hear me hear this story on my podcast channel 'Lekha writes, then reads' on Apple or Spotify. 

https://open.spotify.com/episode/5TRLuPjYIPpQZ9FTEq1IqT?si=_nLn-SrQSIaXceINTLUBXA

#fiction #shortstories #antiageism #ageism 

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Wednesday, 1 April 2026

Pois et Blanche main …petite histoire de Nathalie Andrews - guest post


 

Bientôt dans le train, direction la Corrèze pour une quinzaine tranquille, loin du boulot, des jérémiades de mes parents, bref loin de tout ça !!

Je sortais du Vieux Campeur, portant une doudoune jaune citron (de quoi filer la jaunisse aux chasseurs locaux) et des grosses chaussures de marche direction la gare d’Austerlitz…quand retentit une voix grave qui appelait « Hélène, hou hou ». Celle de Pierre-Yves Gustin, surnommé « Pois ». En me retournant, je le vis un peu essoufflé mais souriant comme dans mon souvenir.

« Hélène, mais quelle surprise, ça fait combien d’années ? »

« Heu…30 ans, depuis notre terminale, quand mon père a été muté à Paris, et toi qu’es-tu devenu ? »

« Moi, j’ai repris les conserves Gustin, les carottes, petits pois & C°, à défaut de l’épanouir ça nourrit son homme. Et toi, Blanche main, pédiatre comme prévu ? »

« Non, Pois, avec ma main artificielle, il m’a gentiment été dit que je ferai peur aux enfants, alors je suis gériatre. Les vieux ont la vue basse ou comprennent mieux les blessures des autres ! »

« Dur, dur, dit Pierre-Yves, quelle saleté cet accident avec le hachoir de ton grand-père charcutier »


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Lire aussi en français ici


Légère sur ses appuis, portant le poids de ses rêves – Kayla Houari


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They say don't cry over spilled milk, yet I did - Chapter 15 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

 




In India, boiling milk is a routine task, often entrusted to whoever is at home. As a child, it feels like an easy responsibility, until you learn how quickly inattention can turn into an unforgettable mistake.  

One day when I was around 11 years old, my mother put the milk in a vessel to boil. It was time for her to leave with my father on her daily evening routine and she did not want to wait till the milk had boiled. So she walked down from the third floor to the second in our building and met me at my friend's apartment and asked me to watch over the flame. I had an extra set of keys, and she told me she had set the burner on a very low flame and I would have to go and switch off the gas in about 15 minutes.

I was surprised that my Amma gave me those instructions because she usually never did such things. She was a fiercely independent woman and didn't like me touching much in her kitchen. I was happy that she actually gave me a task like that and promised to go home in 15 minutes. I got back to doing or playing whatever it was that I was doing just before she came and spoke to me. Obviously what shouldn't have happened did. I completely forgot that I was supposed to go home and switch off the gas. About more than an hour later, I suddenly remembered what I had promised to do. I felt physically sick, as I was very afraid of what my mother would do to me if she knew I had forgotten. But I had to give up that frightful thought with the next one that was equally horrifying. I needed to go upstairs and see what had happened to the milk. 

When I reached my home, the living room was filled with smoke. There was a horrible smell that filled my lungs as I rushed through the living room through the corridor and the inner room and finally reached the converted balcony kitchen and stared at the stove. There stood a black vessel because all the milk had evaporated and what remained was a black mess. I switched off the gas and stood there in petrified terror, thinking how and what I would do to rectify the problem. There were a lot of dark images, as dark as that pot that flashed through my head. My first instinct was to clean the pot. Luckily, I didn't go and pick it up with my hands. I somehow knew I would have to wait for it to cool down before trying to wash it.

Sometimes in life, we have these tiny moments of long thought that last a few seconds and these long minutes of time in which no thought seems to make any sense. They both exist at the same moment of time.  I remember waiting anxiously for the pot to cool, the dread of my Amma’s inevitable return bubbling in my mind. Just as the dark bubbles in the simmering pot continued.


You can hear me read the story on my podcast channel 'Lekha writes, then reads' on Spotify or Apple or here https://open.spotify.com/episode/6d2GYq3YOL51Nd2fybOie7?si=CNxZk8vWQbu1ggXnDaeteQ

#childhoodstories #childhoodmemories #childrensbooks #kidslife #memories #lifememories

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Browse through the previous ones in The Chronicles of the Youngest Child here





The pen is mightier than a sword -Chapter 14 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child


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Tuesday, 31 March 2026

The pen is mightier than a sword -Chapter 14 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

 




My father had a little steel box filled with pens. I never knew why he kept those pens, because most of them did not have refills in them and could not be used. Also, even though we were not in the internet era and everyone used a pen or pencil to write, the number of pens in that box felt disproportionate to the needs of our family.

I must admit that the variety of pens made me go and open that box regularly. There were all kinds of pens, from ball pens to fountain pens that needed ink to be poured into them, and of all sizes. I think there was also a pen with refills of four colours that is still popular today. I found myself playing with them, examining them and finding new ways to entertain myself using them. I had many actual toys, unlike my older siblings when they were children, so I could not say I was short on playthings. However, I was so fascinated by these pens in a box that I invented a fun game to play with them.

I would go into the converted balcony room we had at home with the box. This room was adjacent to the living room and was now a closed space. A steel cupboard was here, and so was a door on which hung a leather blackboard. It was a supple kind of board that could be rolled away when unused.

I removed all the pens from the box, and they stepped out like students getting out of a school bus. The fountain pens looked solid and smart, and they had the allure of men wearing suits, so they became the boys in my class. The ball pens, when held backwards, looked like they had long, straight ponytails and, being smaller than the fountain pens, became the girls in my class.

I would position each student on a tile in the room. There was enough floor space to have one or two students on a tile. Once they all settled in, I became the teacher and spent the afternoon giving them lessons from my school books. Sometimes I even got my homework done while I played with the pens.

All the students in my class were happy and well behaved, and I noticed each one as I took attendance at the start of class.  After class, they got back onto the school bus, eager to return the next day. Who would say they were empty and void of life or use?

I often wonder about what we can learn from what we collect and hoard? What do these things tell us about ourselves or what we lack? I think my father’s life, shaped by giving up his education at 14 to support his large family, made him cherish those pens.They were perhaps symbols of hope for him, maybe he planned to use them and give them purpose someday. Or perhaps they could represent him trying to fill himself up and pouring his all into everyone else’s pages of life. They could also simply be him saving every potentially useful object for a rainy day.


My father did not collect many kinds of things, but he did collect those empty pens. His dream for an ideal future using them and my use of them while dreaming about my future coexisted in that little steel box. Those were our pens of hope.


You can hear me read this story on my podcast channel 'Lekha writes, then reads' on Apple or Spotify. 

https://open.spotify.com/episode/1OAlqgfHOh9mxJVKTxgJH8?si=G2UduatiTAWO-rnq4eaCtg

#hoarders #hoarding #uselessstuff #pencollection #

Like this story? You may like these from the earlier Chronicles




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