Thursday, 9 April 2026

Yours Truly - strained relationships - short story




 In 1980

Dear Son,

It’s been 12 months since we have spoken. 12 months since I’ve seen your face. It’s a very long time for a mother, don’t you think? I’ve written to you once or twice every month since you left the house angry, all those months ago. Yes, what I said was harsh. No, I didn't mean to offend you to this point of no return. Your absence has been felt by everybody. 

Your father & sister keep asking where you are? Why are you not even replying to their letters?

I’m now worried that something has happened to you. None of your friends from our town have any idea where you may be. I managed somehow to get this address from one of them but it seems like you aren’t there.

Please at least give us a sign that you are fine and that you’re not answering me on purpose. 

All I want is to hear from you. This anger that you have can be thrown back at my face. I’m ready to hear it.

Your worried mother.

 

The postman who has now delivered the letter to the address that’s on the envelope wonders what to do with the letter as he looks at the previous letters and envelopes collecting on the top of the post box. The thought of tearing open and reading one of the envelopes that have the same handwriting crosses his mind. But he knows he can’t and walks away.

 

 



In 1980


Today I stand on this railway platform and I’m about to embark on a long journey. I’ve just had a huge fight with my mother. I spoke to her about the feelings I’d hidden away in my mind for so many years. She always thinks I’m a small child, doesn’t she know at 19, I’m a man now? I’ve always listened to her and the only time I’ve expressed my true feelings, this is how she reacts. All I saw in her face was anger and near loathing. Yes, when she saw I got up to leave, I noticed concerns, fear and some small degree of empathy. But that had come too late. I’ll just go to the ticket office and take the first train away from here.

A month later Harish receives his mother’s first letter by post. Some time ago he had written to his best friend Madhu about what had happened that fateful day at home. Harish had believed that Madhu wouldn’t betray his trust but guesses his family got to Madhu’s kinder side and prised the postal address out from him.

Harish reads the letter from his mother briefly. He’s afraid his mother or family will show up at the rental room. He packs the few things he has into his bag and leaves. He takes the opened letter with him.

 

 

 A year or so later


Harish is lying in bed after a week of illness. He dreams about his mother. In this fragile state, he closes his eyes and remembers her at her kindest. She had skin that glistened in the Sun. Her odour was like talc. He remembers her feeding him the soup that he loved and being concerned about his health. Working to survive on his own this year had been hard on Harish. He doesn’t even have the energy to pick up a pen at the moment.





In 2020

Harish looks at his children’s photo in the frame next to his bed. He picks up the phone to look at the messages he hoped he would have received in the night. Lately, he found himself wanting to receive news from his children more than ever before. They were grown now and living their own lives. He thought he and his wife had brought them up well. It had been some months since his wife had passed away. He hadn’t noticed that his kids didn’t call to speak to him much when she’d been alive. They were constantly in touch with their mother. Or was it she who was constantly calling them? He wondered about it now. It was hard to understand why they didn’t call to ask about him. 

He sees a new message in the inbox of his phone. His daughter has sent him a long message. He gulps hard as he reads the accusations. There were things he hadn’t done right apparently. His joy on having received her message now turned sour. He closes his eyes in fatigue. The first person he thinks of and sees while he reels from the message is his mother. He can see her face as clearly now as he did when he’d walked out of their home.



#strainedrelations #toxicrelations #motherandson 



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Yvonne - The Tennis player - short story


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


ou 

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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

Like this story?

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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