Houses of Dismay – (FICTION)

THIS a slender lane up to a hummock – fussy and fresh, and deep down its throat is a crowd of pine trees, its horizontal stretch is conquered with vibrantly draped kiosks, the vendors hawking audibly in soulful decibels …

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THIS a slender lane up to a hummock – fussy and fresh, and deep down its throat is a crowd of pine trees, its horizontal stretch is conquered with vibrantly draped kiosks, the vendors hawking audibly in soulful decibels – garishly multi-coloured shawls with subtle patterns on them and boastful artifacts portraying the traditional sculpture and image of this rugged and cold region.

 

Yesterday, at dusk I had arrived at my uncle’s home. His home is a timeworn yet reminiscently salient single-storey bungalow with italic roof, oversize windows, its exterior off-white walls are adorned with creepers, its modest lawn shielded with wild grass and fenced with a corroded iron gate.

 

I had cautiously unbolted the gate and squealed, “Uncle, I am here!” An unexpected icy breeze sprinted towards me as I rambled down the concrete path in the direction of a large tatty wooden door. “Your old uncle died a week ago”, an unexpected harsh mocking reply of a middle aged man from across the gate froze me.

 

“Are you serious?” I cynically bounced back to answer but by then he had hurried far in the gloom. I turned to notice a rusty lock on the door. I exhaled hard in disbelieve, three days back I had spoken to my uncle on the landline.

 

In dismay, I dragged my luggage out of the gate into the white dusty road and started trekking towards the bus-stop. In the moonlight, I spotted a houseboat sparkling brightly at a wind of a lake. I oddly halted near the structure and gazed at its mystical beauty.  “This is my houseboat”, a cold pat on my back alerted me.   

 

I turned towards the meek voice; she was an old lady with the warmest smile. “Why don’t you rest in my house tonight? This place is unsafe for women”. I inescapably agreed and stepped in the houseboat, radiant with lanterns.  She guided me to lie down on a sofa under a huge chandelier.

 

The mornings rays disturbed my sleep, I stared at a chandelier bunged with cobwebs and was surrounded by damaged furniture capped with dense dust. I immediately hurdled out, to by disbelief, this houseboat was a dilapidated wooden structure. “This is a haunted house”, a harsh mocking reaction shocked me. I turned to spot the same middle aged man who had now hurried far in the woods.

 

“I shouldn’t have come here”, I criticized myself at the bus-stop on the slender lane up to a hummock, impatiently waiting to go home.

 End

Author: mirandavoice

I am the author of the blog, mirandavoice.com, which is based on photography, fiction and non-fiction piece of writing. I am also the author of another blog, masalahealth.wordpress.com: A blog of innovative and healthy food recipes written in an unorthodox format. I am a recipe developer. I have an inherent ability to create recipes with new flavours using natural ingredients - I create both vegetarian and non-vegetarian recipes, for this I usually use less number of ingredients to keep the recipe simple and easy, which are certainly tasty and are beneficial to health in general. Each recipe is written according to my awareness of the recipe when I create it, in a writing skill which is very easy for the reader to comprehend. Sylvia Miranda (mirandapresence@gmail.com)

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