Poesias, crônicas, contos e ensaios. Poetry, chronicles, short stories and essays.

Tania's grandma has planned a surprise for her on Saturday afternoon. Tania is excited about it. But then her best friend invites her to a movie she really wants to see. And that is on Saturday too. Poor Tania does not want to hurt grandma's feelings but she does so want to go for the movie with her friend. What will she do now? Read on and find out. Suitable to be read to children of ages 3 to 7....

These are short stories, written with minimal editing to preserve the visceral structure; Most of the stories are composed to be read and experienced in the way that dreams might present themselves....

The collection contains the author’s well-known stories Kumkumam Vithariya Vazhikal, Prakrithanaya Thottakkaran, Thimarpur, Maniyarayilninnu Odippoyavar. The story Maniyarayilninnu Odippoyavar is about a couple plotting to run away on their wedding day. It could be a dream, dreamt by both the bride and the groom, but that haunts them throughout their life. He leaves his wife for delivery after 7 months at her home and leaves for Delhi which is 2000 kms away. On reaching home he finds the sari lying on their bed, and remembers the dream dreamt together....

A closed door came to her memory. She realized the turmoil that was brewing in her mind, but hardly knew that it had started some time now. The flowers that were kept in a flower vase were hostile to her. She remembered the loneliness in the evenings when, after leaving all her friends waiting alone for the bus . Her heart swelled with a whimper, and in a moment she could not control her sobs. She kept her face down on the pillow and started sobbing violently. The soothing words of her father or mother’s question as to what happened did not help her. So great was her loss. (Kumkumam Vithariya Vazhikal)...

Stories: Kumkumam Vithariya Vazhikal Malakalude Sangeetham Prakrithanaya Thottakkaran Aswasam Thedi Thimarpur Eiswarathilekku Veendum Mattoru Thottakkaran Chumaril Chithramayimariya Achhan Yathra Parayathe Poyaval Kadalkkarayil Oru Pakshikkaran Maniyarayilninnu Odippoyavar...

Human relations interest the author. The intricacies of life, the struggle for existence are all raw material for him. The last story Aa Paattu Nirthu (Stop that Song) is about a 5 year old girl who has an HIV infection, and is being boycotted by the inmates of the flats in the building. A really sad story....

It was her 5th birthday. Waiting at the open door for her friends, who never came, she got tired and fell asleep. When her father came from office she was woken up. He took her in his arms and went to the decorated sitting room, where the birthday cake with her name inscribed on it was kept. The cone shaped caps she had bought for her friends to wear for the party were heaped on a table without any takers. The small carry home packets containing chocolates and balloons for the little guests lay slumbering on the table. He pulled a chair in front of the teapoy on which the cake was kept. The knife with a red ribbon tied on it was kept by the side of it. He took the knife and handed it over to Suji. Her mother Malathi switched on the tape recorder, and stood ready with the camera to click. The song Happy Birthday was heard from the tape recorder, like an obsolete message coming from a strange unknown world. Suji raised her head and asked her mother, ‘Mom, please stop that song.’ (Aa Paattu NIrthu...)...

Stories: Karutha Thambratti Kalikkalam Oru Onathinte Katha Ayalkkaran Avasanathe Whistle Parichunadanavatha Nadan Swapnam Choochiyum Inambichiyum Valiyoru Album Vaikiyodunna Vandikal Engine Viplavamundakkunnu Kunhimathu Chirichukodirikkunnu Kathayilekku Nadannupoya Stree Theevandi Kayariyittillatha Penkutti Mattoru Vathil Oru Pappakkadakkariyumayi Pranayathilaya Katha Aa Paattu Nirthu....

Armed with little more than a sardonic sense of humour and a 9mm Browning, Florida news reporter turned private eye Rex Fowler and on-again off-again love interest police officer Lara Travis set off in search of dead conmen, crooked cops and buried treasure....

Five year old Gabe runs away from home. While in the forest he meets Lep and Elita and climbs a rainbow. On Top of the Rainbow he must make the decision to cross over to a land of delight or go back to his family that he loves. Come and visit with Gabe, Lep and Elita as they discover the importance of family love....

This book is about a cow that is a spy and has to save the world.

Why does the fox only come out at night? Is he a sly thief? Or just a misunderstood little creature? This is a magic story that involves the birth of a lakemaid, a lonely fox and a blind owl that can see more than most of us. A short fable with a fairytale attitude and some social critisism. For kids and mostly for people who never grew up....

The word of one deer was worth more than thousands of truths. Only because ist antlers were so impressive?

Story of an orphanage for girls, their miserable life under a warden. Finally the Church realize their folly and appoints a new warden, who is young and energetic. The reforms he made changed the atmosphere so drastically that the countenance of the inmates changes. The Church is happy with him, but then the new warden has his share of problems and the priest helps him solve it....

They were playing jigsaw puzzle, and finally it was Jisy’s turn, and when she picked up the last piece, Shijo said. No Jisy, wait.’ Jisy looked at him puzzled. He said. ‘The picture is already complete now?’ ‘No.......?’ looking at the picture she said, ‘the middle of the roof is blank.’ ‘What does it mean?’ Shijo asked. No one answered. Shijo continued. ‘See the building will be complete only if all our pieces are put together and kept in place. Similarly our home will only be complete if all of us are together. If any of us is missing, that gap will remain forever. Do you understand?’ The children nodded solemnly. ‘Now Jisy please complete the picture.’ Jisy kept the piece she was holding in its place. Turning back her eyes were filled. Everyone clapped in applause. ‘We all will remember this game for ever, won’t you?’ ‘Yes, Sir....’ Everyone said in a chorus....

The story Vrishabhathinte Kannu is about an accident in which a four year old boy gets killed together with his paternal uncle. The story centers around the sub-tenant of one of the flats in the building, who was so friendly with the child. He is moved by the incident, and decides to go to the hospital to see the child. It is the traumatic experience of this man the story is about. ...

Behind him was the security guard of the morgue, and still farther behind in the dark cold room were the cold bodies wrapped up in white linen. He remembered what Hiren Mehta had said, and what Mehta’s son had said. Beyond the eyes of the evil planets, fatalist beliefs, and lives predetermined in a four dimensional field of the world, he saw the indefinable, and unforeseeable, but definite death. Back in the building he was climbing the staircase, and when he reached the second floor he saw Aditya’s house still locked. On the latch of the door was kept a packet of flowers. He wondered where have they all gone. They might have gone to her husband’s home. They might come only after a few days. The flowers will remain there until they come back. After all, what is the relation between flowers and death? (Vrishabhathinte Kannu)...

Stories: Meghangal Panjikkettukalpole Vrishabhathinte Kannu Komali Roopam Nashtappetta Mrigangal Bheeru Oru Nashtakkari Ayalkkari

The story Amme Avar Nammude Akaasam Katteduthu is about women laborers, who over the past few decades were being phased out of work, mainly by automation, and then by influx of cheap labor from neighboring states. In this story the houses where women from the colony across the road works as household help, are being razed to the ground to give way to four colossal multistory buildings. The women lose their job and find life hard going, especially when their drunkard husbands do not help them, instead try to fleece them. They are pinned to the wall, and naturally finds way for a living, which is not very desirable, but unavoidable....

Making sure that Arun doesn’t hear her, Jyothi asked Mathu. ‘Your husband does not come any more, eh?’ ‘No,....’ She said with visible comfort. ‘I wish he does not turn up any more. What about your husband?’ ‘He came last month, and then I said I am jobless and that I need money. He went back immediately and never again turned up. I never said I got a job in the building work.' (Amme, Avar Nammude Akasam Katteduthu)...

Stories: Vellithirayilennapole Lavanya Kelan Oru Chocolate Viplavam Kalathinte Adayatha Vathilukal Stree, Avasanarangathil Mathram.... Oru Santhushta Kudumbam Sreeparvathi Iniyum Maduthittillatha Oru Samakalika Katha Daivathinte Swapnangal Amme Avar Nammude Akasam Katteduthu Kurey Chithrangalulla Oru Rathri, Athil Oru...... Ee Nirathil Thavalangalilla Oru Nalu Vayassukarante Prasnangal...

This anthology of short stories won the Nalappadan Award (instituted after the famous poet Nalappat Narayana Menon) in 1998. The story Alakkuyanthram is about the plight of child labor in India. A ten year old girl is forced to do menial job in a wealthy house because her mother falls ill. It is about her interaction with the 4 year old daughter of her mistress. One day she takes the little girl to her shabby looking hut much to the chagrin of the little girl. She faces reality hereto unimaginable in her wealthy surroundings....

‘How come you didn’t get even a single order?’ John Mathew could not get it. ‘You say you have visited 10 - 15 houses, and yet no order. You have gone to a wealthy area. Venu closed his eyes without having to utter a word. And slowly he drifted into a slumber. In sleep, he saw dark skinny children with small chests and big unhealthy belly. In front of them poverty was strewn around like dirt in carpet of affluence, and he with his machine with unlimited capabilities sweeps the poverty and the children become handsome and pretty. Watching the smile on his sleeping friend, John Mathew became thoughtful. (Aparasadhyathakalulla Oru Yanthram)...

Stories: Pazhayoru Bheeshanikkari Sookshichuvacha Mayilpeeli Sultante Makal Aaro Oraal Pinnil Alakkuyanthram Oru Tapdancer Amma Valeduthavan Bhagyathinte Vazhikal Theeppettikkollithumbile Jeevitham Oditta Oru Cheriya Veedu Oru Urula choru Nair Magnanimity Aparasadhyathakalulla Oru Yanthram Kallichedi...

Dr. Gourami’s Hospital is a delivery ward for fishes. The story deals with a motherless child of five and his sorrowing father, both of whom finds solace in the aquarium. The new born babies that swim in the tank give cue to Biju about his own mother who left him couple of years ago. The Sunflowers is the story of a boy who was destined to toil at the age of 17 in a far away city, i.e. Calcutta. He supports his mother as well as the family of her brother too. Though unwilling Dasan finally finds his sacrifice most rewarding, as he finds a garden of sunflowers in a mountain valley he saw on his way home....

After taking bath he got dressed up fast. Renu announced breakfast. He went to call his son Viju. He was standing in front of the aquarium, the same way he left him when he went to the bathroom. ‘What happened Viju?’ He asked. He didn’t say anything. He was just watching the newborn fish babies. He was thoughtful. Finally he asked: ‘Dad do these fish babies really get the smell of their mother in the water?’ ‘Yes dear, all living beings are like that. Children can recognize the smell of their mother.’ Suddenly he stopped. He saw Viju’s face darkening and his eyes becoming watery. He was incapable of wiping those tears or soothing the boy with words of solace; he just hugged him. His eyes were also filling. Then in between sobs, Viju said. ‘Dad, let’s not change this house. We will continue here only.’ (Dr. Gouramiyude Asupathri)...

Stories: Gouramiyude Asupathri Sooryakantipookkal Kattikombu Cheppadikkaranum Njanum Canadayilninnoru Rajakumari Oru Viswasi Puthiyoru Velipadinuvendi Muzhumikkatha Yathra Nagaram...

Burying her husband in the garden under the runner bean patch seemed the best idea. At least burying him there she would be able to keep an eye on him. Suzy had not meant to kill him and then she meets her old friend Lewis, would he help her, or make things worse?...

SUZY Preview Chapter One Opening the hot oven door Suzy puts her gloves on and takes out the cooking joint of beef. Putting the hot tray onto the top of the oven Suzy turns the meat over and adds potatoes and parsnips to the tray. Putting the tray back into the oven she frowns as she stands up and thinks if all this effort is worth it; Doug, her partner had been very moody lately. Sometimes he came home with a smile, but that was rare these days. Doug's behaviour towards her recently had become nasty, aggressive and he was constantly accusing her of being unfaithful and calling her a liar. Suzy had not done anything wrong and could not understand why he had changed so much recently. Hoping that cooking his favourite roast dinner would make the evening a pleasant one Suzy lights the gas under the vegetables as she hears Doug's car pull up out front. Checking herself in the mirror Suzy shouts a cheery welcome as Doug opens the front door. Hearing no reply the frown returns to her forehead as she busies herself with getting two plates out of the cupboard. Doug slams the front door and stomps down the hall into the lounge as Suzy'...

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen...

Ya casi me había dado por vencido con la poesía; ni siquiera era capaz de apreciarla, la sentía insípida, machacada y repetitiva. Me parecía que todos los poetas del mundo se habían puesto de acuerdo para escribir y cantar sobre los mismos motivos de siempre: un mal amor, unas metáforas y analogías poco convincentes, e indiscutiblemente un gusto desbocado por la obviedad de las cosas, cautivados, sabrá Dios por qué, por frases de redes sociales del tipo: “He caído pero me levantaré con los pies” ((((Obvio))))....

Ya casi me había dado por vencido con la poesía; ni siquiera era capaz de apreciarla, la sentía insípida, machacada y repetitiva. Me parecía que todos los poetas del mundo se habían puesto de acuerdo para escribir y cantar sobre los mismos motivos de siempre: un mal amor, unas metáforas y analogías poco convincentes, e indiscutiblemente un gusto desbocado por la obviedad de las cosas, cautivados, sabrá Dios por qué, por frases de redes sociales del tipo: “He caído pero me levantaré con los pies” ((((Obvio))))....

El Moscas era sicario, y de los más atroces. Su pelo encanecido le daba una áurea de sabio y bonachón. Tenía cincuenta años, una mente lúcida, y una singular condición física que no había perdido siquiera un ápice de su habilidad juvenil. Era una leyenda viva en el bajo mundo de la mafia. Como la antigua Roma, se decía que todas las historias de muerte, y las sentencias de los moribundos, llegaban a él. Célebres eran sus cancioncitas corrosivas que solamente él era capaz de disfrutar y su largo, pero no menos espeluznante, historial profesional: sus manos habían acabado con la vida de diez mil personas, una muerte al día desde que comenzó su mortal carrera, descontando los fines de semana, que ocupaba en desempolvar su viejo Roll Royce de los años sesenta. Semejante constancia le exigía la utilización de los métodos criminales más creativos. Era implacable. Jamás se le cruzó por la mente la palabra ‘arrepentimiento’ y se ufanaba de nunca haber jurado en vano. ¿A qué santo sentarse a llorar por la muerte de un tipo más imbécil que yo?, exclamaba, ahogándose en una sonrisita torcida, jugando con un puro cubano en la mano, que encendía...

El Moscas era sicario, y de los más atroces. Su pelo encanecido le daba una áurea de sabio y bonachón. Tenía cincuenta años, una mente lúcida, y una singular condición física que no había perdido siquiera un ápice de su habilidad juvenil. Era una leyenda viva en el bajo mundo de la mafia. Como la antigua Roma, se decía que todas las historias de muerte, y las sentencias de los moribundos, llegaban a él. Célebres eran sus cancioncitas corrosivas que solamente él era capaz de disfrutar y su largo, pero no menos espeluznante, historial profesional: sus manos habían acabado con la vida de diez mil personas, una muerte al día desde que comenzó su mortal carrera, descontando los fines de semana, que ocupaba en desempolvar su viejo Roll Royce de los años sesenta. Semejante constancia le exigía la utilización de los métodos criminales más creativos. Era implacable. Jamás se le cruzó por la mente la palabra ‘arrepentimiento’ y se ufanaba de nunca haber jurado en vano. ¿A qué santo sentarse a llorar por la muerte de un tipo más imbécil que yo?, exclamaba, ahogándose en una sonrisita torcida, jugando con un puro cubano en la mano, que encendía...

Nunca me había atrevido a escribir esta historia por dos razones: la primera, porque le parecerá inverosímil al leyente, y la segunda, quizá la más tétrica de ambas consideraciones, se debe al contrato perenne que somete a aquel que lea el mensaje contenido en el dorso del billete negro que cayó en mis manos ese día oscuro de noviembre. Decía así: «Si usted está leyendo estas palabras, le sucederá todo aquello que desee su corazón. Ríase si quiere, pero ciertamente ocurrirá»....

Nunca me había atrevido a escribir esta historia por dos razones: la primera, porque le parecerá inverosímil al leyente, y la segunda, quizá la más tétrica de ambas consideraciones, se debe al contrato perenne que somete a aquel que lea el mensaje contenido en el dorso del billete negro que cayó en mis manos ese día oscuro de noviembre. Decía así: «Si usted está leyendo estas palabras, le sucederá todo aquello que desee su corazón. Ríase si quiere, pero ciertamente ocurrirá»....

Cuentan que Amukhori, a los doce años y en las gradas de la catedral, fue el primero en desafiar a los curas del pueblo. Su nombre, anómalo en aquel lugar tras quinientos años de conquista española, pasó a ser motivo de respeto y asombro, en unas por su simplicidad y en otras por su rareza, puesto que nadie logró encontrarle nunca el significado, «el secreto», ni siquiera su madre Sigfrida. Su padre don Policarpo, que era el cartero de la comunidad, se justificaba diciendo que lo había leído en una revista venida del «Sol Naciente»; nadie le creyó, pero sí que lo asociaron con los viajes que el viejo repartidor hacía por el país entero, entregando cartas, y del que se sabía había vivido un tiempo con los hicaques en la Montaña de la Flor y los chortís que todavía se esconden en algunas partes de la provincia. Amukhori, aunque era suertudo, no la tuvo desde el principio. Don Policarpo murió estando él en pañales, y lo único que recuerda de su artrítico anciano fue lo que le contó un día la abuela: que al nacer, su progenitor había gritado al viento con orgullo y risa chabacana: «Acaba de nacer uno que va a llegar a ser el papá de muc...

Cuentan que Amukhori, a los doce años y en las gradas de la catedral, fue el primero en desafiar a los curas del pueblo. Su nombre, anómalo en aquel lugar tras quinientos años de conquista española, pasó a ser motivo de respeto y asombro, en unas por su simplicidad y en otras por su rareza, puesto que nadie logró encontrarle nunca el significado, «el secreto», ni siquiera su madre Sigfrida. Su padre don Policarpo, que era el cartero de la comunidad, se justificaba diciendo que lo había leído en una revista venida del «Sol Naciente»; nadie le creyó, pero sí que lo asociaron con los viajes que el viejo repartidor hacía por el país entero, entregando cartas, y del que se sabía había vivido un tiempo con los hicaques en la Montaña de la Flor y los chortís que todavía se esconden en algunas partes de la provincia. Amukhori, aunque era suertudo, no la tuvo desde el principio. Don Policarpo murió estando él en pañales, y lo único que recuerda de su artrítico anciano fue lo que le contó un día la abuela: que al nacer, su progenitor había gritado al viento con orgullo y risa chabacana: «Acaba de nacer uno que va a llegar a ser el papá de muc...

There is no good war. All war is hideous. munir is a novel about Baghdad under Occupation. It is a story detailing the tragic intersection of intelligence personnel, militants, and Iraqi millennials....

“Ah!” Majid exclaimed, realizing where they were. Spying their favorite nook in the city, Majid approached the cozy concrete to kick back. Munir had noticed this quotidian wonder many years ago when he was working part-time as a delivery boy. One ‘precision’ strike in 1991, courtesy of a 35-year-old B-52 bomber, had taken out a homeless shelter. The blast had also carved the ideal reading nook out of an adjacent wall. The shelter was eventually rebuilt, but the wall remained damaged and crumbling....