Monday, September 28, 2020
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The Drunkard

Once again he was gone, unaware of my existence; soon a heart skipped a beat, a pair of eyes winked and somewhere twosome kidneys jingled to a rowdy tune. 

There is no dearth of people in this world who resound with you but there is the one whose single whisper can make you invent a symphony or lose your sense of direction. Ivar was that rascal who could often be found lying in those shady corners, hardly noticeable until a stir caused a passerby to shriek and run away. He was detested by the residents of Stygian lane for being a bad influence and the source of all the ruckus. And I, I was Ninny, the dimwit daughter of my erstwhile tightwad dad. I ran his grocery shop now. 

Ivar had that charm to swoon ladies despite the fact that he was a drunkard and was notorious for his escapades with girls every other day. Why did I then go weak-kneed each time I saw him? 


  Ours was a dingy lane of crooked houses and shouting neighbours with a recurring problem of overflowing drains and underfed water pipes. My shop rested itself at the end of the lane with our loud-mouthed landlady perched like a raven next door.

“The water’s gone again. Scoundrels!I have none to water my plants. You water sucking slugs!”

And she went on hurling abuses till ‘he’ came yawning the beer fumes from last night’s misadventure. 

“Oh Ms. Matilda! Your cheeks glow like the dumped cherry I ate yesterday. Calm down, please.”

And she melted, mesmerized. I cackled silently. 

He unzipped and peed on her plants. Shocked out of her wits,  It was too late before our dumped cherry realised that her plants had been watered brackishly. I still did not exist for him.


The day passed quite unnoticeably. It was not before a red pouted lady in her early thirties was seen arguing with Ivor that I lost track of myself and handed a customer fairy wings for chicken wings.

“I need my 30 dollars you promised for a shot!”

Her bosom revolted against the buttons as she heaved. He stood there lighting a cigar unmoved. The next moment, he had sprinted away leaving her aghast as her blouse’s button lost its self control. I followed suit. 

What happened next was a car zigzagging at full speed, few gunshots and a deep cry. It was him.

I rushed to the spot, he was already in a tussle. He throbbed a punch in his rival’s face.


 A knife came from nowhere and pierced his chest. 

More stabs. I stood transfixed. The person ran away leaving behind a black clot in a pool of blood.My feet moved towards him involuntarily and I was handed a bloodsoaked card.

A donor’s card. 


The ambulance arrived soon after. 

Once again he was gone, unaware of my existence; soon a heart skipped a beat, a pair of eyes winked and somewhere twosome kidneys jingled to a rowdy tune. 


Photo By:  Gert Altmann


This is an entry for Five00-7, a writing event hosted by ArtoonsInn. Check out the event prompt and guidelines here:

Use the tracker to record your rulfy progress:!ApiLwn00sMcLgw25_MChxGCrua9_



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Pallavi Suri
Pallavi Suri
I teacher by passion, an amateur writer by accident. I write on whim to empty myself, and fill the pages. Poetry is love and they say it only comes when it overflows. It does for me sometimes and I write. A beginner with stories.
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