Kreative Kue 249

Kreative Kue 248 asked for submissions based on this photograph:

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John W Howell is the author of the John Cannon trilogy of My GRL, His Revenge, Our Justice and Circumstances of Childhood, co-author of The Contract, and blogs at Fiction Favorites.

The Message by John W. Howell © 2020

“I heard your phone, ding. Who is sending you a message?”

“OMG. It’s that boy I met on the bus yesterday.”

“What, boy. You never told us about a boy.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was necessary. You know how boys are. I didn’t expect to hear from him again.”

“How did he get your number?”

“We traded numbers.”

“My gosh, Aahana. Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”

“Oh, nonsense. It’s not like I gave him my home address.”

“Another ding.”

“Yes, he is sending me a picture. Oh, look.”

“Whoa. He is a handsome one, for sure. What is his name?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t trade names.”

“Well, ask him?”

“I can’t do that?”

“Why not?”

“It’s too personal. I should have asked when I was talking to him.”

“You give him your phone number, and you think asking his name is too personal?”

“Oh, wait. He is asking my name.”

“Ha.”

“Don’t ‘ha” me. That is a personal question. I don’t have to give him my name.”

“You now think he is too forward?”

“I do. I am going to ignore his texts. Look, he is now asking where I live?”

“Well, I would ignore that one for sure.”

“Here, I’ll take care of it and tell him I have no interest in him.”

“He sure is good looking.”

“So what. Probably raised in a barn. The nerve. Asking my name and where I live. Wait, he is sending me his address. Look at this.”

“Isn’t that the Prime minister’s address?”

“This might be his son.”

“Oh, Aahana. Did you send the text telling him you have no interest.”

“I did. Ours crossed. Oops. He just sent a sad emoji.”

“So tell him you didn’t mean it.”

“There is not a future anyway.”

“Why?”

“My dad voted against the prime minister and would never consent to a date.”

“You could tell him he’s a lawyer.”

“Even worse.”


My effort was

The question.

“Did you see this?” Daksha Bhaskaran asked her friend, looking at the screen of her mobile phone.

“What is it?”

“It’s the line-up for the big match next week, Nabhanya. Kerala is playing Rajasthan.”

A third girl, Josya, leaned over to look. “Is my brother’s girlfriend’s uncle chosen for this match?” she asked.

“What is his name?”

“Pradheep Nair.”

“I don’t see his name there. Sorry.”

“That’s a pity. My brother said his girlfriend told him that her uncle Pradheep is a very good batsman.”

“Who does he play for?”

“Kerala of course. He lives in Kochi.”

Mahishna Sreedharan was seated at the end of the bench, looking rather displeased with the conversation. She had little interest in cricket, “I might have seen him play once,”  she said.

“And he was good?”

“I couldn’t say, Josya. I find cricket boring.”

The rest of the girls, all avid cricket fans, were aghast. Josya spoke for them all when she said, “I don’t know how you can say that. Cricket is the number one sport in India. How can you not love it?”

“Easy. I don’t like coconut, either.”

“You don’t like coconut?” all the girls chorussed.

“No. Or chilli.”

“What do you like?” Josya asked.

“Food or sport?”

“Sport.”

“I like Formula One racing, although maybe not so much now that there is no Indian driver taking part and the pink cars are called Racing Point.”

“What were they called before?”

“Force India, of course.”

“So you don’t like it as much now?”

“I do still like it. It is the most exciting sport and some of the drivers are very handsome.”

“And are the drivers all men?”

“So far, yes. One day, perhaps, there will be female drivers, but I don’t mind for the moment.”

“You don’t mind that there are no women driving in Formula One? Why is that?”

“Because the men are so handsome. And I like to see the crashes.”

“I’m surprised to hear such a thing coming from a woman’s mouth,” Daksha said, her voice laden with disappointment.

Josya looked up from her phone.  “There’s only one thing I need to know,” she said, “Whose side are you on?”

“What do you mean, Josya?”

“You are a woman, but you don’t mind that there are no women in your favourite sport.”

“There are women engineers, women team bosses and women at all levels—”

“But not driving.”

“That will happen. There is a separate formula for women, Formula W, as there is for electric vehicles, Formula E. And don’t forget it is only recently that women’s cricket and football—”

“And rugby,” Daksha interjected.

“And rugby. It is only recently that they have been taken seriously. And these games have been around for hundreds of years. Formula One only started in the middle of the last century.”

“Motor racing has been around longer than that.”

“And there have been women driving in motor racing and rallying for many years.”

“But not in Formula One.”

“Yet. And one day there will be an Indian woman driving a Formula One car.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Can you even drive?” Nabhanya asked.

“Not yet, Nabhy, but one day…”


Wildebeesta
On to this week’s challenge: Using this photo as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put it (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at keithchanning@gmail.com before 6pm next Sunday (if you aren’t sure what the time is where I live, this link will tell you). If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here.

Go on. You know you want to. Let your creativity and imagination soar. I shall display the entries next Monday.

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