SHORT STORY: Narrating Fact of Fiction

It’s a short story with a quite new perspective and the narrative story-line.

To read further, Please to take a look at: SHORT STORY: Narrating Fact of Fiction



THE DENSE CLOUDS lowered their stocks washing out the surface of the earth. Midnight. Rain. The darkness went into every drop of the water. Hopp spurred his horses to run high. The chariot was not good to run at its best. It was un-oiled since the ages. But it was valuable for him, made by the great grand farther of his great grand father.

Right-side wheel of the chariot tumbled on a stone. He saw his body flying in the air. Dhaddada… dhaddam… dhad, and he was thrashed again on his seat. Reigns still in his hands, but limbs trembled on seeing the death so near. On a crack, he shifted his gaze on back seat of chariot. Shudders took hold of his body and mind. Soul, too, shaken.

He saw a woman, sitting in the back seat.

Hopp was a pundit, an owner of a temple, only temple in the kingdom. King visited the temple on occasions. People revered Hopp. They looked at his chariot with devotion. They believed his words as the translation of God’s will.

“Who… who are you?”

“Carry on. I am not your enemy.” The woman spread her lips wide and showed her teeth. The teeth were bigger than a wolf’s teeth and sharper than a lion’s. Design of her face made his navel pulsating with horror. He was a man of courage and the holder of faith in God. But the flood of darkness, his flying in the air just before a moment, and the sharp-teethed woman squeezed out every drop of his courage.


THE SALT OF LIFE — Short Story by Naval Langa


“MAMA YOU DON’T know how hard it is to earn money.”  Sammy hurries for reaching his factory.

“My child, it’s your father’s death anniversary. I need some money for offering puja at the temple.”

“You can do it here in a temple of the city, too.” Sammy’s wife suggested a practical way-out. Sitting on a high cot, she dangles her legs and looks at the old woman as if she is a recurring cost. Vijaya the old woman sits back. She is on a costly sofa, but with a rundown face. The amount she needs is a peanut for her son, a reputed exporter of garments. For him his father is a thing of past, and to chew the past is ‘wasting of time’. He remains so busy, so occupied, so unconcerned about family. 

But for the old woman Vijaya, her husband is still the present, present like the tears in eyes, which have not dried yet. She remembers how they were caught in the fire of worries. She recalls how jointly they had recollected the lost tunes of life and composed a song of happiness. She rubs her eyes first, and then rubs her spectacles. Her cleaned glasses help her to see the scene of her past.

I want you to take a look the full story at: THE SALT OF LIFE –by Naval Langa 


India owns a rainbow like cultural spectrum. Mirroring the same is a challenge for any writer. This collection my short stories evolves from the messy engagements of personal and social relations and from the contemporary conditions, which shape them.

I want you to take a look at: SHORT STORIES WITH REVIEW OF BOOKS 




 It’s the story of the woman who endeavours to make her life on her efforts, and not by others’ kindness and pity.

WHEN FURIOUS WIND undertakes to falsify all the predictions made by economists and palmists whom people genuinely believed to be sane; when the clouds, with dense sheets of water, hurry to be off-loaded onto the earth-godown, as if their entire water-stock is expelled from the sky-office; when it is comfortable for a dead body to float and be forgotten, and when God forgets that these are the children of God, too, we in our region call it the rainy season.

My encounter with such terrifying scenes was limited to viewing of post mortem reports on TV screens. TV-people are perfect people. They wait tirelessly for days in rain for a single shot of a dead body floating. They know that flood hardly recedes without turning a score of humans into dead bodies. They would film people buried under debris and run behind the corpses floating on water. Then they make their deadly shots swallow-able on the tube surfaces, and inject the chaos into each and every living room.

To read full story just click here:: THEY AREN’T BEGGARS 





Nothing can be achieved without enduring a bitter fight: this is written on foreheads of Indian men and women. My short story The Handicapped is a story of struggle, a struggle that catches a person’s throat and suppresses voices.  In the present short story I have tried to narrate that how a man, along with his lover, struggles for becoming an entrepreneur. He has to wrestle for acquiring a licence for setting up a small business—the regular odds from establishment. However a the persistent efforts pay, and it always pay. — Naval Langa


THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS stopped, a python like line of the city vehicles turned immobile, humming like the groan of an injured leopard. The passage for walking blinked a green light. He turned cautious; girded his loins. On any count it was not easy, for him, to cross the distance between two roads within the stipulated time, thirty seconds. The seconds started reducing. He gathered all the pieces of courage he had and went on almost galloping, in his style. But the people coming from his behind did not wait. They found it urgent to push him aside, making their way through. He could not make it. He fell down in the middle, on a white slash of the zebra crossing itself. Bag in hand smashed. Stampede.

Before he could collect himself and touch the other side, not a safer one but other side, the traffic signal had opened. He was caught in between. Within a few seconds the entire current of vehicles got disturbed. Horns shouting. He lost the sense of time and space. Survival. The survival of life became paramount. Until a policeman approached him, helping, he had experienced the nearest contact with fear. In addition he had known half of the dictionary of abusive words, too. From the vehicle drivers’ mouths.

“O… why don’t people like you sit at home?” Another policemen shouted from a safe distance and proved that he was on duty and awake. However the man managed crossing the road, but not without bruising on his left hand. The legs were safe. The policeman who shouted earlier was still throwing his preferred syllables. Incessantly. He did not heed. Because only he knew how difficult it was to cross the road, for a person having one polio-affected leg. Handicapped.

He did not thank God. He should have. Because he was in the midst of losing something important: a leg, a hand, or even an eye. But he was happy that a copy of the file he had in his cloth bag was in tact, unspoilt. He had painted a picture of his life to come in this file. CONTINUE READING>>>>>



Chinelo Achebe-Ejueyitche

Achebe-Ejueyitche teaches and writes in New York State, where she lives with her family. Daughter of Chinua Achebe, the famous Nigerian novelist, she has also worked in publishing. Her first book, The Last Laugh and Other Stories,was published by Heinemann in 1992.


It was hot. And like pieces of yam roasting over slowly smoldering coals, people cooked in the unrelenting heat, fleeing into their homes when they could no longer bear it. Hoes lay forgotten on farms, foodstuff covered and abandoned in the marketplace. Lethargy settled over the tiny village; only the buzzing of insects and an infrequent pestle pounding a late meal could be heard in the stifling silence. 

In a small bungalow, a mother and her three young children tried their best to ward off the heat while an ancient fan creaked ineffectually from the ceiling. The children fidgeted; just before dawn, they had been woken from an uneasy sleep by the sound of low flying planes and sporadic gunfire. It was quiet now, but the heat kept them on edge. 

The youngest child played on a raffia mat piling wooden blocks on top of the other. From time to time, he would swipe at them, uttering a shriek of delight as they tumbled to the floor. But tiring of the monotonous game, he was soon diverted by the sight of his older siblings in a kicking match. 

Their mother raised her head with an effort. “Alright, you two, that’s enough…” 

She sat at the dining table, fanning her face with a small handkerchief, and then, sighing, turned to stare out the window beside her. Shading her eyes against the sun, she peered into the distance; there appeared a faint rippling of the leaves of the Jacaranda tree in front of the house. There it was, again; a barely discernible draft. She listened intently. Around her, it was still and quiet.  CONTINUE READING>>>>