Whispers

Responding to today's prompt Friday Writings #248: Noisy!, my initial thoughts were to write about the bangs that are happening above our skies these days—missiles and the interceptors. But then decided to stay with whispers

“This is about shadows and spirits of dead people, I am guessing,” Ana said, keenly.

“Somewhat, but not exactly,” Ron continued.

“And then?” Ana said, impatient.

A few years back I had an assignment in a city close to where my sister Anita had relocated, and I grabbed the first long weekend.

“Let’s move to the sofa,” Ana suggested, grabbing a bottle of water.

I reached Anita’s on a Thursday but had to spend the evening alone, as she and her husband were unable to cancel a prearranged engagement.

I took to the couch, multi-tasking between watching TV, reading and dozing off, an art I have mastered over time. By 10:05 I was very hungry.

Anita had left my dinner on the table arranged in bowls, with detailed instructions on how long to warm each in the microwave.

Once the television was off, silence descended on the apartment except for the mild humming of the air conditioner. Sitting at the table, I wondered if I missed the noise of constantly moving vehicles and their sporadic honking back home.

Then I had an uncanny feeling that someone else was sitting at the table. Even thinking of it makes my hair stand on end.

I tried to ignore it and concentrated on the delicious food.

It sounded like a man and a woman were talking at the far end, whispering in a language I could not recognise. Every time I looked in their direction, it stopped. I resumed dinner and so did the whispering, until an irritated “argh” came, followed by an extended pause.

Trying not to panic, I kept gulping the food, planning to wander outside till Anita returned. Then I heard them faintly from the sofa. They had moved to avoid my stare.

I was on the verge of collapse when Anita walked in.

Laughing, she said, “I should have told you about the non-intrusive couple living with us since we moved here. A very peaceful coexistence, and no need to be scared. You know, here people bury their dead, and many a soul hangs around, unable to detach from the body they cared for so long!”

Fortunately, the station chief called the next morning, asking me to return immediately because of an emergency. Never in my life was I so happy to get the holiday curtailed.

Wall That Remembered

This is my attempt in response to Friday Writings #218: The World Is Burning, But…

Image generated by Gemini

I was bored all day sitting inside. For someone as athletic as me, confinement is torture—especially after coming all the way to the hills for a vacation.

Ron and Ana seemed perfectly happy reading, hugging, or gazing at each other. I, however, had no romantic partner here and urgently needed to move. After hours of my finest whining, they finally gave in.

The air outside tasted wild.

I sprinted through the grass toward the rocky bottom of the hill. Normally I am very stable and balanced, but today loose gravel betrayed me. I slipped and skidded down the slope—twenty feet, maybe more.

Ron shouted and rushed down to help while Ana followed more carefully, already annoyed that I had complicated the trip.

As we searched for a way back up, we noticed an opening in the hillside. No door, no sign—just darkness breathing out cool air. After a brief debate, they agreed to the adventure, and I was more than happy to take the lead.

Once inside, the light faded quickly. Ron switched on the flashlight of his phone and aimed it down the tunnel.

The beam revealed faded paintings along the walls—hands pressed flat into stone, faces leaning close together, a small figure lifted toward a circle of others. It felt as if the walls had once been a journal for people who lived here long ago.

Deeper inside, the drawings changed. The colors grew muddy, the strokes hurried. A group pressed together behind something that looked like a barricade.

Ana’s voice broke the silence.
“Ron… these aren’t celebrations.”

He moved the light slowly along the wall.
“They’re hiding.”

Further inside, charcoal figures crouched low, their lines tangled like roots gripping the earth.

Ana brushed dust away from a small inscription while Ron read softly, his voice faltering:

“The world is burning, but we want to live.”

Ana read the line below it.
“They will find us one day and stop the oxygen flow.”

Ron pointed to the corner wall.
“Look at those numbers crossed out—a countdown.”

Next to it lay a shallow pit where the bones rested in an open grave.

Ronbir and Anasua stood there a long time, holding hands.

“Will there ever be peace in this part of our world?” Anasua whispered.

Sometimes I can tell when people are remembering something they never lived.

I wondered if the people who tried to stay alive here had a few dogs with them.

Like me.