Flash Fiction Short Story Writing Competition Writeups.
The Contingency Plan
By - Dr Romila Chitturi
Dr Romila Chitturi, a corporate editor by day, literary editor by night, and a storyteller in every other hour. Blogger, writer, Instagram aficionado and a mentor who makes creativity look effortless.
Instagram - @thenovemberschild
Do you remember the feeling when the entire world reduces itself to a single, urgent heartbeat? Arjun was pounding a furious rhythm against his ribs as he drove a borrowed auto-rickshaw through the narrow, suffocating lanes of Chandni Chowk. Next to him, Maya, draped in a simple shawl that did nothing to hide the fire in her eyes, gripped a small, leather-bound diary—the object that had turned Arjun’s life, and this city, into a high-stakes hunting ground.
Arjun had thirty minutes to get to the safe house near Connaught Place. Thirty minutes before the men who'd been hunting him for three days caught up. The air was thick with diesel fumes and the smell of frying jalebis, a contrast of comfort and terror that only Delhi can offer.
The chase had started in a whispered conversation in a dimly lit Hauz Khas bar, led to an exchange of brief, desperate kisses, and culminated in a frantic, two-hundred-kilometre flight north. Now, with the sound of a heavy, black sedan gaining on them in the restricted alleyway, the end felt near. The driver of the sedan, a thick-necked man named Rakesh, was closing the distance.
Arjun was on the brink of giving up when he saw the iron gate ahead. It led to a private marketplace, locked and bolted. The moment Rakesh’s car bumper made contact with ours, slamming them into the wall, Arjun tasted blood. He realised they were trapped. He pictured giving up the diary, surrendering himself, just to keep the look of fear out of Maya’s face. Arjun’s hand was reaching for the ignition key, ready to stop fighting.
As fate would have it, just as Rakesh accelerated for the final push, the street was plunged into chaos. A massive procession, apparently a wedding party complete with a brass band and flashing LED lights, swerved violently around the corner. The sedan had to brake hard to avoid hitting the ghodi (the groom’s horse). The sudden gridlock gave Arjun a three-second window. He wrenched the rickshaw door open, grabbed Maya’s hand, and they melted into the joyous, oblivious crowd. The diary remained safe.
They made it to the rooftop hideout overlooking the shimmering skyline. They were safe. Arjun poured them water, leaning against the railing, watching the city breathe below. The tension broke, replaced by a wave of intoxicating relief.
Maya kissed Arjun, a long, sweet reward for surviving. As she pulled away, her eyes, usually warm and reassuring, held a strange, cold clarity. She glanced not at him, but at the small, discarded lock Arjun had shattered to open the diary.
"You should know," she whispered, her voice chillingly even. "I told Rakesh about the locked marketplace route yesterday. It was the only way to ensure he got close enough to force a decision."
Arjun walked away knowing that the single heartbeat that had defined his survival—the rush of adrenaline, the escape, the feeling of fighting for a future with her—had been entirely manufactured, and the feeling he remembered was not the fear of his hunter, but the calculated certainty of his executioner. The diary wasn't the target; it was just the bait. He was the prize.
The Unveiling Truth
By - Bhawana Sethi
The grandfather clock's worn hands ticked rhythmically in the peaceful living room, each swing a subtle reminder of time passing. Aryan sat hunched on the plush armchair, a half-finished embroidery hoop forgotten on his lap. Across from him, Radha paced, her movements quiet but agitated.
After weeks of simmering frustration, Radha finally whispered, "I am so tired of pretending, Aryan," her voice raw. "It is time. We have to tell her."
Aryan sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "I guess you are right, Radha. The school play is next month. If we do not tell Meera now, it will be even harder later."
In their golden years, their granddaughter Meera was a dazzling spark of vitality and creativity. She firmly believed her parents were adventurers who went on bold expeditions to unexplored regions, returning with postcards full of exciting adventures and exotic locales. Aryan painstakingly made every "postcard," and Radha wrote every "letter" detailing fictitious desert crossings and jungle treks. It had started innocently enough five years ago, as a last resort, when their son and daughter-in-law passed away unexpectedly, leaving a five-year-old Meera in their care. How could they bear to break her spirit with the truth? They could not then.
But the web of innocent deceit had grown, tangling them in its threads. Meera was now ten, and her belief in her globetrotting parents was unwavering. She often spoke of their return, sketching elaborate welcome-home parties. The upcoming school play, where Meera was cast as a brave explorer, made the charade feel particularly poignant.
Radha stopped pacing and sat beside Aryan, taking his hand. "She needs to know. Not just for us, but for her. She deserves to grieve, to understand, to have a real connection to her past, not a fabricated one."
Aryan squeezed her hand. "It is going to break her heart, Radha."
"And keeping this from her will not? Imagine if she found out from someone else," Radha argued gently. "We have given her a shield of dreams, but now it is time to give her the strength of truth. We can help her through it, together."
The following few days were devoted to preparation. They collected old photo albums and physical recollections of their son and daughter-in-law, remembering them as loving parents, not mythical adventurers. They recorded their own recollections, anecdotes that would depict lives lived to the fullest, albeit briefly.
They sat Meera down one evening as the sun was setting and the sky turned orange and purple. Radha spoke, her voice shaky at first, then steadying as Aryan held her hand. They spoke of her parents, their immense love for her, the accident that took them, and the reasons they had chosen to create the stories.
With her bright eyes wide and tears slowly running down her cheeks, Meera listened. Confusion followed by a profound, agonising sadness. However, a feeling of serene comprehension pervaded everything. She recognised faces in the pictures that she had only ever seen in her dreams, now actual and palpable.
After they were done, the room became quiet. When Meera finally spoke, her voice was clear despite its small size. "Didn't they love me? Truly care for me?"
Radha pulled her into a close embrace. "More than words can express, my darling," she whispered, gently tapping Meera's chest over her heart. "And they will always be with you, right here."
The days that followed were challenging. There were tears, quiet moments of introspection, and a fresh sense of gravity in Meera. But there was also a remarkable strength. She started asking questions about her parents, not as fictional characters, but as real people. She looked at their ancient belongings with the tenderness of a daughter reconnecting with her past, not the wonder of a child dreaming of faraway places.
Aryan and Radha were freed from a heavy burden when the pretence ended. Instead of seeing Meera as a helpless child in need of protection, they saw her as a brave young girl who could understand, mourn, and ultimately recover. Even though the future was still uncertain, they were sure of one thing: their love forged and truth now strengthened bond would help them navigate whatever lay ahead.
Meera underwent a subtle but significant transformation. Her elaborate drawings of exotic places gave way to quiet conversations, and she began sketching her parents' faces with a new, sincere accuracy. Her tiny fingers traced the outlines of smiles she now realised were real, not imagined, as she spent hours looking through the photo albums. While their hearts ached for her suffering, Aryan and Radha were filled with pride at her fortitude. They were candid in their responses to all the questions, sharing tales of her parents' eccentricities, giggles, and dreams. These were the personal, reassuring stories of family, not the heroic tales of adventurers.
Once a source of fear for Aryan and Radha, Meera's school play now served as evidence of her newly discovered strength. Her portrayal had a deeper resonance; she still played the courageous explorer, but her performance focused more on accepting the bravery required to face reality than it did on running away from it. Unaware of the family's recent disclosure, the audience only saw a young girl exuding an unexplainable inner light.
Aryan was diligently drawing a new postcard in his study one evening when Meera discovered him there. She came closer, and he stopped, surprised. "You do not have to do those anymore, Grandpa," she said quietly.
Aryan's hand froze. His eyes were full of tenderness and surprise as he gazed at her. Meera grinned, a kind, knowing smile that was much too old for her ten years. She went on, "I know they loved me, and that is the best adventure of all."
In a silent recognition of the change that had taken place, Aryan drew her into an embrace. The manufactured world had fallen apart, but a more solid, real foundation was being erected in its stead. With a silent prayer of thanks in her heart, Radha joined them, putting her arms around them both. The revelation had, in fact, been the unveiling of a deep love that outlasted even death, leading them all to a future based on integrity and unwavering connection.
A web of stories, gently spun,
To shield a heart, until it is won.
Now truth shines bright, a brave new start,
Love is the truest bond, right from the heart.
An Illusionary World by Poornima Sivaraman
Leena and Mithun were twins. They were seven-year-old kids. Leena lived in the world of dreams and fantasy. Mithun loved sports cars and dreamt of driving them. Both were all-rounders in the school. Everyone loved them.
They narrated interesting stories which they dream of.
The children crowded around them during the break and requested that they tell them.
Leena starts, “ Hey! Did you know last night I saw a pretty Angel outside my window, and she ushered me to come out.”
I was so thrilled and held her hands and stepped out of the window.
Both flew to a faraway, beautiful house. The house was filled with beautiful small and big dolls.
The Angel said,” You can pick up any amount of dolls, your hands could hold.”
Leena was excited and started to pick up some small and big dolls. But whenever she tried to hold them in her hands, some fell off. She was upset and looked at the Angel for help. But only five minutes were left. The Angel could not help her. Her duty was to bring Leena to this room of dolls. Leena came home, and she had only two dolls. She kept them near her pillow and slept. But in the morning, she could not see the dolls and understood it was a fantasy and not real.
But the way Leena narrated the story, all the girls were listening with their eyes open.
The next day, the boys gathered around Mithun and asked him about his sports cars he flaunts.
Mithun was waiting for this. He said,” Hey! Two days ago, I flew to Germany to take part in a sports car race.”
A boy chirped in,” But you were in the school, and we had a skating competition, and you lost the competition."
Mithun said,” No, that must be someone else, as I was in Germany taking part in a Speed car and I won that race.”
The boys laughed and said,” He is a dreamer and telling us lies.”
But they enjoyed his dreamy stories and the description of different fancy Sports Cars.
Their parents were worried about their children and took them to a psychologist.
The Doctor said, “ Nothing to worry, as at this age the children live in the world of fantasy and explaining them or buying one or two things they want or taking them to the Sports Race, they will be happy and stop dreaming, as they would understand, it was not that easy.”
As they grew up, they understood the reality of life and were happy and enjoyed it with their friends.
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