Published on May 7, 2026

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Somewhere Out There

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

Somewhere Out There

Somewhere out there, in a little town far away, lay a little cottage. In it lived an even more little girl. She was Holly. Holly was a playful trickster. She had short, golden hair tied in a bun, obscured by the green hat she wore at all times. Her eyes used to glint with mischief. But the weirdest things in her were her pointed ears and translucent wings!

Indeed, she was a pixie! Not a fairy, mind it. It is an offense to mistake pixies for fairies.

What was the best thing about her? Well, she could use magic! Did she use it for Good? Yes. Sometimes, she would play harmless pranks on harmless people. Was she malicious? Absolutely not!

Holly’s job was to guard the Helm of Honor. The Helm of Honor was a headgear that looked more like a crown. It was bestowed onto the greatest Heroes. Heroes were “the most brave, kind and valiant” of humankind.

Now, who deemed heroes as Heroes? That is a most unanswerable question. We shall look at things from innocent magical creatures like Holly’s perspective. The pixies like Holly always hear a voice in their heads, telling them “To annoy other mortals, and protect the given artifact, is your job”. Then, the innocent beings would follow the command wordlessly.

It seemed like their commander was immortal, or they thought they were. No matter. The thing is: they didn’t pay heed to these questions, just followed the bodiless orders.

Back to Holly now! Each day, she would wake up early in the morning and wash her face in the nearby stream, and then she would get seated on her mushroom cottage’s roof and gaze at the passing insects androdents. Sometimes she would annoy them by clouding their vision with fog.

It was on an early morning like this that she encountered her first Hero.

She heard a small voice in the back of her head that told her a Hero was coming. It was her first time, but she still knew what to do. She quickly flew inside and opened a manual titled “Handling Heroes”. She flipped through the pages and found the chapter she was looking for: “For First Timers”. All it read was:

 Step 1: Greet them

 Step 2: Praise them

 Step 3: Exaggerate their feats and the artifact

 Step 5: Hand over it

Note: Be humble. Don’t talk back. Do whatever you are told to.

She prepared herself and went out, muttering all the steps. As soon as she stepped out the front door, a dark figure loomed over her. It seemed to be a male. She confidently flew higher to reach his height. He seemed not to have noticed here.

“Here I am, Hero! How do you do?” she called out.

He looked around to make sure she was the one squeaking at him. Holly could see him clearly now. He had blazing red hair and eyes the same color. He was staring at her. She gulped as fear slowly crept in.

She was done with step one, the next one was to praise him. But she didn’t know anything about him, how could she? She told him straight up, “I don’t know where you’re from or what you have done to earn this helmet. It looks pretty normal to me. I guess you’ve done something great to achieve it. Congratulations Hero!”With a swift hit from his sword’s hilt, he sent her flying in an arc.

However, she had braced herself; she flew back in a zap and attacked him, since then, the Hero was never found.

Holly became the queen and since then, the number of undeserving heroes has decreased. Pixies no longer follow commands. It is said that Holly still lives out there. She’s biding her time, waiting for the moment to strike. It is true, she is somewhere out there.

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LOST JACKET

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

LOST JACKET

I ran across the lobby a minute before closing to give back the form.

The lost and found form.

The lost-and-found form said: Object Description: Blue jacket. Slightly faded. Three inside pockets. One front pocket.

That’s all that was written.

But it wasn’t just a jacket.

My mom said,“Never mind. Save up and buy a new one.”

But you can’t just replace things like that.

It made me feel like something.

It was special in a way only I understood.

It’s been through everything with me, my losses, my wins.

It smelled like comfort. It wasn’t superstition; It was my sidekick.

The three inside pockets carried my coveted adornments.

The smallest of the three contained my favourite pen, the one that knew everything because its ink is what I used to write down the deepest thoughts, even the ones I couldn’t say out loud.

And inside that pen, though no one knew, was a safety pin holding the body together. Just in case it cracked.

The biggest pocket of the three contained a list of things I hoped to achieve as I grew older.

The checkered paper had creases running through it. And taped to it, a small paper crown.

The one in between contained the shiniest rock I could find while I ran my first 5k. I found it lying on the gravel from the race. Standing out as physical proof that I didn’t stop.

There was a large front pocket on the left side of the jacket.

The Front Pocket was the brave one.

It was the pocket that was exposed to wind, sun and rain. And rarely the washing machine and the detergent.

It contained a Kinder Joy toy. Smooth plastic, bright colours. Manufactured joy closed in foil.

It used to be the best part of the treat

Now it was just marketing.

The toy in the front pocket wasn’t my favourite. It was just the one that was the cleanest.

That pocket carried what survived being seen.

It carried the version of me that had been rinsed, wrung out, and ironed flat.It was presentable and polished.

The inside pockets held what felt like me.

The front pocket held what didn’t cause questions.

That’s why losing it didn’t feel material.

It wasn’t about the buttons or the gold zipper that shut the pockets.

I didn’t want to give up so easily.

It felt like the part of me that was learning how to grow up, slowly and a little unwillingly.

So I searched.

Searched everywhere, my house, the School, the doctor, the infirmary.

When I had almost gotten over the loss of it,

When I had taught myself to stop thinking about it constantly,

When I had stopped imagining scenarios of finding it,

The doorbell rang.

A parcel lay on the wooden floor.

On the floor where I stood for the past 13 years, waiting for someone to open the door.

My name was written carefully across the front.

In handwriting that didn’t follow lines.

No return address.

No explanation.

Inside was my blue jacket!!!

Folded more neatly than I ever had.

I smiled to myself, ear to ear, as I put it back on.

Object Description: Blue jacket.

Slightly faded.

Still mine.

Losing it was to let me realise

I was the one who made that jacket special.

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We Will Still Wed, If You Ever Decide to Come Back

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

We Will Still Wed, If You Ever Decide to Come Back

I cry as I write this, still mourning a future that was never even fully proofed. W e never really wanted the picket fences and a big suburban villa though. Y ou had your ambitions, and I had mine. There was a gap in my dream which was supposed to get filled with my college plans. But you already had yours sorted, and you impressed my mother with it.

Already at fourteen— you were ready to build a house brick by brick for us. I was scared of talking about children, but I told you that I wanted to adopt. However now, my maternal instincts are stronger than ever, and I imagine how it could have been if I told you about the chokehold that babies have on me now. I imagine my children having your eyes, because that always will be something I’ll only ever want with you.

I wish I had told you about all of it.

I wouldn’t mind moving to a country that isn’t as urban as the cities we’re used to. I could see you trying to dig soil for me to sow the fruit’s leftover seeds in, dirt getting stuck under your finger nails. And then you’d wash your hands thrice, last time without the soap. A small routine that you’d built over time after either gardening or peeling garlic. You’d make sure my morning coffee would be exactly catered to my preference, and you’d keep aside some of your t-shirts for me to wear every night. I’d learn the way you’d chant my name, sometimes out of rapture, other times out of despair. And I’d finally let you understand the depth of the vortex of my emotions. I’d pick out your outfit for any and all occasions and you’d zip up my dress, or fasten the clasp of my necklace. You’d struggle with barre chords on the guitar, and I’d laugh, refusing to admit that there was a time when I was in your place. I’d insist on our children getting your smile but secretly you’d tell our parents how they look exactly like me.

Some day, that will happen. I know.

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The Hellebore Garden

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

The Hellebore Garden

The Winter Curse had started five miserable years ago. Vicious winds, unforgiving snow and scarce supplies. It had swept in uninvited.

It refused to leave.

And with it had come the Frojan soldiers.

Also uninvited. Also refusing to leave.

Or allowing others to.

‘Good lord, stop staring outside, April,’ aunt Lana chided from behind the kitchen counter. ‘You can’t change anything.’

‘Is it true some kids like snow?’ April asked quietly.

Aunt Lana sighed, resigned, ‘Why must you ask the strangest questions, child?’

April stood, ‘I’m going to the garden.’

‘Don’t forget your hood, dear’

April made her way to a patch of land that belonged to nobody, but nothing had ever belonged to them.

She stared down at the hellebore flowers. Sometimes, if she did long enough, she would see a woman tending to them, fingers gentle, humming sweetly.

But that had been long ago. Nowadays, no matter how hard she tried–even if she sat there till evening–she could see nothing but flowers and snow. She couldn’t remember the woman’s face–nothing but snow–but April knew she’d loved the flowers. So she took the responsibility upon herself now.

***

April set down the watering can next to the tank, she rapped her knuckle against it.

‘Aunt Lana, water’s run out!’ she called, ‘June, get up! I know you’re awake.’

April’s twin sister sat up in bed, not daring to untangle herself from her warm blankets.

‘Can’t I oversleep once in a while?’ June whined, smiling.‘Don’t make it obvious you’re awake if you want to sleep in,’ April muttered, aware June would never slack off.

April melted frost off the firewood with barely flickering flames then fed them to the fire. June set down a pail next to her, carrying one herself.

‘We’ll get the water! Let’s go, April.’

***

April trudged after her sister, the bucketful of snow heavy in her hand. It had to be melted–just like everything else. She trailed behind, catching a view of the maroon flowers. They really were strange amongst the bright snow. A patch of absurdity. Of sanity.

‘Do you remember her?’ June asked, her voice soft.

April froze. June had never spoken of the woman who had birthed them before. She was essentially a stranger to April. Someone who had moved on long before she could get to know her. The flowers were all that remained.

‘Do you?’ April whispered.

‘No’, June replied ruefully, ‘Only as… a face that won’t leave my dreams.’

‘Neither do I, except as… a presence that won’t leave my life.’

June smiled at her sadly, April knew her face was an exact mirror.

‘You!’ A gruff voice barked out. A Frojan soldier seeking to abuse his authority. June turned around, admirably composed, though his kind were the reason they were stuck here and for that lady’s death, ‘Sir?’

Before he could reply, his eyes narrowed on the garden. ‘What is that?’ He marched to her flowers, intent clear as snow. April gasped, panicked, June’s grip on her wrist restraining her.

She watched a soldier kill her mother for the second time. April felt tears freezing on her face, all those years of hard work.

‘Unauthorised plants,’ he informed disapprovingly then straightened his cap, retreating. But April couldn’t look away from the remnants of her mother.She rushed to the garden.

The snow was muddy now, not white. The flowers lay crushed, dark petals scattered over the wreckage.

‘I never wanted this. The perfect snow was better,’ she whispered between heavy breaths, fingers gathering the petals. ‘Didn’t you always say that hellebores will survive everything? Where are they now? Where are you?’

‘April, look.’

April looked to where her sister indicated. A single hellebore. Petals dark as ever, stem bent–but alive. April stared for a second, then burst out laughing. Not with joy or merriment, only realization.

June joined in, ‘They do survive everything.’

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Shadows of Expectations

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

Shadows of Expectations

“Beta i, it’s me to start thinking about your future.” Oh that lovely, lovely phrase. To the teenage mind it’s music to their ears. Just picture those young, lively souls on the verge of adulthood… An ocean of possibility lies before them: Doctor, Engineer, Failure… Personally, I recommend the later.

Parents don’t raise children these days- just their expecta ons. I remember when I told Mum and Dad what I wanted to be in the future.

“JOURNALIST?!” Mummy screamed. “I’ll disown you! I’ll skin you alive! I’ll murder you before you set foot into the liberal arts!”

“Journalism?” Dad sounded like he had swallowed a lemon. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but why can’t you do that as a… well… side thing?”

Oh the horror! Oh the indignity! Mom and Dad’s precious daughter has gone over to the dark side.

What next? She’ll say she wants to study (gulp) philosophy?

And you wonder why your life feels like crap. The cherry on the top is that, as a child, you are always told that no ma er what, your parents will support you. Of course Beta, aim for the stars! And then when you declare a major in Anglo-Saxon Studies, the whole world flips upside down.

Reputa on? Gone

That money you were going to inherit from your great aunt? Gone.

Not even a family dinner on Sundays? Nope.

But then seriously, stop lying to us. Please, let’s have lucid communica on here. Give us a concrete list.

“Beta, I want you to study quantum physics, get a PhD in thermodynamics, become Prime Minister of India, and win the Nobel Prize.”

Okay Mummy. I’ll do it Mummy. Let me just pack my Art History books and dump them in that sewer outside. Fine – let’s say that you do have a point. Will I make money being an archeologist? Probably not. But is working late nights in some dingy lab, squin ng away at a non-existent par cle any be er? Probably not.

Maybe it’s best if we just don’t get educated. Let’s tell our children to drop out of school! Run free like monkeys on the savannah! No need to learn about the deadliest wars in the world, or mass genocides, or even God for that ma er (because isn’t religion an art?)

I just don’t get it.Oh Elina – maybe it’s because you work in the “liberal arts”.

Then tell me, Madam Doctor. Educate me, Mr. Engineer: why do you scorn the arts when you find joy in dance, sing to your dead, and paint to capture memory? Why do you scorn the arts, when art is where you find solace? Why do you scorn the arts, if you are reading it at this very moment?

At this point, I think it’s best if we just quit school. Solves all our problems. Join the movement!

No-o school! No-o school!

Save our society!

Discard the educa on system!

Build a fair and equal world, where the sciences and the arts are on an even foo ng- because you won’t learn about either of them!

***

“Beta, it’s me to start thinking about your future.”

Mummy – I figured it out. I want to become a baboon.