100 Words
View(s):The theme for the next page is “Soft”. Please send in your work before June 18 to:
Dr. Madhubhashini Disanayake Ratnayake at hundredwordsst@gmail.com. Only one contribution per person please, in 12 point font.
The Last Post
The sun was a ball of fire
About to take a dip in the sea.
Amidst the gathering,
Her mind has gone back in
Many years.
Her father’s commanding tone
Still reverberates in her mind.
‘Do not cry of self-pity’
Be brave, fulfil your responsibilities
Have no regrets;
Those were his words.
Holding back the tears,
She looked at him for the last time.
Playing of the Last Post began
The final call!
All she could remember was
The thick smoke emanating from the
Chimney of the crematorium.
Ayoma Wijewardena
Crushed petals
Velvety petals brushed in rainbow hues
Feathered friends, a string orchestra in action
They arrive in their Sunday best
For it is the Day of the Resurrection
The ivory keys are touched with precision
Melodious lyrics erupt in a chorus
And then a deafening sound …………….
Glass in splinters, pews overturned
Wails and moans of despair
From every nook and corner
The petals are stained and crushed
The orchestra is silenced
The tears rush in a deluge
Into the turquoise blue waters
The call was made
After three years it is answered
We hold hands in defiance and harmony
Keerthi Wijekulasuriya
Last calls
He was walking
while listening.
Over the endless seas
his sweetheart was murmuring
sweet nothings to him.
Happiness ran down his feet
engaging them in a dance
on the unlawful path.
His mind sang
a song she loved,
his lips carried it out
making her eyes glisten
one last time
before her flight begins.
At last!
She is returning to him.
A loud call to safety!
A blaring horn
on the senseless sleepers.
Startled!
He called out her name.
Who cared?
Their cellphones cared.
Dutifully they sent both sounds
galloping to her ear.
Her world-ending last two calls.
Kshemali Nanayakkara de Silva
Call for Lanka
The country is in a mess, mismanaged best
Since Independence have we, reaped the worst
Harvests undone, crops rotting in the waste
Trapped in tentacles of spiraling, recurring, damn debt
Comes night, the lights are cut, sweating hellish hot
Days spent in queues for food, fuel, the lot
Money exchanged can hardly buy the basics now
Our Mother prone upon the ground beseeching aid
And the Jackal, Hyena and Wolf prowl around
The once Proud, Resplendent Island, a Begging Bowl
Yet, do you hear the the Koha call, a plaintive cry
Let a Bright New Year dawn for Mother Lanka?
Sonali Wijeratne
Call Girl
All she wanted was true love.
A 35+ woman who after a string of
Casanovas was now ready for an eternity,
The real thing, the timeless classic.
She was born to a Catholic family and found
Herself surprisingly back in church,
Sort of a calling to something
That she once hated venomously,
But now grows stealthily inside her.
To interface devoted palms
And not intercourse fickle bodies.
Sort of God’s call girl, who
Takes a trunk call to heaven,
Charged by the flat rate
Of a Hail Mary.
Dilantha Gunawardana
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