the orphanage

Saltmort hunkered down for a flat stone and skimmed it along the lake. On turning back he scrambled up to the grassy bank, plonked down casting a glance around. His old ramshackle orphanage stood right ahead of him. Its dilapidated doors, worn patches on the wall, weathered stone steps, etiolated creepers curling around the pergola evoked long lost memories, making allusions to numerous stories. A monument to all the happiness his childhood was forbidden. A mother in true sense. He did have his best days. The flood of nostalgia burst its bank.

This is the place where he learnt the most valuable lessons of life, where he learned to take challenges head-on. Where he made friends for life. On birthdays they sang and danced up a storm. Where he crashed into the most formidable competitor Rumbleroar, for the first time, who embezzled all his skimming stones. When they squared off, he sprung apart and pitched backward in the lake. … whatever. Scarcely did they toe the line. Sherry and Kimberly had collected a bagful of best stones for skimming and sometimes they lent him one of the them… A mixed feeling of great joy and pride devoured him.


#writephoto

#FOWC

Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is a mother of two lovely kids and hails from the northeastern town of India Gorakhpur. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures with her kids.

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