Lone Wolf

So what makes them do it? What makes an ordinary, quiet, seemingly normal teenager fire an automatic at his school friends and teachers? What makes a man drive his car into innocent pedestrians on a sidewalk? What justification is there for these lone wolf attacks?

Wolves are pack animals, just as humans are by nature socialised beings. Lone wolves on the other hand, prefer their own company. They live and hunt on their own. They are outcasts by temperament, by circumstance and sometimes of their own volition.

Nearly always after another chilling attack, emerge the clues that led to it. A social misfit, a dysfunctional background, a lack of love, a propensity for violence, vulnerability to ideological brainwashing. Taken alone, each of these qualities may perhaps lead a person to a solitary existence, a criminal career or even a mental institution. Together, however, they become so much more dangerous.

Can we, as responsible citizens; parents, neighbours, co workers, pick up on any of these clues, and report them to the relevant authorities? Do we, as a society, have a duty towards these social outcasts? Is it possible in any way to intervene and diffuse a potentially fatal situation from developing?

These are amongst the many questions that lie at the heart of the modern dilemma of home grown attackers. Are killers born or made? Are terrorists just victims of circumstance and conditioning?

Reflection and responsibility. Two things that might lead us to answers. Uncomfortable truths of the part we play in marginalising these peripheral pariahs, whose only moments of recognition and glory lie in death, terror and destruction.

Then, and only then, will we vanquish this multi headed Hydra.



So, the experiment is complete. With varying degrees of success (and discomfiture) I managed to explore three hitherto uncharted genres. However, to begin at the beginning…

A while ago, I had posted the ten word story. It was an exercise in trying to convey an entire narrative in ten words. Something that has been done to amazing effect by some vastly superior writers with far less words. One in particular stands out. Hemingway’s For sale: Baby shoes, never worn. In six words he communicates a plethora of emotions to devastating effect.

Mine was far simpler. It said: Thank you for last night. This should cover it. Kisses.

Now, even as I posted it, I began to wonder what might have gone on before. Which is when the idea of concluding three different, completely unrelated stories, at the same point, occurred to me. I omitted the Kisses at the end, as it jarred with what I was about to begin.

Rear View: Taking inspiration from my neighbourhood, and also the frequent reports of people dying, lonely and undetected, came the story of an old pensioner and his widowed neighbour, who become friends. It developed into a ghost story, but one I hope, that didn’t scare as much as sadden. Out of the three, this was the one that was the easiest to write, and evolved most organically. It was also the one that received the most appreciation, placing fourth in a competition.

Two Chevrons apart: The trickiest one to write. Erotica is not as easy as people may think. For one, I had to abandon all compunctions, and write as honestly and truthfully as I could. But the purpose was not just to arouse. It was to display the futility of an unrequited love, where the protagonist, time and again offers herself up to a man who is not worthy of her. I hope that the eroticism underlined this futile love. I noticed, after I wrote this story, that there was a lot of traffic on my site, yet very few comments. People who knew me, were perhaps jolted a bit by this uncharacteristic, almost voyeuristic display of bedroom antics. To them I say, to be honest to my craft, I must extend myself, and in this genre, I flexed muscles I did not know I possessed.

Central Reservation: Dystopian, dark and disturbing was the brief. I hope I fulfilled it, much as my hero did his. Set in the distant future, where mortals abandon morals in pursuit of longevity, I had initially imagined Robert as an unwilling assassin, who gets embroiled in a plot unwittingly. As the story developed, and quite another angle presented itself to me, Robert developed shades of grey. And so, he became a willing accomplice, who cannot wait to fulfil his mission of hijacking another’s life. The story within a story was a surprise even to me. Yet, strangely, that struck a chord with most readers, and I was complimented on the cleverness of it all. I must confess, there was very little cleverness involved. It was a sub conscious desire to bring a bit of realism to a very futuristic fantasy.

This concludes the post mortem on my experiment. I hope you enjoyed reading the stories, just as much as I enjoyed writing them. If you have any suggestions on any further experiments I should undertake, I would be happy to receive them.

Oh! And as a last word. Why were my titles all metaphors of driving? Quite simply because I see life as a huge metaphor for driving. Now, go figure that one out.

Rear view

She rummaged through the drawer, her panic increasing incrementally. It wasn’t here either. She had looked everywhere, at least in the most obvious places. Places where she could have put it, inadvertently, unthinkingly. Now, she was starting to look in the silly places. Refrigerator, shoe closet, paperwork drawer, airing cupboard. She wasn’t old enough to have lost her marbles yet, but she certainly seemed to have lost her precious pearls.

Walter’s pearls. The ones he’d bought her in Hong Kong when they were posted there. In their early, heady days of marriage when gifts, little and large, punctuated their idyllic existence. She had worn them frequently at first, her natural elegance enhanced by the soft sheen of the Akoya pearls that encased her lovely long neck. Then, as age began its ravages on her face and body, she wore them less. Walter was home less too. It all seemed pointless after a while. After no children and far too many postings, and whispers of concubines.

Still, within them lay wrapped her dreams and her memories, and she couldn’t bear to part with them. Even when the medical costs grew to the extent where most of her jewellery was swallowed up. Even as they downsized and Walter’s chairlift absorbed the last of their savings, she’d held on to them. They were a surviving symbol of the happy future she had envisaged as a giddy, young bride. And now, they were gone.

She looked at the mess strewn around her, and sighed. It would take far too long to put right, and in her frame of mind, all she wanted was to retreat to her little garden, and finish that bottle of Pinot Grigio she had chilling. The setting sun was casting an orange glow into her room, and she looked down at her shaky hands willing herself to be calm. She would return to her search tomorrow, and the many endless tomorrows that would inevitably follow.

The first sip was a delicious invitation into oblivion. She knew she was in that twilight zone where just one more step would lead her into full blown alcoholism. But after years of disciplined self deprivation, she no longer cared. She looked around at her well tended garden, with its neat hedgerows, and potted plants that housed a profusion of colours, and smiled sadly. There was never anyone to share it with. After Walter, she had licked her wounds far too long. Her self inflicted hibernation had lost her the few friends she had. Now, except for the hawk faced harridan that lived at number 10, she never came across anyone in her quiet cul-de-sac.

The wind had a slight chill to it, and as it passed over her, she pulled her shawl closer. Smoke wafted over the fence, and she heard a wheezy cough. Cyril? Cecil? What was his name, she wondered. The reclusive widower that lived next door.

“Hello?”, she called out, surprising herself.

There was a pause, and then a soft Scottish burr answered her equally hesitantly, “Hello?”

“I…I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a glass of wine?”, she said, once again surprised at her own temerity.

After two beats, the wonderment tinged response, “Yes, I would very much like that.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, and quickly tidied the cushions on the sofa, while mentally kicking herself for not applying any lipstick.

She yanked open the door on the first knock, and he stood there with his hand still raised, the other hand leaning heavily on the cane. She quickly took in the patrician nose, the grey hair, the tweed jacket that had seen better days, and smiled at him, slightly embarrassed at her open appraisal.

“Do come in”, she turned to let him pass, at once noticing the limp.

In the garden she learnt his name really was Stuart, and that his wife had passed ten years ago. His sons and their families ignored him except for Christmas, when he was passed around like a well used toy between them. He spoke without rancour, and she listened in sympathy.

“Martin lives fifteen minutes away. He is a GP. A very busy man. He drops in on me, when he can. He doesn’t tell Sue. Sometimes he stays for a wee dram.” His eyes lit up as he spoke of his younger son. Then he stopped, and looked at her. Really looked at her. “And what about you, little lady? Why do you hide in here all day and all night? Why aren’t you about, painting the town red?”

She laughed at him. “How old do you think I am Stuart? My days of painting anything red are long gone.”

“Ach noh! To me you are a spring chicken, too pretty to be gardening all day.”

And drinking all night, she surmised from the way his eyes flicked to the nearly empty bottle and away.

“Would you like a refill?”

She returned with a bowl of peanuts, her rumbling stomach reminding her that dinner time had come and gone. Somehow, she didn’t mind. This easy camaraderie was filling a different hunger.

He spoke of his youth in Inverness. She told him of her travels around the world. He talked of his hopes of Scotland finally gaining independence, the referendum he hoped would pass in his lifetime. She described to him the hustle and bustle, the smell and the chaos of the Bombay fish markets. He talked of his beloved wife, Jane. She topped up their glasses, thought briefly of Walter, and spoke no more.

The crickets came out, and the moths circled the lamp in the garden furiously. They sat together in silence. Till he reached across and put his hand over hers. The feel of his leathery palm dislodged something inside her. Her tears dampened the front of his jacket. Her gasping sobs interspersed with hiccupping sorries. Out came every worry, every silly and sad concern that jostled for space inside her. The mislaid pearls, the mislaid self esteem.His hand patted her back, smoothed her hair, muttered quiet soothing words she couldn’t make out, till she felt herself melt into him, reaching out in the darkness, towards his lips. He pushed her back gently.

“I must leave now, m’dear. It is late.”

She nodded, abashed, aroused, ashamed.

He let himself out. She staggered upstairs to bed, sleeping fitfully, her dreams a jagged landscape, peopled with smoke and pearls and a wistful heaviness.

The next morning, she stumbled downstairs, in search of water, the thudding behind her eyes, threatening to reach epic proportions. A note was placed carefully on her sideboard. The handwriting on the note was unfamiliar, almost old fashioned.
Her befuddled mind could not understand how her pearls sat next to the note, so innocuously, giving nothing away.

Momentarily distracted by the noise next door, she thrust the note and her necklace into her dressing gown pocket, and went out to investigate.

Paramedics, police, the ambulance and a multitude of people were traipsing in and out of Stuart’s house. Alarmed, she ran forward, to be briskly informed she couldn’t enter. Only family was allowed. A visibly shocked, pale faced man walked out and spoke to the police officer. Martin, she guessed. She called out. “What’s happened? Is Stuart alright?”

He looked at her, and looked away, as though she didn’t matter. She supposed she really didn’t.The hawk faced woman from number 10, came over to her conspiratorially.

“He’s dead. That’s his son. Found him this morning. Heart attack they are saying.”

“Oh!”, her sharp intake of breath made the shrew pause briefly in her narrative.

With eager relish she continued. “Been dead a week at least, they say. Poor sod!”

The ground swam up to meet her.

Hours later, revived by the paramedics, and treated for shock, she remembered the note.

It lay crumpled in her pocket. She smoothened it out, pulling her pearls out alongside. It simply said:

Thank you for last night. This should cover it.

The pearls sat in her hand like a coiled serpent. Slowly she let them drop to the floor.

©2014 Poornima Manco


The unlikely Casanova

He sat looking into his glass of amber liquid, a smile hovering on his lips. The lone ice cube in there was melting rapidly, quite unlike his latest conquest. The ice maiden. It had taken a while with her. And yet, her defeat, when it came, was sudden and unequivocal. Another one that had bitten the dust, grovelled at his feet, expecting a reciprocal love- aghast when it was not returned. He dipped a finger into his glass, swirling the cube, watching it disperse. She had been the latest in his long line of acquisitions. Women, he had always known and feared, were out of his league. Women, who would have barely given him a second glance, except that now, they did.

Words were his weapons. Weapons that wreaked destruction stealthily. This had never been open warfare. It had been a subtle seduction. A beguiling of the senses. A promise of pleasure, with a subtext of pain. He stalked them covertly at first, then brazenly. Showering them with images. Showing them what lacked in their lives. The lacunae that he could fill. That he would fill, if only they would give him a chance. They would laugh at him at first. Then be intrigued. Then flattered. Till finally, they could not move, without a thought of him filling every vacant moment of their vacant lives. Like moths, they would draw nearer and nearer to their own destruction, wilfully abandoning all thoughts of self preservation. He was the cauldron into which all their desires would subsume.

It was a matter of finding the chink. The Achilles heel that every single one of them possessed. With some, it was loneliness, with others it was the lack of love, of sex, of affection, and with others still, it was simply boredom and ennui. It took him very little time to figure out what their compulsions were. Then he worked on them, like a Master violinist working his strings, tautening the tension, till they could take no more, and shivering with delicious anticipation, they would yield to him. At that point, he would walk away. The thrill was in the chase, not in the victory. The game would be over for him.

She had been different, he thought. A challenge. One that could match him, word for word, sabre thrust for sabre thrust. It had been his turn to be intrigued. Even as he had spun his web of words around her, he had felt himself getting caught up in it too. Entangled in emotions that he had no business entertaining.For a brief time he had wondered if he had finally found love, found ‘the one’. In the end, however, she was much like the others. Promising to give it all up for him. For a chance to be held in his arms. His nose had puckered at the predictability of it all.

He had offered her advice. Sage, solemn advice. To seek counsel. To redress the wrongs in her relationship. He did not figure in her future, he calmly informed her. He had watched her distress with a disembodied disenchantment. And it had occurred to him, that he simply did not care.

With a quick glug, he downed his whiskey. The room around him blurred and swayed a little. With a groan, he heaved himself out of his chair, and walked unsteadily to his bed. Thoughts and words coalesced in his mind as he lowered himself onto the mattress. He drew the sheet up to his chin, shivering unaccountably in the heat. His hand reached over to the other side of the bed. No one. There never was. There probably never would be.

Game over.