『Fiction Flickers : Romance Flash Fiction』のカバーアート

Fiction Flickers : Romance Flash Fiction

Fiction Flickers : Romance Flash Fiction

著者： Sankar Srinivasan
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 About This Podcast (and the Brave Soul(!) Behind It)

Hi, I am Sankar Srinivasan, part-time dreamer, full-time stock market consultant, and now… surprise! First-time romance flash fiction writer.

I used to think romance was all about long novels, slow burns, and dramatic violin music. But then I discovered the magic of flash fiction—tiny love stories with big feelings. Now I'm writing them faster than a caffeinated squirrel with a pen.

Welcome to Fiction Flickers—a cozy little campfire where short love stories flicker to life and (hopefully) warm your heart without setting your eyebrows on fire.

This is my very first effort in the world of fiction, so if you’re here, you’re basically a founding member of the “cheer squad". Or the “we-read-it-so-you-don’t-have-to” club. Either way, I love you already.

Why this platform?

Because even fictional couples need a support system—and so do first-time writers. Your support helps me:

Keep writing these mini love bombs

Buy more coffee (a legitimate creative fuel)

And eventually, maybe…get a spellchecker that doesn’t judge me

What You Get:

Free and exclusive love stories so short, you can read and listen them while hiding from your responsibilities.

No unpractical offerings

Come for the flickers. Stay for the feelings. Laugh at my writing chaos. Cry at my cliffhangers. Let’s fall in love with fiction—one flash at a time.

Thanks for being here. I swear my grammar improves with each coffee.

Sankar SrinivasanSankar Srinivasan 戯曲・演劇
エピソード
  • Midnight Monsoon

    Midnight Monsoon
    2025/06/09
    Midnight Monsoon

    Contemporary Romance – Second Chance Romance

    It was close to midnight when the rain returned to Mumbai.

    Meera sat by the window of her small apartment in Bandra, sipping hot masala chai. The lights of the city flickered through the glass, blurred by the falling monsoon rain. She wrapped the soft shawl tighter around her shoulders and sighed.

    She wasn’t expecting a knock.

    Tap. Tap.

    Startled, she walked to the door. Through the peephole, she saw a familiar face. Soaked, tired, and as beautiful as she remembered—Aarav.

    They hadn’t spoken in two years.

    She opened the door slowly. "You... here?"

    Aarav gave a half-smile. “Hi, Meera. I was walking… saw the building. My feet brought me here before I could stop them.”

    He was drenched. His white shirt clung to his skin. His eyes, warm and nervous, searched hers.

    Meera hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in. You’ll fall sick.”

    He entered slowly, like a man stepping back in time.

    She handed him a towel. “Sit. I’ll get you some chai.”

    He laughed softly. “You still drink it at midnight?”

    “I still do a lot of things the same,” she said, walking into the kitchen.

    They sat across from each other in silence. The room smelled of cardamom and damp earth.

    “You look the same,” Aarav finally said. “Maybe a little stronger.”

    Meera smiled faintly. “And you look like someone who regrets something.”

    He looked down. “I do. I’ve thought about you every week since I left. The job in Dubai was... it wasn’t worth losing us.”

    The rain whispered outside.

    “I hated you for leaving,” she said honestly. “But I never stopped loving you.”

    His eyes met hers again. “Can I hold your hand?”

    She paused—then reached out. Their fingers touched, gently. Her breath caught.

    A minute passed. Maybe two.

    Then he moved closer.

    He brushed a strand of hair from her face, slowly, the way he used to. She leaned into his palm, eyes fluttering shut.

    “I missed your touch,” he whispered.

    She didn’t stop him when he pulled her into an embrace. It was warm, familiar, and achingly tender. His hand stroked her back slowly, with quiet reverence.

    Their lips didn’t meet. Not yet. But their breaths danced—close, teasing, full of longing.

    She placed her forehead against his.

    “This doesn’t fix everything,” she whispered.

    “I know,” he said. “But can we... begin again?”

    A thunderclap shook the sky. The rain poured harder. But inside, wrapped in memories and a second chance, something soft began to bloom.

    “Yes,” she said, finally. “We can begin again. Tonight.”

    #IndianRomance #SecondChanceLove #MonsoonRomance #ContemporaryIndianFiction #RomanticFlashFiction #EmotionalIntimacy #MatureRomance
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    5 分
  • Monsoon Tea Stall Love Story

    Monsoon Tea Stall Love Story
    2025/06/09
    It was a rainy evening in Darjeeling. The hills were covered in soft mist, and the scent of wet earth mixed with the sharp aroma of tea leaves filled the air. Meera stood behind the small tea stall her father had run for 30 years. After he fell sick, she had taken over. Each day, she brewed strong masala chai for the tourists, students, and locals who stopped by. Her hands moved with ease, pouring hot tea into clay cups. Across the street, under a green umbrella, a young man waited. He had been coming there every evening for two weeks now. He never spoke much. Just ordered one cup of tea, smiled, and sat at the same wooden bench. His name was Ayaan. He was a writer from Kolkata, working on a novel set in the hills. He had rented a quiet room above a bookstore, and found inspiration in the rains, the fog, and—without meaning to—Meera. Meera had noticed him from the first day. Tall, always in a kurta, with a calm voice. He looked serious, but his eyes were soft. When he read a book while sipping chai, she liked to watch the way his lips moved slightly, as if whispering the story. That evening, as thunder rolled in the sky, Ayaan returned again. “One tea, please,” he said, shaking water off his umbrella. Meera gave a small smile. “Extra ginger?” she asked. He nodded. “You remembered.” She handed him the tea, their fingers brushing lightly. It was quick, but something warm spread across her chest. He sat as usual, but this time, after a few sips, he looked at her and said, “You make the best tea I’ve had. Ever.” She laughed. “Or maybe you’ve only had bad tea before?” He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Possible. But I come here for the quiet. And for the girl who makes tea like poetry.” The rain softened. The stall was empty except for them. Meera hesitated. Then walked out from behind the counter with two cups. She handed him one, then sat beside him. Close, but not too close. “Tell me about your book,” she said.
    • contd
    Audio credit NotebookLM
    続きを読む 一部表示
    6 分
  • The Ghost Who Hated Tinder

    The Ghost Who Hated Tinder
    2025/05/31
    Meera had a problem.

    Her apartment was haunted.

    Not scary, blood-dripping-walls haunted. More like... mildly annoying haunted.

    Lights flickered whenever she watched rom-coms. Her fridge played sad violin music when she ordered pizza alone. And her dating app kept unmatching her best prospects.

    One night, while swiping on Tinder, the app crashed again.

    “I swear if it’s you, Ghostface" Meera grumbled.

    The lights blinked twice.

    That was his yes.

    Fed up, she shouted into the kitchen air, “What do you want?! A date of your own? Should I set you up with Casper’s cousin?”

    Suddenly, a message appeared on her TV screen.

    > Hi. I’m Vir. Died: 1924.

    > Hobbies: Poetry, tea, dramatic sighing, and haunting emotionally unavailable women.

    > Looking for: Closure. Also, maybe a girlfriend.

    Meera blinked. “What… the… ghost?”

    Vir materialized. Floating 3 inches above the floor, dressed in a faded sherwani, looking like a tragic hero from a black-and-white movie.

    “I didn’t mean to haunt you," he said. "I just... live here. Technically died here. I even tried relocating to the neighbor’s cat, but she keeps hissing at me.”

    Meera stared at him.

    “You ruined four dates.”

    “They were boring! One guy thought Kashmir was in South America.”

    Fair.

    She sighed. “So what, you’re jealous?”

    “Maybe.”

    “Ghosts don’t date.”

    “We can now,” he said, pointing to the TV. “There’s a new app. BooMingle. I have 87 likes from widows in Shimla.”

    “Oh no,” Meera said. “I am not sharing rent with a flirty ghost.”

    Vir floated closer. “But you smiled when I played violin fridge music. You laughed when I spooked that telemarketer.”

    She folded her arms. “Those were mildly endearing moments.”

    He grinned. “And your idea of a perfect man?”

    She shrugged. “Kind, funny, emotionally intelligent…”

    He hovered dramatically. “I died from feelings. I’m literally 100% emotional intelligence.”

    They stared at each other.

    “You’re impossible” she muttered.

    “And yet… here I am.”

    One week later, Meera was curled up with a book, sipping chai. Vir floated upside down beside her, reading over her shoulder.

    “You know,” he said, “back in my day, if we liked someone, we just wrote them a 14-page letter. With metaphors.”

    “You once possessed my printer and printed a poem about my eyebrows.”

    “Great eyebrows deserve sonnets.”

    She smirked. “You’re lucky you’re semi-transparent.”

    Just then, the doorbell rang. Her date, Karan, stood holding roses.

    Vir whispered, “Not him again. He called Spotify a breakfast dish.”

    Meera sighed. “Let me try. Normal human, remember?”

    Dinner was awkward.

    Every time Karan tried to flirt, the lights blinked.

    When he called Shakespeare “that bald dude from YouTube" the TV flashed:

    "Meera, no. Save yourself."

    Karan finally left—confused, slightly scared, and covered in fridge glitter.

    Meera turned to the empty hallway. “That’s it. You win.”

    Vir appeared, sheepish. “Sorry. Old habits.”

    She threw a cushion at him. It passed through. Of course.

    “I can't date a ghost,” she said.

    “You can... " he replied. “You just need to believe in second chances… and dead people with good taste in poetry.”

    She stared.

    And laughed.

    And maybe, just maybe, reached out to touch his cold, floating hand.

    It passed through again—but the connection stayed.

    Twist: Vir wasn’t just haunting her randomly—he was her great-grandmother’s jilted lover, cursed to wander until a descendant gave him closure… or a date.

    Audio credit: notebooklm
    続きを読む 一部表示
    9 分

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