Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow. Turn this stupid fat rat, yellow.



The Daunted.

Rosalie walked in to her daughter’s open room and looked around.

“God! What a mess!!” she thought with an exasperated sigh. She turned around to face her favorite photo of Allan and their daughter Ashley. “Ah! What I wouldn’t give to just keep looking at both of them all my life?” she wondered. She loved them more than love itself.

Rosalie’d always cherished the way Ashley’s room smelt. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes in the process, waiting for it to hit her senses. The tiniest of frowns had formed between her brows as she kept waiting and finally opened her eyes with disappointment. For the first time in the six years after she’d had Ashley, she couldn’t feel the scent. She brushed the thought aside and looked around Ashley’s messy room again.

Her eyes were drawn to a pink and yellow quilt on the bed; the quilt she had stitched up for Ashley when she had been carrying. She was plunged in to a sudden whirlpool of affection for Ashley, a tiny smile played at her lips she reached her left hand out to grab it. The quilt wouldn’t leave the bed. She shook her head to steer clear of distractions and tried picking it up again, only this time, concentrating. She saw that her hand just passed through the quilt as if it was made of thin air. The frown between her brows deepened. She tried to grab the books which haphazardously lay next to the quilt and with no comprehension what so ever, she stood bewildered there with the same trepidation flooding through her body threatening to drown her. She frantically tried grabbing stuff. She felt her heart race. “Was it a dream? Was she asleep?” she couldn’t help wonder. She stood there frigid, with her left hand on her thumping heart staring at the place in dazed apprehension.

With her frown still in place and heart still racing she turned and ran down the stairs. There were people. A lot of people. Their neighbors, family, friends, Allan’s work friends and many others she hadn’t known. “Some kind of a congregation? But then everyone looked sad. Some even distraught. God please let this be a dream!” she pleaded. She went up to the lady close by and asked “What’s all this? What’s going on?” and the lady just ignored her. It was like she wasn’t even there. She just looked right through Rosalie. “How rude!” she exclaimed as she stomped off toward the garden in search of Allan and Ashley.

A sudden realization of all these people being clad in black descended upon Rosalie. “Why are they all in black? What happened? Allan? Where are you?” She called out to Allan but Allan didn’t respond. He was hunched over a crying Ashley. The sight made Rosalie’s cringe. She hurried over and tried to pry Ashley from Allan’s tight grip to look at her beloved daughter and hug her and tell her that everything was fine.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t touch her. Not Allan. Not Ashley. Not anyone!

There had been a brown box all along. A long brown box. A box that could fit a fully grown human being. She looked at the box and then back at Allan and Ashley and back at the box again. She hadn’t noticed the blurred backdrop of a funeral. She was too caught up in all the ongoing absurdity to spare attention to anything else.

With a comprehending finality, understanding dawned on Rosalie. She knew it. Her frown had vanished. Only to be replaced by a hard set jaw and dead eyes. She couldn’t believe her now-wide eyes.

“There had to be some mistake. This was not possible. She had to see it for herself!” she frantically told herself.

She walked cautiously toward the box and peeped inside to look at a pair of very familiar eyes. Eyes that she’d seen in the mirror for thirty two years. Only this time when she looked, they were closed – closed for the last time – closed for good.

Lying there was Rosalie Strafford.



She was no older that five. She wore a pretty white frock and carried a basket of white rose petals. She stuffed a few petals in her chubby little first and threw them on to the aisle as she walked ahead of the boney woman in the flowing white wedding dress. Arm in arm, her dad walked her and at the end of the aisle, he gave her hand in marriage to a pink man who was wider than he was tall.
The groom’s collar button wasn’t donned as he hardly had any neck. He looked at his boney bride with his watery little piggy eyes and she responded in kind as she seemed to see in his face, a flood of all the world’s love.
Dudley Dursley was getting married. And by him, stood his best man.
He was frantically trying to flatten his jet black hair that stubbornly stuck up at the back of his head. He had brilliant green eyes and wore round glasses but what stood out about this guy was the lightning shaped scar on his forehead.

The Weasleys!

“Arthur! You are the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office! It gives me great pleasure Arthur, in reminding you of that at least tens of thousands of times in a day!”, fumed Mrs. Weasley, her arms on her hips as he sat in front of Hugo’s computer.

“But Molly dear, look, it’s the copmuter! Hugo told me all about it.”, he replied pointing at his grandson who looked petrified with bulging eyes.

“I can’t believe you just did that grandpa! Now she is going to send me a howler!”, said Hugo as Ron and  Hermione howled with laughter and to Mr. Weasley’s delight, as did Mrs. Weasley.

#weasleys #jkrowling #shortstory

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Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow. Turn this stupid fat rat, yellow.


I'm a Gynecologist by profession but an artist at heart. Forever trying to bridge the gap between Art and Science. I love good design, good food and open minds. I hope you enjoy my blog.

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