It magnifies. The throttling cusps of altars. His silhouette had held her bubbled imaginations. She etched her poetry between the pages of his experience. He had grown up behind the stacked hay under the setting sun, she lived in a city of burnt dreams. The book, from the Shakespearean Othello to Nehru's Discovery of India, hid layers of magnified steeps and leaps, stirred with little love that kills, separation, hatred, repulsion, seated on the horizons of perspectives. .

Frame to fame


Fridays she looked forward to. To check if she was in top four; if she was, it made her very happy. If not, she was okay with even being featured in it. Which was often. The different stories for a single frame made for interesting reading and most times there was a connect between the frame and the story lines. She knew her journey had started with getting connected to OFS; she just hoped it would culminate in a logical conclusion. .

One Frame Story-ception


A milestone achieved; a dream lived. His site was now getting its own book. 100 frames but no one knew that among them one frame was his pic, for which stories came as usual and he had also written - not just another story, but the truth. The truth, however, didn't make it to the top four, but he was happy - it was still published. He never wrote under his name. Anonymity sourced his creations. Would he write for this 100th frame too? Maybe he has; or maybe you are reading it now... you'll never know..

World: A Book

Kavita Chavda

"Frame 100' the screen flashed! The very day my dearest grandma passed away last year but if she were alive, she would be 100 by now. She has narrated 1000s of stories to me, each with different perspectives of life that did not let me fail at any point in my life. But millions of people around me had different perspectives on similar things that I was taught. After all, that's why we are all born unique so that this world becomes a 'colourful book' with million shades of perspectives and 'this site represents that,' I murmured to myself, continuing to surf..


Naveen Rane

Mayur: OMG, dude again wasting your time on OFS. Girish: Yes, again my passion for writing pulls me to OFS. After a few days. Mayur: Congrats dude, I have good news for you. Girish: What's that? Mayur: My director wanted a story for short film on national integration and I showed your story titled" Indian House" and he has locked it. Girish: But you used to say I waste time and ignored my stories on OFS. Mayur: I know, I missed the opportunity of being part of OFS, also being a writer myself..


Shweta Naik

Eighteen-year-old Anil was happy that he had sold 20 copies of 'One Frame Stories' just today. He wasn't educated but the city streets had taught him to thrive alone. A scared, ragged-clothed little girl approached him . "What do you want?" he asked sternly, realising she couldn't pay. "Bhaiyya, can I have that book?" she said innocently. "What are you going to do with it? It's not a kids' storybook." "The book has my village pictures. I want to go back home. Can you take me there?" "Sure, sister, I will," he said, his heart melting..


Payal Phayde

When you were, I began to write. Sometimes I acted to make sure I had a nice story to tell. You wrote too, for me but never about. But my every frame was you, the real picture known to us alone. For people they were stories, my breathing and beating heart. As you moved away, I trembled to not have continued inspiration: added to my already miserable state. But I know you enough, I realised on a new frame as the words came to me. Now "we" won't fade, even if that is what you actually chose. .

Collage of life

WoMania neverborn

"No Ma, it's not many lives in one frame, it's many frames of one life. Each person we meet is us only. Each one who went away from us took a part of us with him. We don't meet without a reason; neither do we part. They all touch us differently at different points. Our life is made up of many such touches." No... I didn't say this to mom but she understood every word. And we continued our job of cutting photos to make a collage called Life..

The Book


Finally Pappa allowed me to read 'The Book'. Ever since Bennet uncle gifted the book on Pappa's birthday, I had been longing to read it as the cover was attractive. Those neatly arranged books, the calm sea, the bicycle rickshaw, the movie ticket, the bubble, the man in the forest, that beautiful mehendi design, those paddy fields, the newspaper boy, the village girl, the old lady with wrinkles, the kids... made me long for something more than a tale. But when I finished reading The Book, I could feel drops of liquid dripping down from the last page of each story: drops of tears, sweat and blood..

The Book


Finally Pappa allowed me to read 'The Book'. Ever since Bennet uncle gifted the book on Pappa's birthday,I was longing to read it as the book cover was attractive. Those neatly arranged books,the calm sea,the bicycle rickshaw, the movie ticket, the bubble, the man in the forest,that beautiful mehendi design ,those paddy fields,the newspaper boy,the village girl,the old lady with wrinkles,the kids...made me long for something more than a tale. But when I finished reading The Book ,I could feel drops of liquid dripping down from last page of each story;the drops of tear,sweat and blood..

Paid dreams

Manoj kini

The investment banker had just finalised another round of funding and he had already picked his investment avenue. "Congratulations dad!! You can stop your pitch-reject cycle. I have news!" "Not in the mood for pranks kiddo." "Look! Your script is accepted for a pilot batch." "How can that be? I didn't even share my script." "I did. Your prologue sufficed. They believe in giving everybody a fair chance. If the pilot succeeds, you talk terms. If not, they move on." He paid for dreams now. And published them. Sometimes unfulfilled dreams go a long way in fulfilling others'..

The curious case of No. 13


"As I walked past stacks of books, she brushed aside a strand of hair that obstructed her concentration... I love bubbles... The waves seemed to empower her every time it touched her feet... I made an image of the kids in all their glory... The beautiful stone-paved alley adorned with all the old school buildings could not match her... nor could the sun kissed greenery she waded through... GRANNY!! She would lie amidst tall grass for hours on the end... the ticket stub..." "Patrick! You haven't taken your medicine yet." "I was going to. After I bid her goodbye.".