FABLE FACTORY
Glyph is an independent online publication dedicated to English fiction, aiming to form a vibrant and dynamic community of young writers and artists with a passion for stories. After months of labour of love and planning, it will be open to all on the 5th of January at GlyphFiction.com. Here's a glimpse of what it has in store for everyone. For more content: facebook.com/GlyphFiction
That First Time
NIFATH KARIM CHOWDHURY
The wheels slowed down and screeched to halt in front of them. She stood inches from the door, which swung open automatically with that mechanical noise she had always imagined but never really heard. She looked at him, questioningly, as doubt clouded her mind for the umpteenth time that day, and he answered her look with a reassuring smile, nodding his head encouragingly. And with a deep breath, she got on the bus and climbed up the narrow flight of stairs to the top deck.
She expected it to be unclean, and her hands lingered only for a second on the railing as she balanced herself on the top step. She took it in, the stretch of seats nailed to the steel floor, the narrow passage in the middle, and caught hold of the railing again as Zareef nudged her gently from behind to go on. She squeezed herself in between the seats and made her way to the front, where the windshield was cracked on one side from some previous political disturbance, and she shuddered at the thought that the event might repeat itself in her presence. Cautiously, she sat down beside the open window, and Zareef dropped down beside her.
She looked at him, and from the way he slumped in his seat and adjusted his bag and tucked in his legs, she could tell this was a mundane-everyday happening for him, and that the broken windows and narrow staircases did nothing to intimidate him. He noticed her looking at him, and beamed. She smiled back nervously, and looked down the window. She had never really appreciated how high it was on the top deck of public buses, and a shiver ran down her spine as the ground loomed far below her. She shrank back in her seat, wondering if it was too late to call her dad and ask for the car to pick her up, when Zareef startled her out of her reverie by
laughing out loud. She raised her eyebrows, as he shrugged apologetically.
“I'm sorry. It's just -- you couldn't have looked more uncomfortable.”
“And you find it funny?” she asked in a voice of forced contempt. Forced, because there was something about the way his eyes shone that she just couldn't ignore, and couldn't be annoyed at.
“You look like a cat stuck in a tree. Yeah I find it hilarious!” -- he grinned at her.
She sighed and let an unwilling smile escape her lips as she looked away. Really, what was she doing? All she had to do was call for her dad to pick her up and she could be going home in her private air conditioned car, reclining with ease on a leather seat, stopping at some restaurant on the way to appease her hunger (she never had a taste for canteen food), breathing in clean filtered air devoid of sick old people who coughed and spat and cursed in the seats behind her. But then she thought of her dad, of the continual grunts of disappointment and disapproval and the non-so-subtle hints at how she was a burden and a cost to maintain. She thought of the silences only to be broken with a call from some bank or real estate company nobody really knew. She thought of the stillness and it suffocated her. She remembered her father's quiet look of relief as she lied about coming home with another friend; it was clearly more convenient for him to not travel with her. She closed her eyes for a moment, and shut herself out to the world. When she opened them, she saw Zareef looking at her curiously, his eyebrows raised slightly in concern. She placed her hand lightly on his wrist, and smiled at him.
Zareef laughed hollowly.
“You don't really want to be here, do you?”
Sarah looked at him, and knew there was more to her words than he guessed.
“Honestly? I'd rather be here than anywhere else.”
Why?
SAMEEHA AL SAYED
She started with questions like "Why does sugar taste sweet?", "Why is the paper white?", "Why can't we have wings?", "Why do I have to learn the alphabet?". Then came some abstract ones: "Why are chocolate chip cookies the best thing in the world?", "Why does it feel that way when he looks into my eyes?", "Why do people die?", "Why does dad love me so much?", "Why do I have to go to college?", "Why does the thought of God give me strength?", "Why does it hurt to grow up?". My daughter had me realise that not every question needs an answer. Questions are the essence of us. Asking is how we move forward. So ask why the mountains must stand so tall, ask if the moon gets lonely sometimes, ask if you can be as beautiful as summer and most importantly, ask why life is so short.
Winter
ZOHEB MASHIUR
He gathered two sticks more, and the third, for the first fires of December. A weak sun gently gave way, drowned in seas of coming night. A few white flakes lost in the white of his hair and a chill deep in his bones as he turned homeward. A long journey from the woods, but not a lonely one. Memories travelled with him: children laughing, playing hide-and-seek in ancient yew alleys. A first kiss beneath an apple tree. A young man rifle-proud, his shots doing no more than scaring the mallards. And deep in the heart of the forest a promise of love made to one now long gone beneath the earth.
He looked forward to home, a cheery little fire, and stories to tell grandchildren. It would be a long night, but not a lonely one.
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