short story
FICTION / The chasm
At around 2 AM he was awoken by the sound of Shahidun’s sniveling cries on her prayer mat. As grating as it might have sounded, he felt grateful for it to have woken him up.
'August': Sehri Tales selections, Day 20
The top selections in poetry, flash fiction and artwork for Day 20 of the Sehri Tales challenge; prompt: August
'Long': Sehri Tales selections, Day 9
The top selections in poetry, flash fiction and artwork for Day 9 of the Sehri Tales challenge; prompt: Long
FICTION / The smell
“Stop mocking me, Atif! I am telling you there is something here.”
'Flick': Sehri Tales selections, Day 8
The top selections in poetry, flash fiction and artwork for Day 8 of the Sehri Tales challenge; prompt: Flick
'Relief': Sehri Tales selections, Day 7
The top selections in poetry, flash fiction and artwork for Day 6 of the Sehri Tales challenge; prompt: Relief
FICTION / The graveyard in the desert of void
The voices–the wails that had called me here–were emanating from these very graves.
FICTION / Nearness
How do you think I feel every time I find you hovering over the door to my classroom? Like when you’re the only passenger riding up a lift, and then it suddenly stops.
FICTION / Interim
That was the first time in my life I’d smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you’re supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.
The poem
Ratan Da walked away, waddling the way he came from, whispering, “Don’t let it go to waste, don’t let it go to waste.”
The odyssey of a man
A story of an ordinary man and his very ordinary journey.
A night at Hotel Kaalipara
An uncomfortable stillness emanated in the air around Rajpath road. I stood there with my suitcase in my hand, the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge. Glancing left then right, I crossed the road and entered the premises of Hotel Kaalipara.
Saints of gold
It was another early sunset on a rainy day in Dhaka. Alamin was walking with a polythene bag of groceries back to his small, rented apartment.
Miles away
Back at home, food used to narrate stories. Here, food does not travel far to the nooks and crannies of Velutha’s heart; it only reaches his stomach well enough to leave him looking healthy and strong.
My London: An Immigrant Story
You Are a Rickshawallah
It’s a Love Story, baby just say yes
Sameer’s mother looked at her husband before quickly stepping in and attempting to defuse the situation. “You know it’s just a heritage thing. We’re not really Biharis".
Not talking in a city of loudspeakers
The door didn’t fully click shut. That was an ordinary affair in the house because the door locked to prevent escape. But, by chance or sheer good luck, it didn’t fully lock this time. The click was off. Someone hadn’t done their job correctly. Bloody hell, no one does their jobs correctly in this godforsaken country.
Terrible tea, terrible life choices
But I guess Ivan did not choose wisely. It was a series of unfortunate events with him and now, he was stuck with Rebecca–and there was still six hours 46 minutes left in this office cubicle.
The Writer
The lad appeared to be very humble and slowly took a seat. But I noticed that he did not take his eyes off my face even once. He kept on staring at me through his glasses.
