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.
Old friend, you will be kept alive in jotted snippets and paper clippings.
The place had no soul or spirit left, and it was evident in the colourless walls, the unclean glasses, the empty eyes of the server who left me a menu card.
The wish itself was pretty mediocre and commonplace, a mundane fantasy to escape the mundane.
I walk with my head hung low, my eyes fixated on the gravelly sidewalk, and though I don’t look, I can feel their gazes sting on my
My dear Nightingale, today I set you free. This phrase I had repeated incessantly in my head without being able to voice it, and now that I have completed the feat, I regret my decision of not letting it out earlier.
It was no longer crisp and glossy, nor was it pressed to absolute perfection. Its charcoal grey had washed away into a dull, tired version of itself, much like its owner.
Perhaps it was forever scrunched into a few moments, or a few moments stretched to infinity; which one was true I didn't know, neither did it matter, all that mattered was now, or at least what seemed like the present – the vast endlessness laid out in front of me.
My eyes fly open, and I bolt up, my heart still racing. It takes me more than a moment to realise that it had been just a dream. Just. A. Dream.
In the mirror blotched from years of use and obscured under the layer formed from accumulated smoke and dust, Asiah glanced at her own reflection; blurred, and beaten down.
“You won't believe what happened today. I deem myself a deeply uninteresting person with an almost uniform detachment from the mystic and mundane events occurring periodically around me, so when my mother tried to
Kabir was halfway across his second cup of tea when a sudden noise made him knock the cup across the table, and some of though tea cascaded straight into his lap as well.
“I'm sorry, Ma'am, but we're closing now.” I look up to see Timothy, a student on scholarship who worked part time in this cafe, standing a few feet away from my table, with his hands folded politely behind him.
Even the slightest of sounds can seem piercing, when amidst crystalline silence. And right now, the noise of my own breathing sounds like a storm brewing to me. I try to breathe a bit more quietly, but there is little I can do to wane my thumping heart, which feels and appears to be a ceaseless machine.