I.

He pauses at the corner of Mirpur 2 and 1
Lifts a tiny cigarette to his lips
Prayer beads dangle like so many sacred vows
I push down the urge to shout 
Nephilim, neanderthal, napalm 
Words fail to convey his thrall 
Sweet child
Small lies 
Are told in folk stories
Keep your head up and your chin down
And yes, don't you dare turn around 
The bogeyman wants a smoke

by Mastura Tasnim 

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‘Turn’: Sehri Tales selections, Day 13

II.

Dear Abbu, 
I went to bazaar for the first time today.
I took your usual street.
I looked at the vendors on the vans.
I looked at the produce.
I looked at the shops lining the street. 
And all I could think of was, did he/she know you?
Were you a regular at his/her van?
What would you have bought? 
I pushed those thoughts and focused on the list at hand, the one ammu gave.
While packing, I remembered, you never came with just the things on the list, you always brought something extra, something that ammu might have liked, or Zaheen, or me, or simply because you felt like...
I tried to remember if there was any pattern, I looked around for some/any visual cue.
I didn't get any.
So I just went with what I felt like you used to do, whatever I felt like ammu would like to have.
And that's maybe the crux of my grief abbu. I don't only have to accept a life without you, I also have to put your soes on, in that life, for ammu, for Zaheen.
I will have to go through my whole life wondering at every step, "What would Abbu do?"
Your 
"Abba"

by Nazmun Tabassum Mayeesha 

III.

darkness reigns, silence hums, water drips, engines rumble, street lamps and neon lights that outshine the moon, lonely wails cry out to the wind—
the streets never really quite learn to sleep

by Namreen Shaiyaz