She walked, entranced, into the water until it reached her chin, the wing of her little pink butterfly stuck out like a shark fin.
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
Talespeople presents The Screaming Shorts, partnered with Daily Star Books and Star Literature.
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.”
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.
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.
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.