short story
FICTION / Insomnia
You are wide awake again
FICTION / The man who dug his own grave
Everyone gathered around the east end of the Shashipur to watch Sharafat Miah dig his own grave. The local kids lurked around Sharafat’s old hut, keeping a watch on the progress of the grave until their mothers came to pick them up after Maghrib.
The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in your House
If they knew, your mother would have said, “It’s in your head, darling,” and your father would have screamed, “Put that head in the toilet bowl where it belongs.”
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
The pond
She walked, entranced, into the water until it reached her chin, the wing of her little pink butterfly stuck out like a shark fin.
Vinayeki
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
Hunt
Talespeople presents The Screaming Shorts, partnered with Daily Star Books and Star Literature.
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".
