What if your day had arrived? Imagine if your entire life was a lie. Assess yourself as your sins flash by; You’re wasting your youth and you don’t know why. Tears flow, but there’s no time left to cry - You’ve got one last breath, one last sigh. The Angel of Death has come too soon; He snatches your soul with a startling boom. In an instant, you know that you are doomed. “Kullu nafsin dhaa iqatul maut. Thumma ilayna tur ja’oon.” He warned you, He warned you; did...
It was fifteen minutes to midnight and sleep was the last thing on my mind. I lazily scrolled through the news feed on my Facebook account before logging out. Suddenly, something caught my attention. My heart skipped a beat and my fingers went numb. “It can’t be… But how?” I whispered to myself. Yet there it was, right before my eyes. Involuntarily, tears began to well up in my eyes. Vague memories of the past flashed before me. I saw him – a tall, dark brown figure, with spectacles...
Intisar shut down her laptop, picked up her jacket and tucked a stray wisp of curly brown hair into her scarf. Picking up her bag, she walked to the door of her office and shut the light as she left. “Leaving for the day, boss?” said a young writer Intisar recognized as Julia. “Yes, Julia. When are you heading home?” “Oh, not for a while. You assigned me that that story about the Richardson house, remember? Deadline’s next week.” “Oh, yes! How is that coming?” “Pretty good, actually. I...
I saw death coming right in front of me, and all I felt was fear. What will happen when it comes for me? Or you? * * * She lay there, weak, taking the last breaths of her life. Her lungs were suffering to exchange oxygen, her body emaciated due to weight loss. Her hair was gone, leaving only a few strands, and her eyes were shut, as she escaped in her own mind. I was thinking of how her soul would rise from her body, and prayed it...
I had just dropped my sisters off at madrassah – the mosque school – and was heading home. The sun was finally calling it a day, decorating the sky with a glorious mix of orange and pink. It was raining lightly, my windscreen wipers wiping tiny specks of water away as I drove on. I watched as young children walked towards the madrassah, dressed in small abayas and thobes, carrying their bags and clutching Qur’ans tightly to their chests. For them it was another evening to understand God’s message....
I’m wasting colours, painting time, Throwing the pen in the air, Slicing okra in the orange-faded Kitchen, watching the thirds tessellate Like broken stencils in the colander. The metal fades, so I drag the blinds And unscroll the curtains to see rain Slipping down the windows. The Song? Tapestries of water Drops, puddles, oceans, casting lullabies, I try to follow - but my voice dies, They whisper the tune until I forget. Everything turns to dust: I can tell you I will, not when, There are shapes in the shadows,...
They used to live in my grandmother’s neighbourhood. A big, poor family of eight children. After the eighth child was born, the husband and wife were constantly quarrelling –the husband hadn’t wanted another child, it just meant another stomach to feed and another body to clothe. The wife didn’t mind. God has given us another child, she said, we should be grateful.. But that only angered the husband more. One evening, after weeks of yelling and slamming doors, the couple began to argue again. The wife was making chapattis...
Continued From “A Mother’s Gift: Part I.” Three days went by. I went to school after the morning at Daniel’s house, trying to forget everything and catch up on my work. I wanted to graduate; I wanted to get out of the life I had thrown myself into after my father’s death. I spent more time with my brother at night. He, at almost nine years old, was slowly starting to read, and that was something I couldn’t miss in his life. My little brother was born early, and...
A True Story | Anonymous Staff Writer “We’re leaving”, they said. The door snapped shut. Our home plunged into silent mourning. My mind sealed itself into a labyrinth of words spilt in the heat of anger and the coldness of heart. Earlier that morning, I had told my mother to let me be. I had told her that my disheveled closet was my own, and thus, I could do with it what I pleased. My voice had risen. My shame had dropped. Now, they were gone. My mother had...
