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Weekly Contest #165
At the therapist Dr Abhimanyu Rao’s office, Margao, Goa, Susan feels a spotlight shine over her on a blue velvet couch, and begins her impassioned soliloquy. ‘A real incident in the not-so-distant past: As the handsome, goggle-eyed groom is about to say, ‘I do,’ someone waves a frantic hand from the crowd and yells, ‘Stop!’ All wedding proceedings come to a crashing halt. The guests seated in neat rows turn around to stare, the priest raises a quizzical eyebrow, the bridezilla (sorry, she is perfectly lovely) glares and froths, and...
Weekly Contest #164
‘Where I come from, tea is the preferred beverage.’ Sarah Yousafzai cradles a cup of lukewarm Starbucks latte. The ring finger and middle finger of her left hand are crooked, and jut out at an odd angle as she traces her spoon with her index finger.‘Oh?’ The reporter, Anna Ramsay, flicks her gaze to Sarah's cup. ‘Why didn’t you order tea?’‘I used to visit this coffee shop in Kabul with my friends. It was called ‘The Cupcake’, it had a very colourful décor, with tiny spotlights encrusting the ceiling. It felt liberating to disappear in there ...
Weekly Contest #162
CW: natural disasterAslam sucked on his lower lip, concentrating hard, as a rogue wind lashed against a glossy pamphlet in his scrubby hands. It was a menu card from the recently pulverised Rose Honeymoon Hotel in Swat, Pakistan. He had memorised it better than the multiplication tables he was made to rote learn in school under the auspicious rosewood cane his tutor, Shahab Gul, (known tyrant for all ten year old dissidents like him) held like an extension of his arm. It was auspicious because Aslam had so far escaped its imminent wrath.He r...
Weekly Contest #160
A sea of arms shrouded in black rose and fell in unison like tumultuous waves in a stormy sea. At the anguished cry of Ya Hussain they beat their bare, hard chests. Abbas Ansari, a boy of thirteen years flinched as the lashing intensified and inched against the wall. Some men at the front of the hall beat themselves with chains. The acrid smell of sweat and tears whirled around the dense crowd. The reciter at the podium incited tears with each word he uttered. The roar of self-flagellation resounded across the hall. Abbas spotted his father’...
Weekly Contest #159
‘It’s not fair!’ Shelly burst out, the weight of her despair was so strong that she folded under it on the blue velvet chaise lounge in her new home in Kensington.‘Which idiot, which absolute idiot does this?’ Her husband, Dan of thirty-three years glared at her, pacing back and forth, his skin flaring up in red blotches. He dug his thumbs deeper into the lapels of his corduroy coat.'Oh, don't start.' Shelly's usual satin-like blond hair was standing at odd places and her eyeliner had begun to crease her crows feet.'This is so typical of you...
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