Portfolio.docx

Portfolio of Shahrair Emil 1

Shahriar Emil

Professor Alan Davis

ENGL 288

I’m primarily a prose fiction writer, specializing mostly in fantasy and science fiction, though I

haven’t really written any science fiction stories for this course. All my stories were fantasy, some loosely

based on myth and the majority of the stories have their inspirations taken from fairy tales, one such

example being Red Riding Hood. Most of the stories that I write often contains dark and morbid themes,

and often things aren’t what they seem. Trickery and deceit are common, and the inherent presence of evil

in the heart of man. I think that sums up my style fairly well. However, this is definitely not what I’m

limited to. I like trying out new ideas and new styles of writing.

My strengths is that I’m good with imageries and description. Working for three years at a weekly

newspaper, I had been under a restriction of 600-800 words. So, I became used to writing short fictions

that told the stories quickly in a descriptive vivid manner. Including dialogues meant longer stories, for

which there would be no space.

For this reason, I became habituated with descriptive writing, but on the flip side, my ability in

writing dialogue decreased. I believe I have a good grasp of what dialogue should be like, but I am just

not used to writing them. Another weakness is that it is difficult for me to write longer fictions for the

same reason as mentioned above.

Introduction to Creative Writing has been quite the learning experience. Although, I’ve always been

interested in fiction writing, I’ve never really been formally introduced to it. So taking this class where we

were taught some of the rules that are traditionally followed in fiction has helped me tremendously. I now

know how important certain aspects of fiction are. Everything has a structure, and writing does, too.

Knowing the rules makes me conscious of what I’m doing with my fiction and allows me to pursue my

stories in a more controlled manner as opposed to the haphazard and sporadic way I wrote before.

I knew nothing about poetry, but throughout the course, we had a few lectures on poetry and some

of the nuances involved, and although I’ll probably still not go into poetry, I’m better off knowing more

about it than I was before.

And as far as nonfiction goes, it’s the same case. I was never really interested in writing non-fiction

but after reading some of the stuff that are done in creative non-fiction, I find myself attracted at the

prospect of doing non-fiction. Learning the key differences between ordinary non-fiction, fiction and

creative non-fiction has helped sharpened my knowledge about the differences between them whereas

before I had little to no idea about them.


Another new concept I was introduced to was peer reviews. I was always skeptical about this sort

of thing. But workshop with peers actually helped me out a lot. I got to learn about my writing style and

what kind of an effect it has on my readers. I was able to learn what part of my writings worked and what

part of my writing didn’t, and through their critiques, I was able to understand my own writing better.

However, for the most part of the semester, I sat with the fiction group, so I only got peer reviews

for my fictions, and not poetry/non-fiction.

First class:

Fiction: Titled Wolfman, the story is about an old hermit telling a story to someone who stumbled

upon his place of abode. He tells the story of his time in the Sun Wars (the story is in a fictional world),

where his team witnessed something fantastical. A werewolf, commanding a ferocious pack, infiltrates an

enemy fort, obliterates the enemy and steals a particular item which acts as a doorway, a means for him to

go home.

The idea is kind of inspired from Wolverine from the X-Men. Through peer review, I learnt that the

story lacked enough dialogue, so I’ve worked to implement more dialogue between the characters, and a

little more backstory about the wolfman. I’ve decided to include this in the portfolio as one of my

better works.

Poetry: Titled the Crow, it’s definitely inspired from Poe’s Raven. I just tried to take a funny twist

to it.

Non-fiction: A sad kind of non-fiction about a man who pulls a rickshaw (a tri-wheeler vehicle for

carrying passengers through the city found in some Asian developing countries), who lives a lone life,

happy and worryless. It is a true story about how his shoe was stolen one night when he was sleeping.

Second class:

Fiction: “White King” – the story is about a village called Scania which gets visited by a unicorn

every hundred years who comes to take a maiden away. It is considered a blessing, the girl who is taken

away is considered almost holy. They celebrate this century’s chosen girl, Stani, not knowing the darker

truth behind the unicorn.

Through peer review, I was told that I could use Stani’s perspective to introduce the story through

reflections. I worked on that and I think it turned out rather well. I’ve decided to include this in the

portfolio as one of my better works

Poetry: “Zipper Messiah” – this was mostly a freeform poetry inspired from the song “Leper

Messiah” and the pains associated with zipper accidents. I tried to be funny. I suppose it was marginally

successful.


Non-fiction: “Confessions of a wiki-addict”. A kind of anecdote about a person who is absolutely

addicted to Wikipedia and the internet. It’s based on me about the time I newly discovered Wikipedia and

enjoyed looking up everything on that site.

Third Class:

Fiction: The fiction was entitled Wolf in Red, and it’s a story about a wolf who is lost in the city,

and Red Riding Hood finds him and offers him shelter at her grandmother’s place. Things aren’t as they

seem to be though, and the grandmother may be a witch herself and has plans in store for the supposedly

powerful blood of the wolf known as Fenrir.

Poetry: The poetry for this class was relevant to the story. One of them was titled Wolf beneath the

tree, and the other was called Witch of the Woods. Eponymous to the titles, the poems were about the old

Norse wolf Fenrir, and the second one is about an unconventional witch. I’ve decided to include these in

the portfolio. I’ve certainly never written poetry before, but I suppose the class helped me form a basic

idea, and I hope I got it right.

Nonfiction: Another anecdote from my real life. It captures a moment in time before I came to USA

– a moment of me and my friends hanging out together one last time and the silent goodbyes we shared.

I’ve decided to include this in the portfolio as one of my better works.

Fourth Class:

Fiction: Titled the Faery Tree, it’s a story inspired by fairy tales and about a kingdom of elves and

faeries in an otherworldly realm. It’s a story about how a human wanders into their lands deceives the

populace and steals their most sacred treasure – an ancient tree – using magical gifts given from the faery

king himself.

Poetry: The two small poetry I wrote in this class has no titles, it’s just called 1 and 2. The first one,

I suppose, is about the importance of meter and rhyme in poetry. And the second one is simply enough,

peanut butter and jam sandwich. I’ve decided to include these also in the portfolio.

Non-fiction: The last nonfiction I wrote also didn’t have a title, but it’s one of my writings I’m

proud of most. I talk about the time I had typhoid, about watching my grandfather getting old and then

finally burying him at the local cemetery, talking about the relief I felt knowing his suffering in his frail

mortal shell was over. I’ve decided to include this also in the portfolio.

Fiction - White King

Stani waited in the circle, recalling life in Scania. She thought back to the times when her mother

and grandmother, and all the older ladies would tell her stories of the White King. She and all the other

little girls would sit around the kitchen listening to the fanciful tales, not knowing whether to believe or

not. But everyone had heard the story. It had passed down to those ladies from their mothers and


grandmothers; the story always lived on the minds of these people. It was a woman’s story, but the men

believed, too. Most of them, anyway.

Every once in one hundred years the peaceful village of Scania had the honor of being graced by a

unicorn, the White King, an ancient creature of great magic and power. And every time, a maiden

disappeared. The unicorn comes to their humble village, reveals itself to someone and that someone, a

girl, disappears never to be seen again. Sometimes the unicorn would wait for days, weeks or even

months. But they all disappeared in the end, borne away by the magical beast, to its otherworldly home.

Stani recalled the two weeks of waiting she had to endure, and she remembered each of the nights she

stared out at the stars hoping the time would come soon. Tears are shed for the girl gone, sad and happy

tears- sad to have lost a sister or a daughter, and happy to know that those gone has been raised to a height

greater than mortality.

A hundred years had passed and the hour of the calling had come and went. For Stani, ascension

was but moments away. The idea filled her with excitement, even as she remembered weeping freely at

her mother’s shoulders, hugging her sisters and mussing up her brother’s hair, knowing full well they

would never see each other again. And more things, Stani recalled – the feast that was held in her honor,

but she did not partake in it. Rather, she had spent that time in solitude reflecting on her fortune and

honor. For her, it was just milk and bread.

She had walked alone into the forest, with a half-filled stomach and a tear stained face. She had left

friends and family behind, who showered her with petals of colorful flowers – but for where she was

going, there would be no use of flowers. They gave her a necklace of gossamer weeds. The necklace

glittered even in the moonlight. Alone she had walked into the forest, and alone she would leave it.

Save the weed necklace, she was naked as the day she was born when she entered the calling circle,

with her clothes strewn about outside it. The moon had hid behind a blanket of clouds as if to shield her

from prying eyes. She waited and waited. An hour passed, and then two, though it seemed to her that she

was waiting for days. The breeze brought in a wave of cold air, and Stani shivered in the dark. She looked

back at her pile of clothing, longing for warmth. A furtive glance towards the moon, the necklace fell on

the circle ground, and soon enough, she was back in her clothes, no longer able to tolerate the cold.

She went back to the calling circle and waited, and waited, the weed necklace in her fingers. It did

not glow, nor was it gossamer anymore. The breeze blew faster, blowing at her skirt and her long hair.

And with the wind came the sound of hooves. Stani smiled, in excitement and fear, fidgeting more and

more as the hoof beats drew nearer.

In the dim night, the unicorn appeared dull and unmagical, but it mattered not to Stani. She, and

every other person alive, knew the magic of the unicorn. Wonderful creatures striking wonder into the


hearts of men. The equine trotted into the calling circle and nuzzled Stani’s outreached hand. With listless

eyes, Stani stared at the old god, lost in the magic of the moment and the power of the unicorn.

She placed the gossamer necklace on the unicorn’s head, and smiled, eyes listless. The unicorn

whinnied and licked the girl’s palm. It reached up its mouth towards the girls’ neck, and found bare skin

covered by tresses of her hair. A dullness settled over Stani’s eyes, and the unicorn bared its teeth, as if

grinning. Stani smiled almost melancholically as the clouds drew back revealing the moon. Half a moon,

it was and dark orange. Like dried blood, thought a far away distant voice in Stani.

She looked down at the white fur of the unicorn. But it was not white. It was dirty- soiled and caked

with dried blood. Even its horn was broken halfway through. Even under the spell of the unicorn, its eyes

were terrible enough to send a small jolt of fear at Stani. Dark, dead eyes that stared into her soul and

worse, made Stani weep. She was entirely unaware of her surroundings and even of herself. The unicorn

bared its mouth, and the jaw snapped at Stani’s neck. Blood dripped down the beast’s jaw line, staining its

already bloody fur.

Blood fell to the calling circle, bubbled and evaporated into the air. The unicorn stabbed Stani in the

stomach with its broken horn, and threw her frail body on its back. It gave another whinny. It was a

haunted sound, Stani realized vaguely, as the life ran out of her. The weed necklace had slipped the

unicorn’s head at the circle center. The dark unicorn turned and made its way back into the forest, Stani

on her back, dead and bleeding.

The hoof beats died away and the moon was once again under a blanket of dark clouds. Scania slept

and Stani disappeared never to be seen again, and the legend of the White King lived on.

Fiction - Of Wolf and Man

I’m glad you found yourself to my little cottage. Come in, come in. Please. I’ve just made some tea.

Have a cup.

There you go, sit down. I haven’t had a visitor in such a long time. I live here all by myself. Truth

be told, I enjoy the silence, but I do miss the human company now and then.

Tell me, son. Do you like stories with a bit of strangeness in them? You do? That’s good. I do, too.

And I feel like talking, so instead of boring you with old-man babbles, I’ll tell you an interesting tale.

What you make of it and what you do with it is entirely up to you.

Alright, then. Let’s see… I’m around sixty one years old, now. The fresh mountain air and a

healthy living’s is good for the age, but men get old, all the same. Anyway. This story here is about forty

years ago. That’s right; it’s about the Sun Wars. As you probably know, the Kingdom of the Sun was

invading our good land. And well… Okay. How about I skip the details and go right into the fold? I’ve

sure you’ve heard most of the stuff a million times, anyway. So I’ll get to the part you never hear of, even

behind closed doors.


A few others and myself- a squad of, well, specials you could say, I guess- had been sent behind the

enemy lines. Heh. But we learnt soon enough that we weren’t that special. There were folks around us –

all around us that were far more special than we could ever be. But I’m getting to that. It was fairly easy

sneaking to the edge of the enemy compound. Specially the sunless lands, where it’s always a little dark

than it should be. Wear clothes that fit in with the terrain, be quiet and careful and you’ll find yourself at

their gates without setting off a single alarm. And then we waited…

We were huddled behind a large cluster of trees, with the rain pouring down on our heads like there

was no tomorrow. One of the men, Yan who had tried desperately and futilely not to get soaked by

standing under the trees, said, “So, who’s this man we’re waiting for?”

Yan’s twin, Lan, who didn’t seem to be as bothered by the wind as his sibling said, “Somebody

called Vole is all I know. Supposed to be an old geezer. Hair white as the moon, but I hear he’s as strong

as any of us. Stronger even. Supposed to be a special Specials.” He said this with a grin on his face,

“Whatever the hell that means.”

Me, I just kept quiet. I just wanted to win the war, and if looting those plans and documents from

inside that fort was going to help, I’d do it. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?” I said arms crossed over my

chest, uniform completely wet. “Anyway. What I’m more interested in is what we’re here to take. What

do you guys think? I say it’s the Solaris weapons plan.” I said with a grin, knowing full well this would

stir the conversation in that direction in a heartbeat.

Palar spoke out, “That shit’s just a myth, Dogo. The amount of power we can leach off the sun right

now isn’t nearly enough to kill a person, let alone entire cities. It’s crazy.” His face and tone however

betrayed his words.

Everyone knew there were more things under the belt of their government and the enemies than

was let out. They might very well already have built such a machine. And perhaps even tested it on some

poor land. It was not for us to know until such a contraption was truly ready to be used. Or either nation

were truly that desperate to be that brutal. By the Mandar Pacts a thousand years before, engaging in

widespread destruction that affects anything beyond the military would be considered the violation of

humanity and earth in the highest degree, and that party would have to endure the combined might of the

outlying nations that strictly remained neutral in the whole affair the last ten years.

“Even so, Palar. Even so. I’m just thinking out loud what everyone here is thinking.” A chuckle

spread out among the group and the mood lightened. It was true however. I could see it in their eyes.

Perhaps we’d be the first outside of the secret government to lay eyes on the plans. What an honor that

would be. “It could be maps for all I care. I just wanna get this over with and go back to my girl. If she’s

still waiting for me.”


“I hope she is. But I suggest you not think about that right now, Dogo.” The voice came from

behind, an old deep voice that was strong and clear. I turned around and there he was, that special Special.

He had white hair as the moon alright, and he was also butt naked down to the toes. We knew about that

too. An odd sight, but not so odd in the army life.

“Vole?”

“That’s right. Dogo, I see from your name tag. We don’t have to go through introductions. I won’t

be directly working with you, anyway. And I won’t be seeing you after this either.”

“Why do they call you a special Specials, Vole?”

This “Vole” turned towards the speaker, Yan, and smiled, “Perhaps you’ll see if you keep your eyes

opened.” Ironic since everyone were trying very hard not to be staring at the newcomer. “Do you guys

know what we’re after?”

All of us shrugged but Lan spoke out, “Weapon plans? Maps? Locations? Documents? Important

junk.”

Vole nodded, “More or less. What you’re looking for and what I’m looking for aren’t the same

thing. I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but my friends wish that integrity be maintained. I wouldn’t be

here if I had nothing to gain.”

This raised a few eyes and Palar was the first to speak out this time what was on everyone’s mind,

“What do you mean, Vole?” I knew it stung a few nerves. It definitely stung mine. We were fighting for

our homes. The Kingdom of the Sun was as ironic a name as they get. Where they ruled, there was literal

darkness. And we liked our homes brightly lit by the giant ball of fire.

Vole shook his head, “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m not from around here. I have no interest in

your battles or your ideals. That fort has something I want. And you fellas are just lucky enough that your

loot are in the same place. I get what you want, you get what you want, everyone’s happy.”

Everyone looked at each other and nodded in agreement. It made sense. He was trusted. Otherwise,

he wouldn’t be here. But Yan asked the important question right then. “What ARE you looking for

Vole?”

Vole smiled, “I almost hoped you wouldn’t ask that but that’d be stupid. And I don’t think your

emperor would send stupid people on this.” He nodded, “Alright. The thing I’m looking for is a crystal.

It’s white, and looks like a demand and can break as easy as a card house. You guys won’t even have to

enter the fort. I’ll do all the work, you just make sure they get theirs in the confusion. I know where the

crystal is, I can smell it from a mile away. And before you ask, it’s important to me because it’s my only

way home.” And everyone relaxed. We believed he was being sincere and we understood his goal. That

was something we could relate to. Everyone wanted to go home.

“What’s with the commando outfit, though, Vole?” Yan asked with a grin.


“I like the feel of the hand on my privates, man. I’m a free man.” This got a laugh, as was intended

from Vole’s grin, but he continued, “You’ll see though. Alright. The timing is perfect. It’s raining, so

we’ve got excellent cover. Wait for my signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

“You’ll know it when you see it. But don’t do anything until then.”

So there we were in the woods, in our uniforms and our tight boots with no weapons except our

knives and nine shot pistols. Darusan 500, I think. Living off the land the past few weeks had not helped

our health but our morale was as high as ever. A hundred yards in front of us was the stone fort. After our

white haired friend was done, we not only had to get those documents but also disable the

communications link. It was a sub-base for a hub. If that went down, they’d have some serious trouble

with links. If we couldn’t do that, the plans would have to keep us happy.

There were armed guards all over, with Bologois on their shoulders and more ammunition than

there were grass.

We didn’t waste any more time. The moon was out, a full moon, but it was hidden behind some real dark

clouds. You could just see the glow behind one of those rain clouds. That’s when it started, and didn’t end

soon enough, if you ask me. He nodded at us once again and started to head towards the fort. We were all

staring after him wondering what exactly his plans were. Perhaps now we found out what a special

Specials was.

Off he went just waltzing in towards the front door. We saw two soldiers up on the battlements look

down at him not even aiming their gun at him. He knocked on the door as if he was visiting his courtesan

or some such. And sure enough, the huge double doors opened right up and an officer came forward.

They chatted for a minute, before the officer threw a cross at Vole, and down he went. If we were lesser

men we’d have panicked. But, we didn’t. And that certainly didn’t seem like the signal he told us to wait

for.

And it was the waiting game, once again. The rain fell all around us, soaking us in our fear and our doubts

and responsibilities to our land. There was a howl in the distance, followed by several more near around.

The wolves were out hunting tonight.

We all shivered not only from the cold but because the wolves howlings seemed to be getting

closer. If they were hungry, they might decide to hunt for a few soldiers hunkered down on the mud. And

then the strangest thing. Another howl came, but this time it seemed to be coming from the fort. It was a

howl like no other wolf. It was a mix between a howl and a roar and it chilled our blood and bones and

made us shiver like we’d been frozen right there and then. We looked at each other and just kept quiet as

another howl came up from the fort. We felt like we’d know the signal soon. Not much longer now. But

we just kept quiet and waited. That was the worst thing you could do during a war. Waiting. Waiting for


the right time. Waiting for the enemy to make a mistake. Waiting for your friends to come save you.

Waiting for the next day to come. Waiting to go home. Waiting was worse than running into the

battlefield, screaming for victory guns blazing.

The rain died down slowly, but the howls just kept on going, and the other ones seemed even closer

now. We heard a scream from inside the fort, and we were all looking at that huge building with our eyes

bulging out. And you know what happened then? These enormous wolves we heard appeared out of the

dark, and padded up to the fort. Confident huge bear-like wolves that walked as if they owned the world.

You could see their sharp teeth clear as day, so big they were. They were in front of the double doors and

just stood there waiting, paws dug into the ground, like coiled spring. And we did the same. We felt it

pricking the back of our minds. The signal was near. Then another howl went up from inside the sub-

base. And the wolves? Quick as lightning, they leaped towards the door, and splinters were everywhere.

And we leapt too running towards the fort, in the confusion the wolves caused. No one would waste

ammunition on wolves.

We heard a lot more screams after that, all of them human. But then it was silent. Just… nothing. The rain

still poured down, and we heard the occasional howl. The wolves padded out of the broken door. There

was blood all over their furs, thick and sticky and some already dried. It scared the hell out of us. We just

stared on. After all the wolves came out, our man did too. Still naked, but covered with blood. His eyes

were glowing and he had something in his hand.

It was a crystal. And that little thing glowed, too, as if it held all the magic in the world. There was a gun

fire, and all those glowing eyes, of the man and the wolves, turned towards the sound. A platoon came

towards them armed with rifles. We wasted no time in aiming our pistols at them. Shots after shots went

out into the dark. We only had nine shot pistols, but we were darn good at using them. And we hardly

missed. We were firing at them, getting them left and right. We had the element of surprise, so we had the

upper hand, for now. The man and the wolves began to run the other way. I saw the man put the crystal in

his mouth and he leapt.

And that was the last I saw of the man. Because what I saw then was no man. In mid-air, he… changed.

He changed, right in front of us into a damned white wolf! I swear to God he did. The crystal was still in

his mouth, and him and his pack of wolves just kept on running and running and running. We kept on

shooting and shooting and shooting. The platoon was shooting right back at us, but some were still

shooting towards the wolves.

I ran out, and reloaded. I looked at the pack and I saw our man, our Wolfman, spit the little crystal into

the air. With a swipe of his paw, the crystal shattered, and there was an explosion of light. We weren’t

looking directly towards the explosion, but the enemy platoon, what was left of it, were. We took out the

rest of them in the confusion. And then we looked at the wolves.


They were circling the shimmering light, which just hung there in the air, shimmering and spinning

twisting tentacles streaming out touching the air around it. Our wolfman, larger than the rest, and older,

looked back at us and dropped his head just a little as if to nod its head. We did the same. And then they

were gone. So was the light.

What happened after that wasn’t important. We went into the building and we took out everything that

needed taking out, dropped the link and we returned to our rendezvous point, and… well, we never talked

about it again… It isn’t something you talk about often. Les they lock you up in a mental asylum, you

know? As far as what we stole – well that’s not part of the story and not for you to hear, either. Hah hah.

… … …

There you have it, son. One story, fresh and strange.

I see you’ve drunk your tea… And it’s getting dark outside. You want to head off? That’s wise. Woods

aren’t safe in this season.

You take care now, you hear? And don’t go running into trouble.


Non-fiction – The Burial

As far as I could remember, my grandfather had always been old. I had never seen him young nor with a

head full of white hair. My farthest memory is of him taking me for a walk down the road. Another

memory is me pulling his beard. He was a devout muslim, so he had decided to keep a conical beard.

He’d let me pull at it when I was happy, and he’d let me pull at it when I was angry. Sometimes, if I was

too upset, I’d tie it off with a rubber band, or even trim it a little with a scissor. I wouldn’t be angry

anymore afterwards.

I remember that when we used to take walks, he used fart deliberately because he know that would make

me laugh. I would point at him and accuse him of doing the deed, and he’d just stay silent looking as

innocent as a baby. He would take me for a walk even if he was more than a little under the weather.

After one such day, my grandmother told me about it, and I felt terrible for letting him take me. But I

didn’t say anything; I was never one to say anything. You have to understand that I was barely four years

old. But I know I was silently grateful and I tried to show it as much as I can. Sometimes by holding his

hand a little tighter or pulling his beard more for happy reasons than angry.

We never really had a full-fledged conversation, though I couldn’t tell you why for the world. We just

didn’t. He had a quiet reserved voice, and intelligent. I used to ask him questions sometimes, and every

time I would be astounded by the things he had known. Maybe they weren’t all that astounding to be

truthful, but to an ignorant five year old it was quite impressive. Just the sort of thing a grandfather should

know and be able to tell his grandchildren.

The thing I didn’t like about him was that he was so frail. It was unfair on him, and I hated it. I didn’t

know why, but years and years later, I read one of his journals. I learnt that he was always constantly sick.

He was always shaking and trembling. And as I grew up, watching him growing older and older, I felt

worse and worse for having to see him like that. A visit to the doctors more than common, but it was

fruitless most of the time. His shaking wouldn’t stop, and his voice became weaker and weaker. By the

time I was 10, you had to place your ears in front of his mouth to be able to listen to him.

Sometime before that, we had of course learnt that he had Parkinson’s disease. Without knowing any of

the finer details of it, it’s what made him shake, it’s what made him slow and weak, and it’s what made

him stop taking me for a walk. I hated it. And seeing it take his body away inch by inch was even worse.

He began to lose more control with his movement, and even fell down once or twice. Bed ridden and

utterly weak, it fell upon my grandmother to take care of him every single moment of his life. The worst

was when he fell from his bed, splitting open his lips, and a little on his forehead.

My parents had moved out by this time to a different place, and we used to visit often. But I began to hate

those visits. To see my grandfather falling further and further into the inevitable was painful, and I had

terrible thoughts. But I still went to see him, because he asked for us, me and my brother. So I went and


sat beside him, and he’d hold my hand and try to speak. I wouldn’t understand a single word he’d speak,

but I’d nod along, and when I could grasp some of his words, I’d response. Yes, my studies are going

well. Yes, I’m eating well. Yes, I’m trying to say my prayers regularly.

I had a dream once. My grandfather died in that dream. I woke up crying and shivering. I looked around

and realized it was not real. Later when I would see purple patches on his skin where his blood vessels

had ruptured, I was only half glad it was a dream.

I had typhoid when I was 13. It was uneventful and boring and involved lots of medicine and a few

dosages of powerful antibiotics. The recovery was annoying. I couldn’t walk for two weeks or so. Near

the end of the second week, a call from my uncle. All of us were asked to hurry to their home, to

grandfather. He was extremely week, we should come see him. And we did go, me and my brother first.

We were silent all the way through, silent and dreading.

We walked through the double doors that led to my grandparents’ room. Heavily crowded and coming out

from the crowd was one of our uncles, who had called. He had tears running down his face, silent tears,

and he said to us, with a sob, “Your grandfather has passed away.” I felt a jerk of pain across my heart,

and something much, much worse. Relief. Relief that he no longer had to suffer and struggle every day to

live. But who am I to say such a thing? Perhaps, to him that meant everything. To live as long as he

could.

I recalled back to my dream from years earlier. I couldn’t cry. Try as I might, I couldn’t cry. I was upset,

devastated even – my grandfather won’t ever be around. But I couldn’t cry. As in the Islamic tradition,

there was no waiting around for the funeral. We called a few people, he was washed and cleaned. We had

a makeshift coffin, loaded it and ourselves on the back of an open truck. I could barely walk, thanks to the

typhoid. But, I went anyway.

The least I could do for my grandfather was help bury him.

Nonfiction – Moments in time

As far as winter goes, it was not a very cold one. Cold enough to warrant more than one or two

layers of clothes, but not enough to require an outerwear. The four friends stood outside the compound of

one of their houses. They had their hands in their pockets, and their eyes were anywhere but at each other.

Out of these four, one of them would be leaving. Like a cog in a complicated machine, they all knew

nothing would be the same again.

Where would each of them be a month from now? It was a Friday night – a night to relax, have fun

and hang out with friends. What about that month in the future? The same Friday night, but would they

still be there, under that same tree?


Words stumble out of their mouths – one last desperate attempt to make the moment count. Each of

them laughs, recounting the memory in their minds, but the words fall to deaf ears. Moments are

moments because they’re fleeting, there and there not.

Like that same complicated machinery, the four friends all look up at the same time, glancing at each

other from the corner of their eyes. It was late, the time to say goodbye long due. But no one wanted to be

the person that broke that sweet silence of friendship. No one wanted to be remembered as the person

who finally made them depart. Another moment passes and these friends look at each other, the cogs turn

like clockwork, and another moment is born in the silence.

And then, the miracle. The silence is broken by two of them at the same time. The nervous laugh is

shrugged off, only to be replaced by content smiles. It was time to go. But it was the perfect moment. And

that moment would last forever in their heart.

The hugs seem to last just a bit longer than it should, and everyone is glad it doesn’t go on any

longer. For fear of the tears, you see. They were still men. Just lost in the moment.


Poetry1Meter and rhyme,Without them, a crime,With them, sublime.

2Slap it on the bottom half,Slap it on the top half.Peanut butter on one,Jam on the other,You have yourself the bet treat ever.

Wolf beneath the treeYellow eyes, sharp teeth, long ears,From the northern lands, it comesA heart that knows no fears.

Fast as lightning, fierce as fire,Nothing stands in the way,Of a wolf’s desire.

He sits beneath the table of the Gods,Chained with only the crumbs that fall.Against appearance, he isn’t a faithful dog,

Witch of the WoodsShe has no pointed hat,No warts, nor black teeth.But she does have a cat.

With frayed brooms, and kettle dented,She can hardly concoct potions.And even her dark cottage is rented.

But when the moon is high,The owls hoot and frogs croak.This witch can still fly.

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