Creative Writing
“I was within and without… Enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”
EXPERIENCEHere I mean to denote the more literary side of writing, particularly through works of fiction and poetry. Building worlds, creating characters, telling heartfelt stories—that's “creative writing”. By writing regularly and submitting my short stories to literary magazines, I continue to improve as a writer and evolve my storytelling capabilities. To me, literature is all about telling stories that can really make people feel.
Short Stories
A selection of short stories and flash fiction pieces I’ve written over the past two years.
Published Work
“Finally, the hero’s journey had come to an end—he had made it to the Temple. In the vast, dimly lit chamber that lay before him, the hero noticed the silhouette of a robed figure. “What brings you to the Temple, traveler?” a deep, ancient voice echoed through the empty room.
“Greetings, sage,” replied the hero, unwrapping the shawl that covered his face. “I come seeking the cure.”
The sage’s hooded robe shifted, as if nodding. “As do all men. Who are you, that deserves the cure more than your fellow man?”
“I am a hero, wise sage. I have slain many a dragon, saved many a maiden fair. I have guarded peoples, brokered peace between nations. I have sacrificed mind and limb time and time again to stave off the forces of darkness.” The hero undid his sword belt, laying the sheathed weapon at his feet. “And yet there is a beast I could not fell, a curse I could not break. It is the monster that dwells in mine own heart, feeding upon me like a gluttonous wraith, sapping me of my will and cheer.”
“The beast that is sorrow dwells in many a heart. Have you, even with your heroics, not vanquished it?”
“I have not.””
Read the full story here.
Pending Publication
Brief excerpts from some of my stories pending publication.
“ Tag! You’re it.
The blinking message was the first thing to greet me in the morning—a bland, monochromatic piece of text flashing in and out of existence. I pondered it for a moment, watching it float in my field of vision, before swiping it away with my hand. In the bottom corner, the email icon glittered with a number badge, a sign of the 3 unread emails I’d received at night. It hovered above the toes on my right foot, peeking out from beneath the covers. Probably some dumb ads and promotions. I hesitated for a moment, then tapped my temple, right next to my right eye, and my System’s virtual HUD switched off. I’m too groggy to be checking emails right now.
The water hit my face. I always imagined it would zap me awake, like it does in the movies, but usually I’m just still too tired. It was enough, however, to get my brain semi-functional. I dried my face, looking at the exhausted raccoon that was my reflection in the mirror. Was I It? Did I really wake up to that message, or was it some weird mesh of dream and reality?
I tapped my right temple again, pulling up the HUD. I gave the mental command to bring down my notifications tray, and there it was. Tag! You’re it. Beneath, there was the timer. Around 17 hours until midnight.
”
A speculative fiction short story following an unnamed narrator as they live through an unusual day in a society undergoing a bizarre experiment.
You’re It
“Thalia gasped. “There is no room for such thoughts amongst the Three Graces, sister!”
“Why even burden your heart with the notion?” Aglaia exclaimed.
“I merely wonder,” Euphrosyne responded with a pensive chuckle. “I yearn to feel what others feel—the weight of sorrow and misery.”
“But you mustn’t!” replied Thalia.
“But perhaps you can,” added Aglaia. Euphrosyne stared into her sister’s eyes with wonderous curiosity. “Pegasus has come to visit. Take him as your steed and ride into the world—certainly one of the Gods can show you what you seek.”
“Perhaps then you will realize the folly of your pursuit,” added Thalia.
And so it was that Euphrosyne rode onto Pegasus and flew off into the sky, seeking the sadness she yearned to feel. As she flew amidst the clouds, she spotted a tail of black smoke rising from far below. She spurred Pegasus into a descent, bracing as the winged horse brought her closer to the earth. ”
Fable-style short story rooted in Greek mythology following the Goddess of Joy on a journey to experience sorrow.
The Girl Who Yearned to Be Sad
“Abu Karim unstuck a few strands of damp hair from his forehead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “You dolt… You did not let me finish,” he continued abruptly. “Clearly, they were kuffar, blasphemers and loyalists to the traitorous Bin Ihya’. They saw me, an old and devout man, loyal as a dog to Caliph Al-Mukadas, my saif at my side, clearly a well-tested veteran. Evidently, their cowardice did not permit them understanding that a man may wield a sword even if he were just a merchant around these parts.”
The younger man nodded, the rest of the group following suit as they drank from their own cups. Abd joined them in inhaling smoke from his pipe, the water gurgling. “And thusly, they threw themselves upon me, but I stood my ground. One by one, I cut them down, leaving none alive save for the last. I walked to him with the rage and fervor of Al-Ilah within me, and he begged for mercy.” Abu Karim finished the last of his wine, and poured some more from a nearby jug, till his cup overflowed and spilled once again. “But I did not acquiesce!” he roared. “I flourished my blade a dozen times over, letting its highest point glint off the sun, and brought it down upon his head, Al-Ilah curse him even in death!”
“Blessings and health to that!” bellowed one of the other men as the four lifted their cups and slammed them together. The drinkers brought the cups to their lips and took long, breathless gulps. The toaster wiped his mouth with his sleeve, smearing red wine over his dark beard, and said, “One would think that those accursed imbeciles would realize their own folly sooner, but alas, Al-Ilah has not blessed the followers of the Bin Ihya’ clan with brains!””
Magekiller
Dark fantasy short story set in a world inspired by Arab mythology and the Islamic Golden Age.
“A monster lives in our house.
That quote is one of the only things I still remember about Grandpa. He’d moved in with us when I was only three, right after Grandma died. Grandpa was a serious man; most days, he’d sit out in our backyard from dawn till nightfall, looking out into the woods that bordered our house. My little brother and I played football out there, and whenever either of us scored a goal, we’d laugh and we’d scream. That’s when he would call to us with his gravelly voice. The smiles would fade from our faces as he said it. “A monster lives in our house.”
He would always say it to us when Mom and Dad weren’t around, and we were always too afraid to say anything back. Eventually, I made up my mind to man up and face him.
“But we’re good boys, Grandpa. The monster won’t get us if we’re good, right?” I said, putting my arm around my little brother.
Grandpa shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what you are. A monster lives in our house, and it’ll get you. You can’t run from it.”
”
The Monster in Our House
Thriller-style short story that follows an unusual generational “curse”.
Poetry
A small, handpicked selection of free verse poems I wrote when I was younger.
Painting: The Man with the Head of Blue Hortensias (1936) - Salvador Dali
Thoughts cover spaces
Unbidden, unrequested
They flood
I am at the mercy
Of my own heart
As it ignites my soul
Leaves me aflame
And burning still
With emotions
I wish to douse.
Why do I feel this way?
These spaces know much
They know my words
They know me
All that’s within
They hold the thoughts
That I echo within this confinement
But not out
For when I hear
My own voice speaking
What lies locked in my heart
Then all I become
Is a man plummeting
In a descent
Into bliss
Or another world
Of melancholy
Painting: The Artist's Garden at Giverny (1900) - Claude Monet
Boundless emotions
Colors flood once more
Red and black paint the pages
A gift to the senses
Look upon the walls you have haunted
Paint absorbed into stone
Liquid seeping between the cracks
And embedding itself within
For the rest of eternity.
You are a bundle of walking memories
Swirling and spinning around a beating core
A beacon to your surroundings
A dent in the earth
A weight upon the stone
A consumer of the air
A surfer of the waves
And a breather of fire
So live,
And let it be known that you have.
Painting: The Comic Spirit (1927) - Rene Magritte