When in Rome..._Siblings and Gang_The Witch and the Assassin_The Buraq
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When in Rome...
You know what they say about truth being stranger than fiction? Well, you can now officially start believing believe that it is true. Having been (successfully!) operated upon for cancer was not enough – I went and caught pneumonia. My friends banded together and pooled their resources, and paid for my trip to Rome, where I was supposed to convalesce and come back to Malta in perfect health. It’s not my fault one of the feral cats in the hotel grounds bit me, and scratched my face, when I went to pet him… but that’s another story for another day. As it happened, I took the round-trip bus in...
Siblings and Gang
Clenching my hands hard until the knuckles turn white, I watch Yash squeeze his petite frame through a tiny window and plop onto a heaped blanket of white flurry right below the window. “Eliza, where are we going?” He asks with innocence laced in his tone. “Somewhere,” I say, reaching over to envelope his cold hand in mine and pull him towards the dense woods that expanses across a vast area of land behind our house, “let’s not waste any time.” Thick sheets of snow sheathe the tall trees and the earth, obscuring any green beneath. Bitter wind howls by as if mourning over someone’s death. Hills...
The Witch and the Assassin
I’ve always thought that memories were curious little things. There’s just something about how any sensation, even ones you previously thought to be meaningless, can take you back to a specific time or place or moment. In a way, memories are almost like magic, and I would know a thing or two about that being a witch and all. Even now, years later, the smell of spicy, sweet citrus takes me back to an early November morning under a grove of bergamot trees. It was a day that would change my life forever. It was the day I met him. The grass was wet with morning dew and soft on my bare feet. I rar...
The Buraq
The Buraq by Mehreen AhmedIn the darkest hour of a summer’s afternoon, the clouds gathered in an elegant mass of deep grey. Mugginess hung thick in the atmosphere. Pushpa Pervez sat curled up on a reclining chair in the far end corner of her balcony. Inhaling a cocktail mix of air made of pungent rain and perfumed gardenias, she looked at a retinue of ants climbing up the balcony wall. She snapped at a minuscule black fly, hovering over hewww.onedoor.ccr upturned nose; she ruminated, ‘well now, finally some rain, long overdue.’The horrid black flies swamped her. They stung her in a number of awkward places,...