Shrean Rafiq
Bio
Hi, I'm Shrean. I write short fiction, do microscopy, dabble in sciences, meditate, and live the best I can.
Stories (4)
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Touch Grass
He is lying on his back, his posture defying his backbone. His left arm is tucked under his back, and he is clutching his new phone with his right, keeping it suspended in mid-air. The screen is tilted downwards, and he cranes his neck unnaturally to keep his eyes at level with it. His legs are askew, propped against the wall. The back of his head rests on a jumble of sheets. There is a pillow on his belly and two others on the floor.
By Shrean Rafiq7 months ago in Fiction
Ayala Foxman
Deep into the heart of Buenos Aires is a non-descript ten-storey apartment building. On the fourth floor is apartment number D7, staying in which currently is a peculiar yet commendable tenant by the name of Ayala Foxman. She was quiet, paid her bills on time, donated handsomely for any fundraisers, and was always willing to loan a cup of sugar but never asked for one in return. What more could you want from a neighbour?
By Shrean Rafiq10 months ago in Fiction
Kumejima Station
Kumejima station. Well past midnight. Cold, dreary, bright. Bright. Brighter than it ever needs to be. It’s quiet. The kind of quiet you get when a behemoth structure designed for the rush and reverberations of a flood of hundreds of thousands of people echoes only with the hushed bustle of thousands of people. The kind of diluted quiet of a giant stadium that is not quite empty but acres away from its intended capacity. The kind of unexpected quiet when a quintessentially bursting city like Dhaka empties up around Eid and despite currently holding the appropriate amount of people in regards to its dimensions feels empty to the eyes accustomed to writhing crowds and dense processions, its bricks used to soaking up vibrations now absorbing way too much, its inhabitant’s ears trained to detect music in the omnipotent city static now blanching at the auditory void. The kind of quiet that makes you whisper in a raised voice, the kind that hints at privacy when none is present, the kind that lies of rest and serenity and completed journeys when the travelers are just as tired and fatigued and wayward as they were in the morning. The kind of quiet that gets to you unless you are a child, a naive one, who still retains both the capacity to be enchanted at the experience and the right to be carried home should exhaustion outlaw walking.
By Shrean Rafiq10 months ago in Fiction
