Stream of Consciousness
Jamesâ by Percival Everett: A Bold Reclamation of the American Canon
In James, Percival Everett does what few living authors dareâhe takes a towering classic of American literature and flips it inside out. The result is nothing short of electrifying. A radical reimagining of Mark Twainâs Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Everett centers the story not on Huck, the mischievous boy narrator, but on Jim, the enslaved man whose humanity Twain only hinted at.
By Hamad Haider7 months ago in Fiction
This Is The Day
âYou know what? I quit.â No, of course, no one could hear me. I was alone in my office â shared, but pretty much my own â and it was only 9:46 in the morning, so we would have a meeting in less than fifteen minutes and I did not really want to see Mr. Roleimanâs face again on a Monday morning before I had my first cup of coffee and he told the staff all about how so-and-so did such a great job with sales (clap clap clap) and then the other person got a dozen clients to sign on for things that they could not afford (clap clap clap clap) and then he would look at the rest of us and not say a word about all the things we did because we were such a big disappointment to the company and he wanted us to know it without telling it (show without telling; he should have been a writer). So, I was done and I just had to wait for Allan to come back from the office bathroom on the third floor â the best one â and he would have to handle the new account on his own because I was fed up and it was a Monday after one of the best weekends Iâd ever had after I found that secondhand shop with that rare science-fiction section that had titles I had never seen before and I made friends with the owner and he told me that there was a sale coming up in two weeks, but he would make me a deal right now if I took three copies off his hands. A little pricey, but they were worth it and I wondered what I was doing with myself in this place when no one really cares about what I give the office only what they can take and take and take and I studied literature just as a lark and wanted to work in publishing not business anyway. Why did I stop there, anyway? I was out going to the local farmerâs market to get those oranges that you could taste test from the small trays they had out for customers and things were in season like the mango that I was not too sure about after seeing flies land on it and people still sampling them without a care in their minds.
By Kendall Defoe 7 months ago in Fiction
The Ghost of the "Good Woman"
I was supposed to keep sweet. Sweet like the freshly canned peaches in the summer, sealed, sterile, and tender like the stewed beef sitting in the crock pot while we attended church. A girl who folded her ambitions like her hands in her lap during patriarchal testimony. I was meant to bloom in the soils of domesticity, fragrant and still, with a voice intended for prayers and lullabies.
By Autumn Stew8 months ago in Fiction
When the Rain Forgets to Fall
The monsoons had always been on time in the small town of Sitapur. Year after year, without fail, dark clouds would gather like old friends at a reunion, thunder would roll like distant drums of a marching band, and the scent of wet earth would rise as if nature were breathing in relief. But that year, the rain forgot to come.
By shittu adeola8 months ago in Fiction
The Kingâs Garden of Shadows
Once upon a time, in a kingdom surrounded by seven rivers and veiled in the perfume of eternal jasmine, there reigned a King known by the title "Raheem the Wise." His rule was not forged in blood but in books, not sustained by swords but by silence and soul-searching. His palace had no iron gates, only whispering wind-chimes and vines of lilies climbing its golden pillars.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Fiction
The Slave Who Knew the Stars
Once upon a time, in the ancient kingdom of Zaheerabad, nestled between black mountains and golden deserts, lived a Prince named Kamraan, son of the mighty King Ubaid. The Prince was fair in face and feared in sword, taught in the philosophies of men but untouched by the lives of those beneath him. The palace was carved from marble, adorned with silk and mirrors, but behind its glistening curtains brewed storms invisible to the blind.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Fiction
The Garden of Mirrors: A Tale of Two Thrones
Part I: The Echoes of the Orchard In an ancient land where rivers whispered secrets and mountains bore silent witness to time, there existed two mighty kingdoms, separated by a sea of sand and centuries of silence. One was Zahran, a land veiled in mist, where the people believed that dreams were fragments of lost truths. The other was Elburz, whose people trusted only what the eye could see and the hand could hold.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Fiction
The Silent Bell of Khorasan
Once, in the dusty and sun-scorned province of Khorasan, when the crescent moon hung like a blade in the heavens and kings were named after lions but ruled like foxes, there lived a monarch known as King Zulfiqar the Justâa title given not by the people, but carved in golden plates by his own court poets.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Fiction
The Perfume of the Slave
Once, in the time when kings ruled with iron fists but claimed to wear velvet gloves, there was a land called Khumyar, veiled in gold but rotting beneath. Its courtyards echoed with poetry while its prisons bled with silence. The king, Jalib the Proud, had a beard as thick as his cruelty and eyes that glistened with suspicion. His court was filled not with wise men but with flatterers dressed as philosophers. The pen was praised, but the sword decided justice.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Fiction
