Resting Place
“I’m exhausted now, or rather, I think that I had already become tired a long time ago…” Story of the Week (November 21), by Naiyer Masud. Translated from Urdu by Muhammad Umar Memon.
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Only in London
“Above me, the grey sky hovers unsteadily. It runs into tall brick buildings and races above tunnels decorated with graffiti, litter and dead rats. ‘Paki go home,’ says a wall.” Story of the Week (November 7), by Sabyn Javeri.
Read MoreOf Turrets and Peacocks
“One rarely hears rumors about whores and bawds, one hears them about respectable women, spread with the intention of causing grief… all kinds of rumors about Laji Bai were circulating on Japani Road.” Story of the Week (October 24), by Asad Muhammad Khan. Translated from Urdu by Aquila Ismail and Muhammad Umar Memon.
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Thirteen
“She had done this so many times before.,. Exactly thirty two steps into her room.” By Unaiza Tariq, from The Missing Slate’s fiction workshop in Islamabad.
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Outsiders
“These privileged brats would gather around those street children, taking the photograph of the same subject from a thousand angles, as if they were in a human safari.” By Nazuk Iftikhar Rao, from The Missing Slate’s fiction workshop in Islamabad.
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The Voice
“He stared at what was left of the dog, a flattened sack of pulpy goo, doused in blood. The dog’s button eyes stared back at him.” By Omar Gilani, from The Missing Slate’s fiction workshop in Islamabad.
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Zayna’s Face
“They threw acid on her while she slept. I heard it got all the way down to her hands. Her flesh melted like a wax candle.” By Umamah Wajid, from The Missing Slate’s fiction workshop in Islamabad.
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The Structure
“…if this were a movie, your life ought to flashback before your eyes, projected on the silver curtain of your consciousness.” By Asfand Waqar, from The Missing Slate’s fiction workshop in Islamabad.
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Testimony in Sepia
“I took a photograph in which Lucy looks at me while Philip lovingly touches her young shoulder with his young nose.” By Veera Jansa, from The Missing Slate’s fiction workshop in Islamabad.
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Selfie
“The assumption that these men were riding off to their deaths becomes more entrenched… they seem achingly innocent.” By Ahmer Naqvi, from The Missing Slate’s fiction workshop in Islamabad.
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