I don’t know what else to say.

Muslims are the problem.

A teenage girl is kidnapped and brutally murdered (possibly raped) on her way to the mosque but, no, muslims are the problem.

Muslims think it is their duty to march against terrorist attacks to show the people around them that it was the act of a radical minority but, no, muslims are the problem.

Physical and verbal abuse is hurled at ordinary individuals walking down the streets by racists but, no, muslims are the problem.

I am a muslim and I am mad because I can do nothing about it but, no, muslims are the problem.

Creative Writing / Fiction / 6

Death

12 Sentence Sketch

It was tempting to grab the shining knife and run it through her. I could smell the steely odor of red blood oozing out of her limp body. Out of a deep gash on her back, through the spine. It would be like cutting a cord that kills life. No breathing, no laughing, no sleeping, no dreaming: an end to all the pleasures that one indulges in in life and an end to all the pain and misery her presence causes. Kill and take vengeance. Closure and peace of mind and body and soul. My wish is about to be fulfilled as I close my hand around the blade’s handle. I will remember this day as one when I overcame my trepidation and finished what I came for. A silent slash in her slim spine. “At times violence pacifies”, and it did. Violence, revenge and death.

Creative Writing / Fiction / 1

(The first section of the book was “Fiction” and it begins with an autobiographical essay from the perspective of an inanimate object)

The Autobiography of a Butcher’s Knife

At the moment, I lie on his bedside table. I can hear the clock ticking away, second by second. I cannot see anything in the dark but I can hear him snoring. It has only been an hour since we got back after a dirty job. He is sleeping undisturbed but I am shaken. I think back on the events of the day.

Today, early in the morning, he woke up, grabbed me by the hand and rushed downstairs. He gave me a good wash and polished my blade till I shone. He stared deep into my shiny blade and I could see the bloodthirsty look in his eyes. After murmuring incoherently, he wrapped me tightly in a cloth and put me on the kitchen table. He came back in the evening and shouted with joy, “Oh, how the blood will drip”. And I knew why he had cleaned me so thoroughly earlier in the morning. A sort of dread crept into me and I wanted to resist. After so many spillings of blood, I still felt myself going numb from horror. I could not think as I felt myself throbbing. I do not remember him carrying me over to the victim’s house. I only remember the tip of my blade ripping cloth and tearing flesh and feeling warm all over. And I was taken out and inserted yet again and again and again. I could feel the warm liquid trickle down my shiny, cold blade. And I remember a faint scream of fear. I heard a heartless “HAH” and I was quickly wrapped into the cloth again, without being wiped and stashed into his coat pocket. I could feel myself slapping against the side of his body as he sprinted home.

He washed me when we got home, this time with renewed energy and fervor and looked at me lovingly as though I had helped him accomplish a difficult feat. I could see the contentment deep in his eyes. He was crazed from the blood he had just spilled and then, a sudden calm spread over him and he seemed weary. He gave a smile, ran his finger down my side, gave a nod, wrapped me in a clean white cloth, carried me up to his room and laid me on the bedside table among his other clutter of things. He fell asleep immediately but I am still finding it hard to stop thinking.

My mind is wandering back to my early days. I am a butcher’s knife. I started at a butcher’s shop where my blade was used to slaughter animals and then chop their meat up for customers. At that time, cutting an animal’s throat didn’t seem heartless because it seemed as though the animals had resigned themselves to their fate. Their look of terror was always horrifying, but I never heard their screams of pain. With humans, it is different. I can hear their cries of pain and agony.

I came into his hands when the butcher’s son and my current owner planned on murdering a school teacher. The son took me away from his father one day and handed me to HIM. That night they broke into the teacher’s house and tied him down. I was unsheathed and with a trembling hand, my tip was scraped along his back to torture him. He was tightening his grip around my handle and I could feel him fidgeting inside. His hand was moist and he tried to fight the resistance. And then I was raised high in the air and brought down hard and fast and I could feel myself fight through the spine. I was drenched in blood and I was trembling because of his shaky grip. He had a scared look in his eyes. After the first few moments of shock, his friend and he ran for it. And then, I was his. He killed whomever he pleased and as he spilled more blood, he became more ruthless. His thirst grew and grew and he became crazed for blood. And now, he’s a hardened criminal. I can see it in his eyes. Dead. Emotionless. Brutal. And I am to blame.

I feel as though the blood of every animal and human being I have killed has absorbed into me. I feel as though every soul I separated from a body is going to come back to haunt me and take vengeance. As the darkness weighs over me, I feel suffocated and pass out.