Saturday, 31 March 2012


Azmeh shut the door to her apartment and leaned against it. She welcomed the touch of a the cool, polished surface on her forehead. She turned to face the interior, cheered by the familiarity of it.

Staggering over to the black leather sofa, she fell upon it in a heap. She relished the fact that she was alone and nobody would criticise her on her posture or tell her to smile.

Azmeh kicked off her ridiculously high-heeled shoes and savoured the relief that swept through her body. She crossed over to the neat kitchenette, bare feet silent on the mosaic floor.

The sun was rising. Shafts of rust-coloured rays filtered in, touching upon numerous potted plants arranged on the windowsill. The apartment was soon redolent with the rich aroma of coffee and Azmeh breathed it in joyfully.

Nursing a steaming cup, she carried it over to her living room, which was also illuminated by the pure morning light. She felt the soft, plum-coloured carpet caress her feet, and standing in the sunlight, she sighed deeply. Home.

The clock chimed, it was six. Her alarm rang, and after dancing to it for a minute, she switched it off. She would normally just be waking up, but today was different.  She would not go to work today, and instead stay here, in her beautiful apartment. She would not go to work the day after either, or the day after that, or ever. She quit.

Azmeh sauntered into the bathroom, white marble with a stained glass window high up near the ceiling. She ran a hot bath, she couldn't remember the last time she'd had one, and she poured in all the oils and scents she could find.

An overpowering mixture of vanilla, lavender, coconut and cinnamon soon permeated the large bathroom, but she didn't mind. She was content with the world.

She slipped out of her figure-hugging satin dress and climbed into the bath. She was ready to be cleansed of her old life, eager to embark upon a new one.

Friday, 30 March 2012


Mrs. Khan couldn't breathe. She felt herself choking and sputtering, and she knew then that she would die. But she didn't. She threw herself on all fours and shakily drew in deep, heaving breaths. The guttural sound echoed off the white tiled walls. Somebody began to scream. Loud, terrified screams that tore through the air.

Mrs. Khan shook violently, her body convulsing with fear. "Zia," she whispered. "Zia. Zia. Zia" She repeated her son's name over and over again. Her voice rose steadily till she was shouting "ZIA! ZIA!" Her throat hurt, but she couldn't stop.

Two men grabbed her arms and wrestled her into a straitjacket. She screamed, her lungs were on fire. They pricked her with a needle, and she felt as though white-hot knives stabbed every inch of her body. She found herself choking again, but this time, she didn't fight the wave of drowsiness.

She awoke in a bare room, still groggy. It was completely white, with no windows, no furniture and a locked door. She tried yelling out, but couldn't make a sound. She ran to the door and pounded wildly on it. She lay flat on her stomach and looked under the door, but only saw more of that stark whiteness.

A strong chemical smell permeated the room, making her gag. She wanted her son, wanted him to take her away from here. Once again, somebody began to scream, and the screams were so heart-rending that Mrs. Khan clapped her hands over her ears to block them out. She couldn't bear it, she needed to get out of here. She searched desperately for an escape route, but there was not so much as a crack in the white fortress. She heard footsteps approaching, and she shrank back towards the wall. A masked figure entered and she lunged at him, scratching at his face. "I want Zia! I want my son!" she shrieked. He grabbed both her arms and twisted them behind her back, holding her fast. "Mrs. Aziz, you don't have a son." 
She felt another needle inserted into her arm.

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Rhythms of Intimacy

We are forever locked in these rhythms of intimacy,
the rhythms captured in each deep breath,
the rhythms of our hearts as they beat tattoos into flesh,
the rhythms of movement and passion.

We are forever lost in the textures of silence,
the rise and fall of our pulses that race each other,
the lilt and tempo of sighs and whispers,
the cadence of voices that speak of love.

Saturday, 10 March 2012


She encapsulates the colours of a sunrise,
the taste of music,
and the textures of love.
She is the sensuous caress of the breath of air
that carries whispers of a rare beauty.
She is the comfort of a steady pulse,
the warmth of arms that hold you close.
She is the joy of spinning wildly and 
the laughter that grips you along with dizziness.
She is the relief of effortlessness,
She is the wave of contentment,
She is home,
She is mine.