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Short Story Contest
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[2015, Jul] Consequences
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It’s past midnight when I finally reach home. I slam the door. I throw my purse. And I crash to the floor, fall to my knees, sending a shudder of pain that vibrates up to my skull. I feel the scream wrench out of me like water from a dam. Hot tears flood my face. It’s not self-pity. It’s simply loneliness. Emptiness. Pulling me in deeper and deeper like quicksand. I’m not a good person and I know it. But it doesn’t mean I don’t have a heart. Just because I’m cold, doesn’t mean I was always like that. Just because the world fed me so much negative energy doesn’t mean I can keep it all in. Just because I have to live up to my name doesn’t mean I deserve to never be truly seen for what I am and loved for it. Every year, the truth kills me, and there’s no one to share it with. It’s my birthday again and no one wished me. Just because I dare to be myself doesn’t mean I don’t deserve happiness; but it does. So I slowly get up, wipe my face, apply my moisturiser, brush my hair, get into my pyjamas, snuggle into the cold blanket and recite the names of Allah till I fall asleep. I fill the void in my heart with His unconditional love. I’ve been doing it every night since I was a kid. It’s never enough, though. I’ll live for His sake. I’ll die for His sake. He’s the only one who ever understood me. If He wills, this insolent, restless soul might find happiness someday.
WHAT I LIKEDThe wording was wonderful
The moral was also good
I really like the flow of the story.
WHAT I DID NOT LIKE
The story was too simple
Story became quit predictable when I was half done
RATING 6\10
Good effort, could be improved, but nice overall. 7/10
Zenab wrote: "CONSEQUENCES21st January, 2005
Aroob Karim is the most perfect girl I have ever seen- grace in the way her gaze fell to the ground and her cheeks blushed, an air of nobility in the way she proud..."
I wish you could hear me clapping. I liked it. Simple and true.
7/10
wow. good one. loved the idea. though the telling need to improve still a good story. 8/10
4/10 I honestly had a very, very difficult time keeping track of what was happening throughout this story. The author seemed to lose track of which of the character they were talking about during the story. And it didn't help that I still don't get why the story kept switching from first person to third person in each diary entry. In one entry, it's third person and in another one, it's told in first person and it all became very confusing. It didn't help that the story is quite typical. Evil girl seduces boy from innocent girl. Boy returns to innocent girl, cheats on her and tries to get back with the evil girl. Evil girl succumbs to her fate and her story ends in pain. It's like a typical Pakistani drama told on paper. And, I guess the author tried to write it in this diary-entry type format to make it seem different and unique but, if the story is lackluster, then I guess the way the story is told doesn't matter.
However, the author does have a nice style of writing and he/she should keep writing.
Mod
Kaath ki guriya : 9.25
Her friend and her foe : 8.3
Albert : 8.06
A poll will be created for the top three. So please vote so we can have a winner.
Authors please claim your stories if you will.
21st January, 2005
Aroob Karim is the most perfect girl I have ever seen- grace in the way her gaze fell to the ground and her cheeks blushed, an air of nobility in the way she proudly wore her hijab, and a kind of intimidating piety in the way she was the perfect Muslimah. She had money, but she was always down to earth and plain. That didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings for Arslan; charming Arslan with his messy brown hair and freckled face. He wasn’t that handsome but these things didn’t matter in love. Of course, as decent as she was, she intended to marry him. He studied biochemistry with her. She wasn’t dumb either. She knew he liked her. She knew, with the way their friendship was bordering on something more, he would take a marriage proposal to her parents, because he knew she wasn’t the relationship kind of a girl. But then that day, Anya happened.
13th May, 2005
Aroob became a sorry, pathetic mess. Anya was the epitome of a fake bitch. She lured men with the single flutter of her eyelashes. Her shapely hips swayed when her high heels clicked on the floor- six inch extensions that were a permanent attachment to her feet. Her hair was always glorious, and her face was always perfect, adorned with just the right kind of make-up. She’d had a dental job for her crooked teeth too, to attain that flashing smile. Her clothes screamed MONEY and every person adored her like she was a demi-goddess. She willed it and Arslan was twined around her finger. Rumours had it that their relationship had gone to the next level. She had the guts to show her devilish smile to Aroob every day to flaunt her victory. Of course, Aroob couldn’t avoid her. She was Aroob’s step sister. She was the daughter of the cheap woman her father left for a woman with better social status. A cheap woman will always be a cheap woman. Cheap blood ran in Anya’s veins, people would say. They would say that a man would realise it one day or another what the reality was, then go for what really matters, for a woman with real value. And whenever these words were said, they burned in Anya’s gut like acid. “Love marriage is an illusion, beta,” baba had told them both over dinner that day, “Respect is everything,” he said, smiling, looking at his beautiful wife, Tamseen with the memory of his first wife at the back of his mind like a vague dream. That’s when Aroob decided she didn’t deserve Arslan; and surmised that cunning, manipulative women like Anya didn’t deserve to be born. If not for Anya, she could have had a beautiful life with Arslan. Anya would have a bad ending and she knew it.
21st January, 2008
Three years had passed, and Aroob still burned from inside. Anya was still dating Arslan. Seeing Anya so happy and carefree didn’t feel right. Aroob was the one who prayed five times a day. Why didn’t it feel right? Anya was evil. Even she didn’t deny it. She would inflict pain with words. She would degrade, bully, harass or ruin anyone she felt deserved the brunt of her fury. And that “anyone” was pretty much any woman who dared to compete with her, defy her or dare to fit into her social circle of elites. She loved scarring people, especially her own sister, Aroob. She hated sorry fools who didn’t maintain themselves- especially self-righteous and patronising ones like her own sister, who was the definition of what her father wanted her to be. It was a mystery as to where that cold bitterness came from. They had both grown up in the same environment. Anya was a cold hearted, fake bitch and she knew it. She reveled in it. She fed on male attention. She fed on all the adoration mixed with envy and hate she got from girls. She never felt sorry for her actions. She had a clean conscience.
That day when Arslan’s parents came with the marriage proposal for Aroob, it was a slap on Anya’s face. The little dignity she had had, the pride she had in her abilities to steal a man was hurt. Aroob accepted it just to see Anya lose her bitchy, sassy cool for once. She broke stuff. She threw a tantrum, screamed and pulled her fake hair out. We all know what happens to the fake girl. When the guy has had his fill, he’ll always go for the decent one. But it couldn’t be that easy, could it? Was it that easy to steal a man, like candy from a kid? Yes. For Anya, it was. She was every man’s weakness.
29th November, 2008
Aroob never knew about the affair because regardless of what people think, I care about her. I can’t ruin her perfect marriage, yet I did. I, Anya Karim, feel like trash. I have no friends. The one I poured all my heart to never loved me. Why? Because I didn’t put up a façade of goodness. I was myself. And people who act like themselves, who love to look good for themselves, who love shoes ALMOST more than their own lives are labelled as “fake”. Why can’t we be real? Why aren’t we deemed as humans? I have a heart too, and instead of turning into a moping mess, I exacted revenge by having an affair with him and blackmailing him with our pictures. Now I know this is hilarious, since it’s usually the man who does the blackmailing. I have no dignity or love to lose here. He does. He shattered my soul and now I’d make the guilt of cheating on his wife haunt him for the rest of his life with my threat looming over him every time I opened my mouth to say something, every time I blackmailed him into inviting me to dinner just so I could see them both squirm, while their little brat kid Anita tried to bring the house down, poking her nose around everywhere.
Yet, I still feel like trash. I filled the empty spaces in my heart with all those friends who envy and adore me, with all the partying and all the fooling around. I skipped college for modelling. Now all I feel is emptiness. And it’s like a black hole in me, sucking all my life day by day. Cameras click away every day, using me as a tool to govern what a girl must look like. I have no aim in life. I have no talent. I have nothing but my ****ing pretty face and gorgeous body, and I’m selling it to feed myself. Men see me as something to be used. Women see me as the pawn of the devil himself. Now that abba is dead, I have no one who cares for me. If I die today, nobody will care. I’m just another replaceable, fake girl.
21st January, 2012
I am Anya ****ing Karim and I can kick arse. Arslan confessed his sin to his dear wife and they both hate me. I don’t care. Not like they really loved me anyway. I used to think I had no talent, when it was in me all along. My verbal whiplash, my ability to manipulate my way with words. I got my lawyer’s degree. I’ll make my place in this world. I could never save myself but I can save others.
21st January, 2014
“So, tell us, Anya, how does it feel like to be an icon for women?” The TV show host asks me as I sit in my high heels and knee length skirt on the armchair opposite hers. “There are several women’s rights activists out there,” she continues, “But how did you end up being someone all the women of Pakistan look up to? How did you do it?
“Because maybe I must be the one most desperate to make a difference.”
“And what’s that driving force? What fuels you to want to fight for justice?”
I don’t know what to say. “Because I need something to live for,” I lie.
“So let’s get back to your fame part again. We see your name coming up everywhere. Don’t you think it’s because of all the controversies and alleged publicity stunts as the crazy party girl and, well, things people say, words, I’d rather not dare repeat on air.”
“Go on, you can say them. I’m sure you’ll say them more comfortably behind my back. You can say them now too.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“You mean you didn’t mean to call me a whore? What you call controversies and publicity stunts are simply… me. The fact that you guys can’t digest reality isn’t my fault. On one hand, you beg for my help to fight women’s abuse and harassment cases and when you don’t need me, you bash me. These double standards disgust me.”
“Did you have an affair with your sister’s husband?” Oh, she was getting her claws out.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” she said, with a barely concealed smile. Women, women, women… always on battle mode, sometimes subtly, sometimes not-so-subtly.
“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong question. Did Arslan play with the feelings of two women? Yes. Did he break his wife’s heart? Yes. Did he use me, break my heart? Yes, he did. I’m certainly not a victim, but neither is my brother in law, and neither is my sister. She knew the kind of person he was when she married him. He knew the consequences of his actions. He’s not a brainless pup. He’s not a toy that can be stolen. He’s a grown man who never got the blame because he’s a man. He’s the man who ditched his first love for a pretentious bitch who claims to be a saint. She clings to an adulterer even though according to her beliefs, he must be stoned to death. Should I call that true love?”
“What do-“
I had had enough. I stood up in the middle of the interview and fuming, left. And guess who I found on my doorstep! Arslan. His sight nauseated me. I zipped my purse open and started looking for my keys. Oh, why did I have to put all the treasures of the world in my purse? I could feel him breathing hard, staring, boring holes into my head with this intense gaze. There was a time when it would make my heart race. Then he said something that did make my heart race, against my will. “I divorced my wife. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I left my wife. I left her. For you. I have nothing. Except you.”
I wasn’t noble like my sister. I could say yes to him and no one would blink an eye. I turned to look at him. He looked pathetic. He deserved it. He deserved worse. I hoped he didn’t get the custody of his beloved daughter, Anita. Better, I hoped that little brat died. It would save the world the trouble of another holier than thou Muslimah ruining a “fake” girl’s life. “You’re my life, Anya,” he said with a look of reverence in his eyes I had always longed to get from a man. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but please, please just… say something. I know you still love me. Don’t hold back. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
A pause. He was breathing hard. Chest heaving. Eyes unblinking. “Done talking?” I clipped. I saw the minor jerk, the clenching of his jaws. He stared blankly at me. “Good,” I said coldly, “Now I’ve got work to do. If you could please move away, I need to get in.”
“Anya…” he said, his voice cracked, voice dripping with sheer pain. I felt it too, like a stab in my chest. And I could literally feel myself bleed from inside. I knew I’d fall to the ground at any moment.
“I don’t want to see you near me again,” I managed to say in a firm voice. Thank God for my sunglasses. He’d have seen the dampness in my eyes.
“Anya, why are you doing this?” He begged, “I am the only person in the entire world who understands you right now. You need me as much as I need you. I love you, Anya.” This man would be the death of me.
A smile rose to my lips. Unwilling. I had no control over it.
“Go.To.Hell.” I said, knowing, how each word sent jabs of pain to his chest the way they painfully ripped from my lips. I finally found my keys, inserted them in the keyhole, went in and slammed the door in his face. He understood me? I bet he didn’t predict this.
21st January, 2015
I was hugged by the masses of women. They were all the women I had saved from blackmailers, abusive husbands and families. My NGO is my baby. All the adoration fills my heart with pride and something as soothing as the sun’s rays after a cold thunderstorm. Over the past year, my fashion statement somehow transformed. I didn’t do it for anyone. I did it for myself. This is the new me. I like my traditional clothes. I like my dupatta and bangles.