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His short stories are well-recognized internationally for his unique prose style. nasar_peace@hotmail.com

Death is freeing MWC Death

Image by Milos Duskic from Pixabay

An old author, made feeble by the hardships of life, lay on his death bed. His hair was a mess, a little greasy, like he had his hand through it all night. He moved his hand over the blanket, back and forth and buried his face in the pillow. On his arms and legs, hands and feet his flesh was black and dried, clinging to the bone so tightly that the bone might just burst through. …


Entry for MWC Reentry

Image by Photo Mix from Pixabay

The sun slowly hid itself behind the earth as Rafeel, grey haired and with short wrinkle lines on his face reached the old bus-stop of his village. He glanced up at the sky and nearly smiled at dark shadows hovering over the earth, his grandmother would have called it a sign of evil darkness.

With a head clouded with brown dust of travel, Rafeel took a deep breath and turned to gaze around him. The air was calm and moist but sweet with the smell of fires made from tree branches.

The smell of his motherland made him very excited…


Satirical Short Story

Photo Credit: Justin Shanes on Twitter

At last the big and barren graveyard was decided to be the best and safe place for the decisive session of noble dogs. It was a unique event of dog-history that they were united and strongly convinced that everything in the human world was rotten, false and disgusting. Experience brought them to the conclusion that it was better to live in hell than in the human world. Now they all wanted to leave this brutish human society, but where to go? It was to be settled and they needed suggestions of great brains of sensible dogs. But alas! Many noble…


Short Story

Photo by Author

Alone in my dreams, the world around me was dazzling and my mood was wondrous but sad.

The next morning, I caught a bus to my village and watched the cities disappearing into a blur of grey. I got off the bus and stopped beside the river. Rays of sunset light shimmered on the water, reminding me of impressionist paintings that captured nature’s moods in dots of colours.

Everything was changed except the river. I could hardly believe so much time had passed since my last visit. I didn’t recognize anything. I turned around and walked the dimly lit streets…


My Writing Journey

Profile Photo By: Author

My literary life is like a wild tree that grows in the desert and depends on the rain. It has to face the heat of the sunlight and the harsh winds. If it grows up, it remains untrimmed and unappreciated. But if it survives, its fragrance spreads in the desert, and its shadow saves the life of the traveler. I survived, in spite of all the bitter ‘weathers’ and ‘storms’, and continued my journey.


Short Story

Photo by Aamir Suhail on Unsplash

The hot tea sucked me back into reality, my mind rudely awakened from frequent naps. It had recently succumbed to the habit of chasing thoughts unrelated to the topic at hand. My mind returned: “Wasteland.” I was sitting at a large wooden desk, apparently examining the assignments of students.

“Sir, your class-time has started.” A voice brought me back.

All I wanted to do was to run, and run far away! I wished I could be able to write another “Wasteland.”

I had lost my enthusiasm for teaching years ago. I was merely going through motions. I had long given…


Short Story

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Gul Khan stared off into the horizon through his office window. Out there was a vast expanse of life, but it reached far beyond the line between the earth and sky — farther than his eyes could see. A quiet, uncomplicated fellow, he believed there was a God who governed heaven and earth with infinite power and authority. When he was a child, he made an image of God in his mind’s eye, smiling, sitting, and relaxing in the skies, watching his beautiful creations. Gul thought he would grow and live his entire life thinking of God in the same…


Short Story

Photo by Isabella and Zsa Fischer on Unsplash

I cannot believe what I have been witnessing. Isn’t it ironic that those persons that we try to put in the dark corner of our memory box, appear suddenly at that moment of life when we can’t afford any burden of conscience? This unwanted appearance makes us more pathetic when we have convinced ourselves that whatever we did in our lives was not worthless; that the life we have spent was not so futile and absurd, as is the case with the majority.

However, there is another court, in our internal self, that gives its own verdict. Now we start…


by Edmund Vance Cooke

Photo by Kristopher Roller on Unsplash

For most of us, life is a journey to the grave. I think we should live each day considering it our last day. This poem taught me how to hold my head in all circumstances. I like the questioning tone of the poet when he asks whether you have accepted life with cheerful and resolute heart.

I love the theme when poet justifies saying that what is wrong in falling down or overthrown by circumstances, but one should face and fight back with smiling face. Above all, I love the sense of objectivity in this poem that is very uncommon.


Short Story

Image by Ria Sopala from Pixabay

At the top of Siachin glacier, sitting outside their igloos, Indian army officers and soldiers measured the depths of their patriotism with sacks of frozen enemy corpses. The sun didn’t foster life there, gasoline did. They lived in a world where the only recourse was vengeance, fueled by an insatiable lust for blood.

Maj.Jaswant despised these games and had his sights set on retirement. He had dozens of subordinates, but he preferred the company of Lt.Sharma and Lt.Arun. They made him feel young.

From their position atop the glacier, Jaswant and his two comrades watched a contingent of Pakistani soldiers…

Muhammad Nasrullah Khan

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