Because I’m a magician.

Because I’m a magician.

I’ve been thinking about magic tricks for a while and this was one of the two parts I came up with. Sometime in the future, I will definitely write the other story if you want me to, but till then, I do hope you enjoy this!


Jaadugar – a magician”.

In 1999, when I was ten, my dad took me to a magic show. The show was at four in the morning and I tried convincing him to let me sleep but nothing worked that day. “Rahim, this jaadugar will change your life!” he said and we went for the show. Turns out, he was right. Twenty years later – today – I’m the magician.

What people forget about magicians is that our most prominent trick is one that almost everyone has mastered. It’s sawing love stories in half for some and healing hearts for others. We break hearts and we have broken hearts too. So yes, this is my love story.

Continue reading Because I’m a magician.

A different time.

A different time.

A few things before you start reading. a) This is not like most of my other posts but I’m hoping you still like it just as much, b) the story is based in a different world (which you can figure out yourself but just in case), c) comment and tell me about your happy times. Enjoy!


Hora was a different twenty-year-old. Of course, she was exactly what no one wanted her to be – the creative kid. She lived in a weird city where everyone had latin names and strict destinies. It was believed that it was important to only do what was expected of you to set examples for other worlds, if there were any. Her name was latin for Time and she was a writer.

Continue reading A different time.

Too much.

Too much.

It’s been a while. Hey! I hope you like this. It’ll mean a lot to me if you can share this with your friends through the buttons at the bottom of every post. Do share if you like it and let me know if you did in the comments section. Also, tell me what breaks your heart. Enjoy!


Steve was heartbroken the day Husky died but was always afraid to admit it because he believed heartbreaks had become cliché. There were too many poets writing about it, too many eyes crying over it, too many stories ending because of it. He believed heartbreaks had become ‘too much’ and he was born a minimalist.

Continue reading Too much.

Cinderella’s shoes.

Cinderella’s shoes.

“Upon the palms of my hand, I have written your name.”  – Isaiah 49:16

Never had he felt the warmth of her fingers before. He had anticipated it to be like the warm sun on a cold morning, something that would make him shiver and smile. He had imagined it to be like hot coffee or the softest quilt, or the rush of caffeine in his veins, and pictured it to be normal, with a shade of love. It was nothing like it.

Late at night that first day, as they looked at each other, too tired to say anything, he touched her face. His fingers trailed on her skin, as he touched her cheeks. They were cold and he would want it no other way. He held her face and looked at her as shivers ran through him. And then she touched his face. Her fingers trailed on his skin. They were cold and he would want it no other way. Everything inside him froze, except where she held him. He felt no rush of blood, and he could feel her fingers getting colder. And he liked it. It was like walking toward the sunset.

He placed his hand on top of hers, and let the fingers intertwine. They fit like puzzle pieces. The cold was slowly ebbing away. The warmth was returning to their fingers, their cheeks were getting redder, and their eyes were locked onto each other. It was 3:04 A.M. and he remembered something. “Nothing good happens after 2 A.M.” And he knew he was screwed. That made him happy.

They say hands are like Cinderella’s shoes – magical.
They say hands are what makes tomorrows.

With her hand in mine, I think I had more than just tomorrows. This wasn’t normal, with a shade of love. This was love, with a shade of insanity. The sun was setting.

“People fall in love in mysterious ways. Maybe just the touch of a hand.” – Ed Sheeran


Instagram: @myspirals
Related post : Midnight.

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Broken, happy stories.

Broken, happy stories.

Yes, I named the character of this story after my favorite character on Game of Thrones. I had this concept in my mind for a long time and I like to believe I did it justice. Do you think I did? Tell me in the comments section below. (Maybe tell me your favorite GoT character too.) Enjoy, lovely people!


You know how everyone has a passion, something they love so much, and sometimes they pursue it and make a career in it? That wasn’t Tyrion. He was a dry-cleaner who loved wearing fancy clothes that fit him perfectly. His favorite were solid colored t-shirts that never looked fancy but made him feel like a part of this world. Solid blues on days when he wanted to fly and see the world with a bird-eyes view: a small dotted Eiffel tower and flickering lights and their messages. Pitch black when he wanted to disappear into the darkness and let emptiness take his place. Bright reds or blood reds depending on whether he wanted love or revenge.

Of course, Tyrion never earned enough to be able to buy these fancy clothes. So, he would just wash denims and suits and while his eyes wrinkled and smiled at the sight of these beautiful pieces of clothing, his lips never budged. They were always a straight line. That’s when he came up with the concept of being broken and happy. Did I forget to tell you he loved poetry and weird concepts that made half-sense?

If given the chance to make and wear fancy clothes, I believe he would have the most poetic ones. His wardrobe would be filled with white t-shirts with black eyes and a collar for a smile, or suits with pinstripe lines in the shape of a map that guided you home.

But like I said, Tyrion wasn’t one to follow his passion. He would wash clothes every day and not smile. He would iron on some days and hide his tears in the folds of the clothes. On other days, he would grin so wide, the earth would seem small in front of him. He was happy despite being broken. He did other things that made him happy – like teaching his daughter Salsa on Saturdays and playing football with his friends on Sundays. You can see why he was obsessed with his concept: You can be broken and still be happy.


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