Novemberschild's Stories


Every vulture has its ugly profile as if God hurriedly did not quill its features. Yet it’s pure voyage with inflamed eyes that see the dead as they leave the deceased; it alights amid the dry around the hilly peaks. The featherless faces appear like a hanging cloak from the face of the sky. There in the middle of the fields of death, the wings are like an impulsive shady cuirass, cruising like an ancient idol connected in air. They go into the sky swathed in fine light watching souls depart the colossal earth. .

To a new World

I isolated in academics to be honoured with a chance to fly around the world for a distinct journey with people. We all met in the skies from points of dependents on which part of the window began. Instantly we become associates. We flew 6 hours, with some resting and some simply lying back. We came nearer to our destination. Our blood rushed through our veins for what was to come. Passage in the sky changed and burnt. We were destroyed to be quenched by the salty cries and gulped down whole to gain channel to a new world. .

The Black Purdah

I saw a dream walking on the red sand road. She was wearing a hijab and her image laced with a face. Life is about walks and laughter, but now she only knows shock. Her wings are held earthbound vulnerable is she and silent as the grave. The sun may rise for she who walks in shadow, the blackness that makes her disappear hidden away from prying eyes. Nobody told her how to cope with bombs and the dreams of despots. .

The Hunt

The hunger gnawed, must break laws to fill his tummy flat. He isn't long fed. The smell of fish stoked his wish, thought it is must to steal his bread. He said I've an urge let us both go to war; you shall fight against me. We shall fight on the land and if you insist we shall fight on the sea. The prey snapped the result of this spat will be nothing but bubbles to mark where you sank. I'll be gun, I'll be bomb said my furry And I'll target my missiles and blow up your tank. .