My award-winning short story, The Honourable Killing, is now available on Kindle at a special promotion price of 99 cents only.
The Honourable Killing is a powerful 1500-word short story, an edited version of which won a Commonwealth Broadcasting Association prize in 2005.
So, if you're the lucky possessor of an ipad or a Kindle or any other electronic reading device, what better time to read it than now?!
And here's a sneak peek to get you started.
Mukhtar rose early, surprising her rooster as she slipped outdoors. The air, rested by a night’s sleep, was crisp and light. She paused for a moment to breathe it in, her thin shoulders squaring. Later, the fierce warrior of the Plains, the Sun, would toast it and send everybody scurrying – from Alexander’s mighty army hundreds of years back to the burly tribal bullies of today. Pre-dawn was precious time. Hunching forward, she picked her way through the unlit bramble.
The steel pipe rose from the shrubbery, an eerily glistening python aloft concrete stumps. She looked back and surveyed the brush in which stood her two-room abode – a juniper shrub caught her eye. The concrete stump directly in line with the shrub would do – depositing her hammer on it she pulled herself up. The cool steel made her shiver; its massive girth unsettled her. Momentarily. She steadied herself with the left hand, and with the right, started to chip at the solid steel. The tinny sound made a din in the quiet but Mukhtar knew the sound wouldn’t carry far enough. She worked slowly, each blow unflagging in its force. The claw hammer was not ideal for the job but there had been little time for preparation. The warning had come late. She continued to chisel until the dense steel dented. By the time the faint notes of Azan floated from the village, she had managed a thin rupture. Not a minute too soon. The first call for prayer from the muezzin would stir the entire village, including them.
Back in her room Mukhtar kept the light bulb switched off. Noiselessly, she slipped out of her salwaar-kameez, sat on a wooden slat and began her bathing ritual: little water, much scrubbing. In the arid Baloch region water was a luxury, yet she inflicted twice-daily baths on herself. Her skin, scrawny, callused in parts, did not whimper – Mukhtar had been moulting for five years. Today though, she scoured with extra fervour.
So once you are done reading the entire story, let me know what you think.
Cheers!
The Honourable Killing is a powerful 1500-word short story, an edited version of which won a Commonwealth Broadcasting Association prize in 2005.
A rape victim in arid Balochistan struggles to bring her culprits to Court - until she realizes justice might well be in her hands.
So, if you're the lucky possessor of an ipad or a Kindle or any other electronic reading device, what better time to read it than now?!
And here's a sneak peek to get you started.
Mukhtar rose early, surprising her rooster as she slipped outdoors. The air, rested by a night’s sleep, was crisp and light. She paused for a moment to breathe it in, her thin shoulders squaring. Later, the fierce warrior of the Plains, the Sun, would toast it and send everybody scurrying – from Alexander’s mighty army hundreds of years back to the burly tribal bullies of today. Pre-dawn was precious time. Hunching forward, she picked her way through the unlit bramble.
The steel pipe rose from the shrubbery, an eerily glistening python aloft concrete stumps. She looked back and surveyed the brush in which stood her two-room abode – a juniper shrub caught her eye. The concrete stump directly in line with the shrub would do – depositing her hammer on it she pulled herself up. The cool steel made her shiver; its massive girth unsettled her. Momentarily. She steadied herself with the left hand, and with the right, started to chip at the solid steel. The tinny sound made a din in the quiet but Mukhtar knew the sound wouldn’t carry far enough. She worked slowly, each blow unflagging in its force. The claw hammer was not ideal for the job but there had been little time for preparation. The warning had come late. She continued to chisel until the dense steel dented. By the time the faint notes of Azan floated from the village, she had managed a thin rupture. Not a minute too soon. The first call for prayer from the muezzin would stir the entire village, including them.
Back in her room Mukhtar kept the light bulb switched off. Noiselessly, she slipped out of her salwaar-kameez, sat on a wooden slat and began her bathing ritual: little water, much scrubbing. In the arid Baloch region water was a luxury, yet she inflicted twice-daily baths on herself. Her skin, scrawny, callused in parts, did not whimper – Mukhtar had been moulting for five years. Today though, she scoured with extra fervour.
So once you are done reading the entire story, let me know what you think.
Cheers!
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