fiction
-
Date: 7 July 2025 By: Us, the People of Birmingham Imagine stepping outside and seeing rats—bold, bloated, fearless—tearing into torn bin bags on the pavement. The stench of rot so thick it catches in our throats. Now picture a month from now: those rats are larger, nesting under our floorboards, creeping into our gardens, spreading
-
I’ve been reading Angela Merkel’s biography, Freedom, and found myself pausing over her memories not because I agreed, but because I disagreed so deeply. It’s an honest book, personal and vivid — but it also reveals how thoroughly our upbringing and beliefs shape what we praise and what we condemn. Merkel tells a small story
-
I used to walk past graffiti-covered walls with a mix of indifference and suspicion—dismissing them as vandalism, a symptom of urban neglect, or worse, a calling card for crime. That changed the moment I stepped into The Epic Story of Graffiti exhibition at Birmingham’s Rotunda Square, where walls didn’t just speak—they roared. Curated by Mohammed
-
Readers are more than a family, for they listen when the world turns away. They hold words gently, as if each matters, offering a quiet stillness that lets voices linger. In this space, a story unfolds—a woman’s silent strength, her voice too often unheard, yet enduring. Jane Hawking’s Travelling to Infinity: My Life with Stephen
-
The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, as Arvind sat on the verandah of his ancestral home, his eyes lost in the horizon. The sprawling fields before him, cultivated with generations of sweat and dreams, now seemed quiet—too quiet. Inside the house, the faint sounds of dinner being prepared
-
The worn leather of the armchair creaked under Elias’s weight. He stared at the flickering flames in the fireplace, their dance mirroring the turmoil in his heart. Beside him, his wife, Elara, sat silent, her gaze fixed on the worn rug beneath their feet. The scent of cinnamon and cloves from the simmering stew in
-
Previous Chapter: https://wordpress.com/post/maqmasi.uk/782 The village court was an unusual but grand sight. Nestled atop a small hill, it stood surrounded by sprawling oak trees, its arched windows glowing faintly with morning light. Inside, the courtroom buzzed with an odd assortment of creatures—hens clucked in the gallery, squirrels chattered along the rafters, and at the highest
-
Previous Chapter: https://wordpress.com/posts/maqmasi.uk The morning sun draped the farmhouse in soft gold, its light spilling through the slats of the stable and casting delicate patterns on the hay. The air smelled faintly of wildflowers and distant rain, mingling with the earthy warmth of the ponies. Lily, the old man’s 10-year-old granddaughter, skipped down the worn
-
Previous Chapter: https://maqmasi.uk/2024/11/21/the-animal-kingdom-speaks-a-tale-of-morality-ethics-and-humanity/ The old man Arthur’s farmhouse stood quietly at the edge of an endless meadow, its weathered boards soaked in years of sunshine, rain, and the occasional storm. Life here followed a familiar rhythm—the gentle cluck of hens, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the steady hoof beats of Storm and
-
A fictional piece Eleanor had always lived a life of faith. Raised in a devout Christian family in England, the church was at the center of her world—Sundays filled with hymns, prayers, and sermons that affirmed her belief in God. As she grew older, her faith remained, but so did her curiosity about the world
Maq Masi Blog 