t.shah

Canada

Hi, I'm a young writer who wants to improve my skills. I'm always open to feedback and criticism so please feel free to brutally review my work. I look forward to learning from y'all.

Message from Writer

“There is no rule on how to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly: sometimes it’s like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

Published Work

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Crumbling

    She sat on the bathroom floor of the 7-11. Her mascara smudged, her hair still dripping from the rain, and her dirt-covered dress now in shreds.

    She prayed that the sound of her tears would not reach the other side of the stall door. She could already imagine the crowd gathering outside, all convened just to get a glimpse of her dishevelled state. She begged herself to regain composure.

    After all, how could she cry over something that was never hers to begin with?

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Crumbling

    She sat on the bathroom floor of the 7-11. Her mascara smudged, her hair still dripping from the rain, and her dirt-covered dress now in shreds.

    She prayed that the sound of her tears would not reach the other side of the stall door. She could already imagine the crowd gathering outside, all convened just to get a glimpse of her dishevelled state. She begged herself to regain composure.

    After all, how could she cry over something that was never hers to begin with?

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Crumbling

    She sat on the bathroom floor of the 7-11. Her mascara smudged, her hair still dripping from the rain, and her dirt-covered dress now in shreds.

    She prayed that the sound of her tears would not reach the other side of the stall door. She could already imagine the crowd gathering outside, all convened just to get a glimpse of her dishevelled state. She begged herself to regain composure.

    After all, how could she cry over something that was never hers to begin with?

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Crumbling

She sat on the bathroom floor of the 7-11. Her mascara smudged, her hair still dripping from the rain, and her dirt-covered dress now in shreds. She prayed that the sound of her tears would not reach the other side of the stall door. She could already imagine the crowd gathering outside, all convened just to get a glimpse of her dishevelled state. She begged herself to regain composure. After all, how could she cry over something that was never hers to begin with.