Heavy is the Ink-Stained Crown - By Maryam Yaasir

Written By: Maryam Yaasir

Category: Short Story, flash fiction, drama

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In an evocative short story titled "Heavy is the Ink-Stained Crown," Maryam Yaasir delves into the nuances of ambition, failure, and self-discovery. This poignant piece is a part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 hosted by Hashtag Kalakar. Yaasir's narrative invites readers into the world of a young woman grappling with the harsh realities of competition and self-worth. The story resonates with those who have ever dared to dream, reaching deep into themes of perseverance and identity.

About the Work

Maryam Yaasir's "Heavy is the Ink-Stained Crown" masterfully examines the inner turmoil faced by those who strive for greatness. The protagonist's journey is fraught with emotional highs and lows, vividly captured through rich imagery and introspective prose. This narrative explores the idea of societal expectations versus personal fulfillment, offering a raw, unfiltered view of what it means to chase dreams in a world that often feels unforgiving. Yaasir's work is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

Heavy is the Ink-Stained Crown

Original Submission by Maryam Yaasir

Heavy is the Ink-Stained Crown

The chandeliers continued to sparkle behind my mind's eyes followed by the clinking of glasses and the aroma of priceless perfume clinging to my silk suit as I tread upstairs to my room.

My shoes are bundled in my hand; the same ones I had picked up at the store, my heart drunk on euphoria to even acknowledge such flinching prices. The chain my sister had given me danced softly around my neck as my feet exited the final staircase. The light on the second floor had not been turned on. The other residents were not yet home from such an exciting night.

I wrap my arms around my silver shoes, clinging them to my chest as the cold plastic touches my arms.

An exciting night indeed.

I glance outside the large window, embossed with mauve carvings on either side. As my eyes stare at the night sky adorned with glittery stars, I let my mind reach out for the memories this week had collected.

The contagious excitement that hung across the campus every day leading to the event, the pats my back would receive of people congratulating me, the frivolous shopping.

Goodness, the shopping.

Never in my life did I know how many shoes a lady could try.

I grin. Of course, there was tonight itself.

The music that played through the windows as we approached, the clattering of heels and the scuffle of shoes. The glint of expensive china and the colours of exquisite food. The ridiculous faces my friends would make as the speeches were told.

“You've all worked so hard this semester, now you may celebrate. In addition, we honor our prodigies of this country's national editorial competition, Ursa,” the dean says.

A girl stands across our table, waving as applause erupt in the ambient room.

“And Artee,” Dean says as I stand up graciously, bowing to the claps of friends and foes alike.

I would be lying if I said I didn't savor the syrupy taste of victory in the eyes of my haters.

A fly enters the window, cutting my reminiscing short. As I dig into my borrowed clutch for my room keys, I notice a rip in my new suit's sleeve. That's second-hand for you.

“Ursa, Artee,” the Dean's speech replays in my head as I shimmy the lock , “ you ladies have both exceeded our expectations for this nationwide editorial competition. Our institution is so grateful to have its halls grazed by brilliant young minds as you…”

I enter the desecrated wasteland, formally known as my bedroom, swinging the door shut behind me.

Now that the noise is blocked and the glitter out of sight, the shadow finally casts itself beneath my doorframe.

My back slams against the wood, my head dipping.

“An exciting night indeed,” I mutter through my teeth.

“Without further ado,” the Dean's forsaken voice echoes in my head, “the winner of the largest editorial competition and the title to the hundred grand prize is…Ursa.”

My legs weaken as I drop to the cold floor, the wall my only support.

That's correct.

Instead of a trophy and a cash prize, the only reward my arms returned with were my overpriced shoes and the blatant shame of my own demise.

I glanced at my dorm, devastation sinking in now that cloud nine had evicted me. My eyes traced the bags of trash and scattered clothes. Dozens of discarded quills and inky papers spread across the wooden floor. Never once this past month did I bother to acknowledge the state of my present life.

For if I did, it would mean entertaining the possibility of losing the competition. That would also mean dismissing the sleepless nights or the frugal spending my older sister had to make so someone like me could afford a college like this.

And so, I let my head burrow into hours of commitment.

Naturally, no one dared to prevent me. God forbid anyone stop the proclaimed genius in the making.

A prodigy who surpassed every round. She was guaranteed to sit at the top of the competition.

And so, not once, these past six months, did I invite the thought of failure to my porch for a chat. I only wished, as I bobbed and weaved the blows, that eventually I would reach the other side alive.

Once I had, I could finally repay my older sister in coins and not just feeble words. I could be free of the guilt of her selflessness left behind. Not to mention…

I'd prove to them all that I had what it takes.

A pathetic mirth escapes my throat.

I place my arm over my eyes as I wonder, who was I kidding?

By feeding this delusion, little did I realise failure would not only traipse past the porch but demolish the house.

Silver light traces through the window as a vehicle passes outside.

Its glow casts light on the scars in my arms. A result of the unending cuts my nails would make as stress built in my arms. Subconsciously, I would drag them down my arms as I battled every night through draft after draft.

I scowl as I remember the conversation I had merely moments ago.

“Leaving so soon?” Sabrina, a class mate that resented me had called as I ran from the grand hall, my cheeks burning.

“Why, Sabrina?” I drawled, shielding my emotions, “ I always knew you had nothing better to do.”

This angered the darling nepo baby, and the next thing I knew, she had shoved me.

I glanced at my ripped sleeve. Now that I had thought about it, that was probably how it happened.

“Understand this,” Sabrina had hissed, towering over me, “this world doesn't give out presents just for working hard. There's no way someone like you, would ever sit with people like us. If winning was so easy, any commoner would make it. You need to be born special to make it in this world. Our world.”

I slam my fist against the door.

For the first time in my life, I voluntarily swallowed the horrid pill.

She's right.

No. She's full of it.

Then why was I the one empty-handed?

I glance at my room as anger fires my eyes. The imposter syndrome closes its teeth around me.

Reaching for my shelves, I pull out piles and piles of my most prized writing. Correction, they used to be. Now they were nothing but a clown's scribbles.

Manically, my fingers dig across the boards, ripping away dozens of tales and fantasies I had crafted with my pen. There was no fantasy world. There was only this world.

The real, cruel world…

Papers fly in the air as tears pour down my cheek in anger.

…never rewards hard work.

“What are you doing?” A voice asks. I turn to see my friend Jasmine Grey and her brother Jamie staring at me from the doorway. Behind her, their parents and little sister Jean peer inside, eyes widened in surprise.

I forgot they were visiting campus to take us all out later.

“Leave,” I mutter.

“Artee,” Jasmine says, “ I know you're upset. But it's not that bad. What you accomplished was still incredible. You made it to the final round-”

“What I accomplished, “ I cut in, “ was nothing. The system was never going to accept me.”

“Now, dear, that's not true,” Mrs. Grey says softly.

I couldn't stand it anymore. Watching them pity me in their secure standings and generational wealth. I bet they've never had to watch a loved one die, because a hospital was far out of reach.

“Not true?” I snap, “You lot have no idea what it takes to be in this world."

Jasmine's eyes round with realization.

“Artee, she didn't mean it like that,” she says.

“You realise, if I had never arrived at this campus, purely through my academic slavery, you and I would never be friends,” I say. I had thought of it often. The friends that I had. The same ones that admired me for my wit and acclaim. If I rest for a moment, would they stay?

Add that to the list of reasons I couldn't afford to lose.

“Did you know,” I laugh bitterly, relaying what Sabrina had thrown in my face, “ Ursa is a year younger than me. She started writing only six months ago.”

I had been at it for six years.

“Oh, Artee. Wait- are those…” Jasmine asks, staring at the papers in my hands, “Why would you tear them?”

My eyes widened.

A pain builds in my chest as my anger fades. The stories I'd written to cope now had slits through their words.

Jasmine walks up to me. I look away, expecting her to mock me.

Instead, her eyes soften as she gently pries the papers from my hands, nodding, “Nothing glue won't fix.”

“I have some in my dorm room,” Jamie suggests.

“Guys,” I say, my voice breaking, “please leave.”

Closing the door, they exit my room.

“We're having a barbecue downstairs,” Mr. Grey says on his way out.

I slide under my covers, still in my bedazzled outfit. Perhaps if I buried myself in fancy clothes, I'd wake up a princess in a land far from here…

My, my. I was losing it.

My stomach growls, unable to sustain my pity party. I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Having calmed down, I throw on a hoodie to vanquish the cold before tiptoeing downstairs.

The smell of seasoned meat seeps through the air, surrounding the house where the Grey siblings and I shared our final year.

They never told me how much the actual rent was, only relaying my share of it, which was far too generous.

That reminder, amongst others, is what eases my tongue.

“I'm sorry,” I say immediately as I step outside.

Now that I have their attention, I brush my hair, trying to choose the right words.

“I was upset, but I shouldn't have taken it out on-”

“Here, dear, go join the kids by the porch,” Mrs. Grey says, pushing a plate of barbecue chicken into my hands.

“But I'm not finished-”

She pats my back in understanding, to which I smile in appreciation.

As the night passes with the Greys buzzing over the events of the ceremony, Jean, their eleven-year-old sister, tugs my arm.

“What's Eridia?” She asks, lifting the torn papers that were on the counter.

I take it from her hand, feeling sheepish for my actions.

“It's nowhere,” I smile.

“Really? Why is it everywhere in your story?” She asks, starting to pull more of the papers on the desk.

“And what's this?” Jean asks, pointing at the charcoal sketches I had done of my characters.

“It's a drax,” I say, watching the fire from the barbecue grill paint smoky silhouettes in the air.

“What's that?”

“A cross of a dragon and phoenix,” I say, praying the barrage of questions would end.

“That's pretty cool,” she beams.

I turn to see if she's lying, but she simply stares at the image in awe.

“And they just live in Eridia?” She asks. I raise a brow, my voice getting ahead of me.

“No. They don't just live there. They’re unique creatures that choose and guide heroes when they're at their lowest. Eridia has stones that give you the power to wield fire and castles with balls and politics-"

I pause as I realise Jean is watching me, her eyes colored with fascination.

“That's sick,” she says, clinging to my arm, “ I always wanted to live in a castle. Does our hero have her own drax? People flying to the sky whenever they like…sounds so romantic.”

She looks at me, awaiting my response.

I can't help but chuckle. This vibrant enthusiasm reminded me of another young whimsical soul from years ago.

“And then Mom, she would fly through the fire, her cape lifting her higher,” ten-year-old me said, reading my work to my mother.

“Oh sweetie, that's great,” Mom would say as I lay my head on her hospital bed, too naive to understand the wires in her hand or the fragility of her voice.

“I loved it,” she said, brushing my hair back.

“My story?” I asked, grinning from cheek to cheek.

“No. Your eyes when you speak of it.”

“Artee?” Jean perks up as I grip my chain.

Oh mom.

How could I forget…

As a kid, I'd craft tales and feel like the happiest person alive.

I lost that enthusiasm to endless worry and desperation. When did the line between survival and passion become obsolete?

Abruptly, I get up.

“I'm going to consider publishing,” I announce, excitement building in my chest. With eyewitnesses present, there were no take-backs.

“Your editorial?” Jamie asks.

“No. My novel,” I say, gathering my papers. My heart was racing.

“And if they reject you?” Mrs. Grey asks, “My dear, I think you should take it slow…”

“Then I'll go to another publisher,” I call as I run back inside

“Where are you going?” Jasmine calls.

“A tale awaits its ingredients. And I've starved far too long. ”

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a celebration of literary talent from around the world. It provides a platform for writers and poets to showcase their creativity and storytelling prowess. This esteemed competition highlights diverse voices and narratives, fostering a global community of artists dedicated to the craft of writing. Participants are encouraged to explore a myriad of themes and styles, contributing to a rich tapestry of contemporary literature.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Maryam Yaasir for her powerful contribution, "Heavy is the Ink-Stained Crown," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her story offers a profound exploration of ambition and resilience, leaving a lasting impact on its readers. We wish Maryam continued success on her literary journey and look forward to witnessing more of her compelling storytelling in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.