NOTICE OF EXPIRATION - By Usayd Qazi

Written By: Usayd Qazi

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the evocative short story "NOTICE OF EXPIRATION," Usayd Qazi, writing as RETURN YO DREAMS, skillfully explores the bittersweet transition from childhood to adulthood. Featured in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this piece delves into the poignant moments of letting go of childhood fantasies and fears. Through a bureaucratic notice, Qazi invites readers to reflect on the inevitability of growing up and the nostalgia for the simplicity of youth.

About the Work

Usayd Qazi's narrative delicately captures the essence of nostalgia and the inevitable passage of time. The story is rich with imagery, from the concept of imaginary friends to the poignant realization that adulthood lacks a definitive guide. The mood is reflective, filled with moments that oscillate between humor and a deep sense of loss. Through this tale, Qazi emphasizes the importance of holding onto certain childhood elements while accepting the responsibilities of adulthood.

RETURN YO DREAMS

Original Submission by Usayd Qazi

NOTICE OF EXPIRATION

MINISTRY OF HUMAN DEVELOPMENT

DEPARTMENT OF AGING AND OTHER NATURAL PROCESSES

RE: TERMINATION OF CHILDHOOD STATUS

Dear Sir/Madam,

Our records indicate that you have reached an age at which your current Childhood Status can no longer be maintained.

We regret to inform you that your childhood has therefore expired.

This is not a cause for concern.

Most citizens experience this transition without significant complications.

Please do not attempt to renew your Childhood Status.

You are required to surrender all remaining childhood materials within seven (7) working days of receipt of this notice.

Failure to comply may result in:

1. Increased responsibility;

2. Persistent back pain;

3. Unsolicited opinions regarding your career;

4. The inability to ask your mother where your things are; and

5. Other consequences as determined by the Department.

I read the letter three times.

Then I turned it over to see if there was a second page.

There was.

“SCHEDULE A: ITEMS TO BE SURRENDERED”

I read the list.

“1. Imaginary Friends

All remaining imaginary friends, including but not limited to childhood companions, invisible animals, imaginary kingdoms, and people you invented because the real ones were busy.”

I stopped reading.

I had not thought about him in years.

Bleemo was not my first imaginary friend. He was simply the one who stayed the longest.

He lived underneath my bed.

Not literally, of course. Even at six I understood that the space underneath my bed contained dust, socks and things that had become too frightening to retrieve once the lights were turned off.

Bleemo lived there conceptually.

He was taller than me, which I thought was important. He knew how to fight. He knew how to climb trees. He could speak to cats. He had also once defeated a crocodile using nothing but a plastic ruler.

I had never seen him. I knew what he looked like anyway.

The letter instructed me to surrender him.

I looked underneath the bed.

There was a sock.

An old charger.

No Bleemo.

I suppose that was the point.

“2. Unreasonable Fears

Please surrender all fears that cannot be justified by adult reasoning.

Examples include:

* Monsters;

* The dark;

* Being watched through windows;

* The possibility that your parents will die if you don't say goodnight properly;

* The possibility that something will happen if you step on a crack;

* Clowns;

* The space beneath the bed.”

* I laughed at this one.

Then I stopped laughing.

There are some things you don't realize you've outgrown until someone asks you to prove it.

That night, I left the bedroom light on.

Not because I was afraid.

Because I had forgotten to turn it off.

“3. Superstitions

The Department requires the surrender of all irrational beliefs.”

I remembered jumping over the drain outside our old house because my cousin told me that touching it would make me grow horns.

I remembered avoiding the number thirteen.

I remembered holding my breath whenever we drove past a cemetery.

I remembered believing that if I made a wish at exactly 11:11, the universe had to listen.

I checked the clock. 11:13.

Too late.

I wondered when I had stopped making wishes.

I wondered if the universe had noticed.

“4. Unfinished Plans for the Future

Please surrender all plans made before the age of twelve.

These may include:

* Becoming an astronaut;

* Becoming a professional athlete;

* Becoming a superhero;

* Owning a house with a water-slide;

* Living in a castle;

* Marrying someone you met once at school;

* Saving the world.”

* I found this section offensive.

Not because I had wanted to be an astronaut.

I had.

I had drawn the rocket too.

It was a terrible rocket. It had four engines and seventeen windows and a fireball painted on the side. I had no idea why it needed seventeen windows. I suppose I wanted everyone to have a good view.

I found the drawing in an old schoolbook.

On the back, in handwriting I barely recognized, I had written:

“WHEN I GROW UP I WILL GO EVERYWHERE.”

Underneath it, in red pen, someone had written:

“Good luck.”

I couldn't remember who.

“5. The Belief That Adults Know What They Are Doing

This item must be surrendered immediately.

No exceptions.”

I read this one several times.

Then I looked around my studio.

There were unpaid bills on the table.

A mug I'd been meaning to wash for three days.

A plant that was dying despite my repeated assurances that I was taking care of it.

I laughed.

Of course.

That was the secret nobody had told us.

There was no age at which someone came along and handed you the manual.

There was no ceremony.

No certificate.

No moment when the world stopped and said:

“Congratulations! You are now qualified to be a person.”

You simply woke up one morning and realized your parents had been guessing too.

That was the first thing I wanted to return.

Not because I believed it anymore.

Because I missed believing it.

The next morning, I called my mother.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Mumma.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A pause.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you calling?”

I almost told her about the letter.

Instead I asked,

“Do you remember when I was little?”

She laughed.

“You were always little.”

“No, I mean…”

I didn't know how to finish.

She waited.

Then she said, “I remember everything.”

I looked at the letter sitting beside me.

Seven days.

I wanted to ask her what happened to childhood.

Whether she had received the same letter.

Whether everyone got one.

Whether hers had come earlier.

Whether she had ever finished the inventory.

But all I said was:

“Did you know what you were doing?”

“What?”

“When you were my age.”

She was quiet for a moment.

Then she laughed again.

“No.”

Just that.

No.

I sat there holding the phone.

For some reason, that answer hurt more than I expected.

“Neither do I,” I said.

“I know,” she replied.

And then, as mothers tend to do when conversations become too honest, she changed the subject.

“Did you eat?”

I said yes.

I was lying.

She knew.

She always knew.

“6. Things You Were Told You Would Have Time For”

This section was longer.

It contained no bullet points.

It simply said:

“Please surrender them all.”

I sat on the edge of my bed.

I thought about all the things I had postponed.

The friend I hadn't called.

The book I hadn't finished.

The apology I thought could wait.

The photograph I hadn't printed.

The trip I kept saying we'd take.

The people I loved whom I assumed would remain available indefinitely.

There is a particular cruelty in discovering that adulthood is mostly an arrangement between yourself and time.

You tell yourself:

“Later”

And time, being polite, doesn't argue.

It simply leaves.

On the sixth day, I packed the box.

Bleemo went in first.

Then the astronaut drawing.

Then the unreasonable fears.

Then the wishes.

Then the belief that my parents knew everything.

Then the plans.

I hesitated before putting in the last thing.

It was a small red plastic whistle.

I had won it at a school sports day when I was eight.

It had never worked properly.

I carried it from house to house anyway.

I don't know why.

I put it in the box.

Then I closed the lid.

The next morning, I took the box outside.

The notice had given an address.

There was no building there.

Only an empty field.

At the center of it stood a large metal collection bin.

A sign above it read:

“CHILDHOOD MATERIALS - DISPOSAL”

I lifted the lid.

Inside were hundreds of boxes.

Thousands, maybe.

Some were old.

Some were new.

Some had names written on them.

Some didn't.

I recognized a few things through the gaps.

A stuffed penguin.

A broken toy car.

A school uniform.

A drawing of a house.

A photograph of a father who looked much younger than I remembered him.

I placed my box inside.

Then I noticed something.

There was another envelope taped to the bottom.

I pulled it out.

It was addressed to me.

The handwriting was mine.

The handwriting I had when I was eight. Broken and messy. But

I opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

There was only one sentence.

“DON'T GIVE THEM EVERYTHING.”

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I looked back into the bin.

My box was already disappearing beneath the others.

I reached in.

But it was too late.

The lid was shut and refused to budge.

I stood there with my hand resting against the cold metal.

For the first time in years, I wanted to cry.

Not because I was getting older.

That part was inevitable.

I cried because I understood what the letter had never told me.

Childhood was not something you lost when you grew up.

It was something you were taught to surrender.

Piece by piece.

Quietly.

Politely.

With forms to fill out.

With bills to pay.

With people asking what you planned to do with your life.

Until one day you looked around and realized you had become an adult without noticing.

I walked home.

Halfway there, I passed a playground.

There was a little boy sitting on the swings.

He was going too high.

His mother was telling him to slow down.

He ignored her.

He laughed.

The sound carried across the street.

I stopped.

For a moment, I could almost remember Bleemo.

I could almost see the rocket.

I could almost believe that 11:11 meant something.

Then the little boy jumped off the swing.

He landed badly.

His mother ran toward him.

He started crying.

She picked him up.

He buried his face in her shoulder.

It made me smile.

I reached into my pocket.

There was something there.

The red whistle.

I had thought I put it in the box.

I held it to my lips.

I blew.

Nothing happened.

I laughed.

Then I blew again.

Still nothing.

So I kept walking, carrying the broken whistle home.

I decided I would keep it.

Not because it worked.

Because it didn't.

And maybe that was the point.

Maybe growing up was not learning how to leave everything behind.

Maybe it was learning what deserved to come with you.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar serves as a prestigious platform for writers worldwide to showcase their literary talents. This competition celebrates diverse voices, offering a space for creativity and self-expression. Participants engage with a global audience, exploring themes that resonate on a universal level. The competition is a testament to the enduring power of the written word and its ability to connect individuals across cultures and experiences.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Usayd Qazi for sharing "NOTICE OF EXPIRATION" with us. Your participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 contributes to a rich tapestry of global narratives. We appreciate your insightful exploration of the transition from childhood to adulthood and look forward to seeing more of your creative endeavors 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.