By Shayma’a Abdullah
You think you’re tough, huh?
I can see right through you
You pretend not to care
Not to hurt
But in essence,
You’re fragile.
You sport this facade of indifference
I can see it’s all pretense
Show emotion for once!
Cold
Hard
Deflecting any human warmth
Any passion
Someday
One day
Someone will come along
And shatter your fortress of glass
To let life in
Let love in
I can be that someone
And I promise to stay
By Merriam Al Fuhaid
I sat myself beneath the window, on the window seat. I’m going to pray, I told myself. My throat automatically clenched in resistance. I’ve got to, I said to it.
I had no right to ask God for anything, and I wouldn’t have usually, but by now I was willing to try anything. And I suspected that everything else I’d tried in the past month was an excuse to avoid trying this.
“Dear God,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I paused so long I must have looked like I was expecting a reply. I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for what I did. I wish I hadn’t lied to everyone so that I could see him, and I very definitely wish I hadn’t seen him. If I could take back that night, believe me God, I would.
“I’m asking you to forgive me and even though I wonder how I dare, I’m also asking you to help me. I know I deserve to suffer. But I want the dreams to stop—I want to go through the day without guilt weighing heavy on my stomach. I want to go out with my friends without asking myself if they would associate with me if they knew. I want to look my mother in the eye. She doesn’t know and she won’t find out—being sorry I lied doesn’t mean I’m sorry I’m a good liar—but every time she tells me she’s proud of me I feel like I won the game but cheated to get there. She loves me but I don’t deserve it, and I can’t let myself cry in front of her, it would be so selfish, but the tears fall on the inside like drops of acid. I almost wish she would find out, but she deserves to think she has a good daughter even if it isn’t true, doesn’t she? Just as I deserve to be suffering.”
Tears had welled up in my eyes at this point and were edging their way from the corners. The words were tumbling out now but I didn’t feel better; instead, I felt like I was reciting a list of all my shortcomings and confirming their existence. “I think I’ve suffered enough, though!” I added defiantly. “I’ve hurt myself more than anyone. Please let me stop hating myself. I haven’t seen him in a month, and I’m never going to again. I promise.”
I felt no change. Why should I? If God was how they said, He was angry with me right now. I unclasped my hands and looked up through the window at the full moon shining brightly in the sky—pure, whole, beautiful. If only those words could have been used to describe me. Perhaps they never could have been used to paint an accurate picture of the girl I was and had been, but suspicion and assumption deal much softer blows than hard knowledge. I had never been what they wanted me to be or what everything around me told me I ought to be, but I had never acted on it before. Last month a line had been crossed, and now I was ostracized from the ranks of the righteous even though they did not know what I had done, rather because I knew where I did not belong and had ostracized myself.
I walked away from the window and took a small paper bag off of my dresser, reaching inside and pulling out a dreamcatcher. It had a round straw frame with string wrapped around it like a cobweb, and feathers and large glass beads dangled from the bottom. The woman I had bought it from today had informed me it would keep nightmares from reaching my sleeping head. This proposition had a decidedly pagan flavor to it but I figured since I was already outside acceptable moral territory I might as well get as much as I could out of it. And maybe it would make the dreams stop. Now as I looked at it, I wondered why I should have so much trouble believing in God or a divine plan when I was gullible enough to throw away cash on a straw net to scare off nightmares. I hated myself at that moment for buying something so silly. Then I hung it up in my window anyway and hated myself a little bit more. As I lay my head down on my pillow, waiting for sleep to engulf my mind, I reflected that this was at least a break in the monotony of hating myself for the usual stuff.
I awoke to the weekend sun warming my face, and I shielded my eyes as I opened them and began to stretch. At least the moon was a gentle reminder of my sullied virtue—the sun, bright and intense with its unblemished light, I literally could not look at. I threw my feet out of bed, but to my surprise, when I looked down I saw a dozen little rainbows dotting the floor and tattooing my skin. My eyes went to the dreamcatcher in the window, and I saw that the glass beads had acted as prisms and split the white light into all the colors of the visible spectrum. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet…Roy G. Biv. The colors of the rainbow as taught to me by my third grade science teacher, and all the wonder I had felt at the time, the wonder that all those vibrant colors could be disguised in the hue of nothingness, came flooding back to me. The sun blinded and shamed me, but the rainbows enthralled me, and yet they were really the same thing.
Nobody could look at the sun, could they? I thought. All the natural light and color in the world came from the sun, but nobody could look the origin in the eye. They washed it down, diluted it, and divided it because they just couldn’t take the real thing. Some people saw the moon and adored it for its gentle reflected light, but others got their sun running down the beach watching it dance on sea-green waves like folds of sequined satin, and still there were others who shut their eyes and were content to feel the sun on their skin, knowing they could never use their primitive human eyes to see it for what it was but that love did not require understanding. Then there were those who couldn’t take the light of the real world at all and glued their faces to mirrors and TV screens, or, in my case, to their reflection in a teardrop. But there was no reason for me to do that anymore, because in that moment I realized I’d ever seen anything so beautiful as a rainbow.
I didn’t fall to my knees and pray that morning. I wouldn’t for a long time. But a few of the stones dragging down my heart were gone, and over breakfast when my mother smiled at me, I liked it. And I smiled back.
By Fatma Al Sumaiti
She walked to the end of the room and placed her palm on the window. What happened last night scattered her already shattered pieces. Lifting her hand off the glass, she curled her fingers and knocked slowly on the window. So solid, she thought, so together.
If pieces of sand could come together when under pressure, why is it that humans fall apart?
She rested her forehead on the window and closed her eyes. It was unbelievable how tremendous the void at her center was. How her mind had suddenly lost touch with the rest of her being along with her surroundings. It was absolutely numbing how her heart murmured so quietly.
She felt as if she’s floating into a realm of numb torment. A state of overwhelming feeling and lack of it all together.
This cannot be the life she was meant to lead. She dove into her thoughts wondering what it was that fractured her. Was it an inevitable closure to years of emotional crusades? Or was she supposed to break because people break all the time?
All this pain. All this confusion. This overwhelming feeling that she is alone twirled her into foreign and monstrous darkness.
She took nine excruciatingly slow steps away from the window.
She ran.
Crashed into the glass. Felt every shred make its way into her skin. Bleeding out all that pain.
All that confusion.
She flew into the darkness she chose, and away from the abyss that was pulling her deeper.
By Alexis White
“Mommy! You’re back!” I yelled as I ran into her arms and squeezed her tightly. She had only been gone for two days but for a seven year old it felt like ages. An eternity without hugs, laughs, jokes, or trying to figure out which language she was speaking in.
“Damme beso.” she said, leaning down and kissing my forehead.
“Gimme a kiss in Spanish!” I screeched with excitement while returning her kisses.
“Come on Fatz, keep me company while I make breakfast. Do you want pancakes?”
“Yes! And bacon!”
I sat down at the table as she gathered ingredients and cooking utensils from around the kitchen. I watched her intensely as if she would disappear any moment and for the first time that morning really noticed her face. Her smooth sand colored skin was shattered with pink and red scratches all over it. It was as if she had mistakenly lain down onto a pillow full of sharpened glass.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked. “Is it my face? It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No Fatz, it doesn’t hurt. Not anymore.”
“My heart hurts whenever this happens“
“Don’t worry I’m not going back to him anymore.”
“I don’t believe you. You said that last time” I whispered as tears began to roll down my cheeks.
And she did go back. She went back to him for years. More scratches, more cuts, more bruises, and more heartaches.
“I just don’t get why you’re still with him. What happens if you can’t put yourself back together again? What happens to me and Lenny when he finally breaks you?” I questioned in such a tone that let her know empty words were not going to appease me for I was no longer a seven year old whispering the inevitable under my breath.
My mother looked at me and saw the tears that once filled my eyes were now replaced with anger bitterness.
“It doesn’t matter if I go back or not but I promise you this, and that is that no one can or will ever break me. Or you unless you let them. That you can believe”
And she kept her promise and eventually she kept her sandy smooth skin. But more importantly she kept her spirit and resolved to never be broken.
By Wil
I have an uncle who is a glass artist. When I was a kid, I never really had much appreciation for his work
but I used to love walking into his studio. This is not like any other studio I have seen. It had what I can only describe as a glass studio smell. Slightly acrid. But clean. The place always had a sense of calm. Three or four rooms. Bigger than any other studio I’ve been in, come to think of it. Electric and gas kilns. Within these – fire, intense heat.
A sense of danger narrowly avoided whenever I walked into the main kiln room and saw its large lid hanging heavily. Perhaps some melted colourful artworks laying inside, cooling after having been in the violent, furnace-like temperatures all night. Melted from jagged piles of glass shards and pellets into truly beautiful rainbow coloured plates, platters, fish, panels and the like. 3 phase electrical cabling snaking to fuse boxes, the sense of a complex, technical operation that my grandfather, an electrical engineer, needed to help set up.
After growing up, I remember being proud to have him as an uncle because he had some success as an artist, with commissioned works in a number of buildings in the city. I remember my first job out of university, doing disability support pension assessments. When I walked into the foyer of the big building where I was working there were three of his works on pedestals in the middle of the space, lit up. It felt special having a connection to these large artworks which the thousands of people who used the building every day must have seen.
None of this is about the actual activity of glass artwork, though. This is because, for most of my life, I never really knew what that was like. I only ever saw the products, like a large tall fountain in his garden with many long, elegant glass rails vertically arranged so the water came out the top and trickled down them. These sorts of objects were large, impressive – but not so much as to make me keen about being a glass artist. When actual glass art is being rendered, it is one of the most intense, impressive displays of skill you can imagine. I’ve only mentioned kilns so far, but glass blowing is another main way to make glass art. Imagine this. The artist gets a metre long metal tube. A gob of molten glass is attached to the end of it. They then insert this into a white hot furnace, rotating the rod to make the glass hot again. Then comes the awesome bit. The glass artist then takes it out of the furnace, puts the other end of the tube to their mouth, and blows a bubble into the glass! Yes, hot, molten glass gets blown from the end of a metal tube. Whoever initially thought of this must have been written off as a crazy. When trying to recruit their first students, they must have been accused of looking for victims.
To watch a glass blower is to watch someone playing on the edge of a cliff. Another thing is that you touch the molten glass. Almost. You put a wad of wet padding in your hand. And roll the rod to smooth the glass and shape the bubble you are blowing. All that is between the artist and a trip to hospital is a steady hand and good communication with your assistant. You go back and forth between this blazing furnace, paying close attention so as not to make it too hot and lose all your work in one quick sorry slop of molten liquid into its white hot, roaring depths. You might want to give the bubble a distended shape by making it really hot then swinging it. Yes, the artist stands there in his studio swinging molten glass around with just the right force so it doesn’t fly off the end of the tube and hit a bystander in the face but changes shape into the makings of a nice vase. Then one might wish to add layers to the shape, like some thin strands of coloured glass followed by more shaping with a wad protected hand. A keen sense of timing is required. The artist displays a impressive awareness of how quickly the glass cools, and what can be attempted sensibly during the brief window when the glass is at the right temperature. It is amazing to watch a piece take shape from such a dangerous medium. All of the tense, precise action of a glass sculptor makes their clay, stone and bronzework counterparts look like whimps, painters like timid, mute ghosts.
They get to break the glass. It gets cracked, gently, off the end of the rod. This is done with water. Rotating the rod, you chill a thin band of the glass at the end of the tube so a fracture appears. Then it easily breaks off.
You have an artwork, born from fire, sweat and danger.
Then you get to give it a name. Then you get to put it in an exhibition. If you used a new style, you get to name the style and that will be included in the description of the work in the gallery. People look at what you have done. Large gatherings come to the opening, speeches are made, conversations, ideas, laughter and wine flow. People buy your artwork and are proud to display it in their homes and offices. You get interviewed. My uncle was even interviewed for the national archives.
This makes me think about my own life and the reasons behind my chosen profession. Now, after 2.5 years of study and 2.5 years of experience I am finding none of this excitement and notoriety. I expect none in the future. I have written a poem even about how mine is a life of unerring conscientiousness. When I was deciding what to study, I had a fear that I must avoid being looked down on. That I must avoid being seen as stupid. Even if it meant I overlooked doing what I loved. What I respected others for doing. If I’d been without that fear I probably would have done an arts PhD and become a professor.
Then I remember something my cousin, his son, said when he chose to study economics and avoid the art world, despite the benefit his father’s talent and knowledge could offer in an embarking on an arts career. They were always poor. I guess that would definitely be too hard for my fragile ego to handle. I wanted to be rich and respected. I felt that I was neither when deciding what to study at university.
By Quamar Al Mumin
I remember holding my napkin just a little too tight. I leaned to the side and whispered in your ear, “Am I doing the right thing?” Giving me a sad smile, you replied with the question, “Do you?” and then you tapped your glass lightly on mine, held it up, held your glance on my eyes and sipped. I gulped, dry mouth, shaking fingers, a light pout.
You then turned away to face the guests, a sea of pastel fabrics and suits. The clicking of cutlery, sly murmurs and giggles filled the air. The temperature was heating up, beads of sweat made their way down my back. I tugged lightly at my pearl necklace, was it getting tighter? The room seemed to be shrinking as well.
Suddenly I was very aware of the ring on my left hand. As my eyes glazed over to it, it turned into a chain. I blinked rapidly, and with every blink the chain grew, gliding up my arm. I turned to you and tried to speak, but no words would come out. The chain wrapped itself around my neck, and slowly began to tighten. But when I grabbed desperately at it, a chain it was no longer. It felt like scales, cold, leathery scales. A hissing sound began in my right ear. I covered it with the palm of my hand, but the hissing grew louder.
I opened my mouth, eyes wide, darting back and forth, but I couldn’t get my vocal cords to cooperate. The people around me continued to converse, giggles turned into hysterical laugher. Thunder erupted when a fork fell to the floor. Helpless, my eyes shot straight to the glass in front of me and without thinking, I grabbed it, broke it on the table and swung it at my neck. I heard a lady scream and drew my eyebrows together in confusion. My head felt heavy, and as if not under my control it swung down on the table. All pain aside, it was surprisingly fascinating to watch the pattern of red bloom in contrast to the white table cloth.
By Dina Al Awadhi
Trapped inside a glass bauble
I am numb
blurry images muddled voices
a shadowed void of nothingness
suffocating eternal
the fog descends and I am lost
I found The Crocodile in the great black pool
with tawny glinting eyes
a grin full of sharp black needles
How do I get out? I begged her
She leered at me, the needles growing sharper
the black gloam of the pool greater
a voice embodied the mist
Break the glass that binds you,
do not forget, or be forgot.
and a steel hammer appeared by my cold bare toes
I squinted at her and cried But this too heavy!
my fingers fumbling with the large instrument
The Crocodile’s glinting eyes narrowed
Do not stop until you break the glass.
She cautioned her scaly head
disappearing in the dark ripples
Tick tock. The Crocodile croaked
And her jewel eyes were
gone
I cried once more then
taken with a sudden fear
stumbled through the mist heaving the great hammer along
my footsteps grew heavier
my heartbeat thudded slower
my eyelids drooped lower
Tick tock. The Crocodile croaked
And so I raced harder
dragging my legs through the mud
searching, searching for the walls
of my glass cage
when I suddenly slipped upon a sea of flowers
an ocean of lush greens blossoming
The Crocodile’s voice echoed in my mind
but the fragrance was
numbing
I slowed to a stop
I sank to my knees
I drank in the sweet nectar of poppies
Tick tock. The Crocodile croaked.
But her voice was now hazy
the nectar the stronger
her stark warning forgotten
I spread out in my field of red poppies
glassy-eyed the pale misted sky
I smiled dimly
And beside the steel hammer
that lay resting forgotten
by my side
were a hundred thousand million
hammers
all forgotten as well
By Osman Naeem
What constitutes the word glass?
I’m not going back to secrets or scratches
I’m here to light your candles without a box of safety matches
Talking about Newton splitting light with prisms in the attic
bulletproof windshields, dreams and even a little magic
Bending them makes existence vivid
Take a look through a pair of eyeglasses
Take a look at the sands of time inside an hourglass
What’s now in your sight incites anxiousness in spite of the fact
That what was once solid ground is now a quicksand
As the shapeless ghost of pain
confined by glass in a memory encased by an old leather frame
Stares through the raindrops racing down the window pane
Wishing that the summer came, delving into restlessness
Take a look from the pupils of a soldier walking on debris
Shattered glass, flooding the ground
trapping the battle cries and screams beneath
We’ve got five senses but an infinite spectrum to see
There’s no world, just a few billion understandings of it
A glass is made of shades that we can’t perceive
Yet we claim to know all and judge blindly
Now that’s a shade of irony
Moving on, we too bend and reflect and refract
Because these words are a medium for minds to interact
Make eye contact with eyes shut and even for those with Cataract
Be it a piece of silicon dioxide or an ancient artifact
This is the truth through my vision as clear as glass in the fist of a Nihilist
Possessions inevitably cease to last
as they eventually disintegrate and fade away
Into the realm of blissful yesterdays
Life is meant for you to live, not just exist.
By Shahd Al Shammari
They promised us that after death, the stage would be reset, and I would be reborn.
There would be no more suffering, no more of that that thing we had grown accustomed to: pain.
But first, they handed us a paper:
I, Patient Number 001, I, the undersigned, I, the Body. I hereby declare that I will not come at you, Doctors, with Knives. I will Not Protest. My ghost will not haunt you, under the circumstance of my possible death.
I gambled. I signed. I didn’t believe in Ghosts anyway.
They threw their heads back, laughed in triumph. The Experiment was on its way.
Darkness came, I lost all five senses. Except my sixth –the sense that you were still there.
And with each cry that escaped my lips, you cried louder: your gasps echoed the murder.
They said you shouldn’t be in the O.R. and shoved you behind glass doors.
And then slowly, precisely, they cut through my flesh, and you bled.
All I heard were muffled screams and you, outside, begging to be let in.
By Batool Hasan
Streams of hazy sunshine flow into the room through the cracks in the shutters of the windows. My eyes flutter, causing me to swim in a state between consciousness and fuzzy dreams. I catch a glimpse of my room, the contents of my closet were thrown madly on the floor, and my clothes were sprawled all across, almost covering every inch of it. I open my eyes again; a little more steady this time. The outlines of my clothes merge with the furniture hiding under it, giving my room the feel of a creepy dump. A wave of nausea crashes over me, but it’s not from dizziness; it’s from the stench that’s leaking into my lungs.
I did it again.
I look down to see vomit coating me from hips to ankles, pooling a little on the patch of Persian rug beneath me. I inch a little further to the right, getting a clear view of myself in the dusty freestanding full-length mirror. An image of myself appears as I shudder. A few drops of vomit stain my tank top, my legs masked with the rest of the foul substance. I close my eyes in a vain attempt to force the image out of my head.
Please make it go away.
Tell me that I didn’t do it again.
I ball my hands into fists, hoping to keep them from clawing at my thighs, and I find myself sinking into an old memory.
I was standing in front of the very same tall mirror, staring blankly when a girl manifested out of the mirror before me. Her eyes were a void drawing me in, as dark as stars that had burned out eons ago. She had the type of facial features that resembled a lion’s expression while hunting his prey. You could count the bones in her body just by looking at her. My thighs looked far too meaty next to her slender ones, my hips were too wide in comparison to her narrow waist. She asked about my jeans, the one I bought two months and a week ago. My eyes started darting across the room, hoping to avoid her gaze. I couldn’t bear the embarrassment of confessing that I couldn’t squeeze my legs into them anymore.
She laughed and told me to stop being silly. She gestured for me to come closer, her eyes never leaving mine. She taught me her magical trick; it was really easy! All I had to do was stick my toothbrush down my throat and vomit until I bled.
Over the nights, I saw more and more of her.
“Do you really need to eat that? Are you really hungry?” she’d ask and I’d shove my plate away. So, I skipped a few meals to keep her happy, but a few meals turned to many skipped dinners and lunches, and purging became a routine.
She became cruel, softness and grace no longer lingered in the air around her. Her demands dug daggers into my stomach, traced the outlines of my bones and tore at the flesh. She refused to let me taste anything other than the emptiness she served. I wasn’t miserable, I was quite happy actually; joy rose to my ears at the thought of people whispering behind my back about how skinny I’ve gotten. The image Ana was desperate to achieve became my reality; my body was made of sticks covered with a rough layer of thin skin.
Ana was proud and so was I.
Calories were the enemy and Ana was my guardian, she would never let me fall victim to weakness again.
“You already look like a whale, do you really need to put on more layers of fat? Have some paper and water instead!”
Her devils ran loose in my veins, stealing what was left of my energy. Her demons held the gun, but don’t you see?
Ana didn’t pull the trigger because I was the killer.
I was a senior at her academy and even crawling started to hurt. Ana had me paralyzed in place while she finished off the part of me that wanted to fight back. I might have been sixteen years old but I had the weight of a ten year old.
Then came the day I got caught during one of our meetings. My family rushed me into the hospital while yelling prayers at the top of their lungs, but the damage was done. I woke up in a cold white room, an IV line hooked to the vein in my left arm, and a doctor with a sour expression stood at the foot of the hospital bed. He picked up my file and apologized for what he was about to say. “Your periods stopped, but you already know that don’t you?” he turned his face to the side, staring at an invisible spot on the wall as he continued.
“Do you understand the severity of your situation? You’ll never have kids. You are suffering from extreme malnutrition and if your weight keeps dropping, young lady, you’re going to die. Your heart can’t take any more beating.” The doctor sighed and left the room. For the first time in three years, I was completely alone.
The next few weeks were a blur caught between an emotional tornado and a vicious hurricane. My family members made sure to invest every waking hour in drowning my ears with the cries of their disappointment. They glared at me as the stale hospital food traveled down my throat to rest inside my stomach.
The memory crumbles and I return back to my room.
It’s been three and a half years since I’ve met Ana, fifteen days since my last visit to the doctor.
I am not made of fragile glass; I refuse to let you crack my surface.
I am not made of clay, you don’t have the right to invade my body and mold it to fit your desire.
I grab the scale hiding under the far end of my bed and thrust it at the mirror. It collides noisily with the smooth reflective surface, glass shards clatter and dance at my feet.
Life sucks and then you die, Ana.
By Hawra’a Khalfan
I smoke my cigarette in a corner in the bathroom; God forbid my father smells the scent. I mean he did smoke for 22 years—but his daughter, suckling on tobacco until it turns to ashes?
No. Not okay. Never okay.
I imagine the conversation I’d have with him if he ever found out, “I can’t trust you anymore!” He would yell. “I don’t need your trust, father. I am an adult, and it was my conscious decision to smoke!” I would respond eagerly.
Eager. Hmm. I mean, what is a cigarette at the end of the day? Some would say it is cancer. It is death. It is suicide.
Why does a man have the option to commit this slow paced suicide by inhaling this foul smoke but a mere woman cannot make this decision?
Then they ask me why I claim Feminism is a way of life, it is a struggle to survive, it is a fight for freedom.
I quickly put my cigarette out when I hear footsteps passing by my bathroom door. Did he smell it? I light a candle and open the bathroom window quickly and freeze, listening with every fiber of my being. Trying to figure out if he was now going to try to diminish my future because of my very slow suicidal tendencies. If he would try to diminish my future, over a silver and blue pack of secrets.
By Dee.
Not with a bang
Nor with a whimper
But with a whisper
Ends the world
Subtle susurrations
Of pursed lips
Shielded by
Hands and Infinite Politeness
You didn’t hear it from me
But
Did you know that She
Did you know that He
Did you know that They
Oh
No
Well
For shame
And a mere murmur
Breaks down years
Built on brick and mortar
And homes torn down
Piece by piece
And lives
Smashed apart
By nothing more
Than a hissed syllable
Or two
By Quamar Al Mumin
Come here and let me whisper in your ear, the same way that I used to. Compared to all my deepest secrets, you were an abyss. A secret that seemed to never end, and to be honest, I didn’t want it to end. Because having you as a secret made you mine. And it was nice, knowing that nobody knew but me and you.
But then, it grew heavy, too heavy for just the both of us to carry. You said it was a burden, I thought it gave us wings. You grew distant and with that you took my heart as well. My heart, my mind, my sanity and my secret left me to be with you.
I’d sit alone, in the dark, my face in my hands, my hands on my knees, my knees to my chest, the tears refusing to flow. They kept their own secrets; they didn’t want me to know. They’ve been coming up with a plan. A plan to meet the corners of my lips, but they didn’t want me to feel them. They didn’t want to leave my eyes like you did. They didn’t want to fade off of my lips, never to be returned like you did.
It weight became unbearable, with every day I can feel you forgetting me. I can feel the secret leaving you, running away from your forgetful mind and joining mine. My tears gave up on their hidden plan; they crawled helplessly down my cheeks. Traitors. How could they leave me as well? Do they not miss the warmth of my eyes? Or have my eyes gone cold..?
Slowly, little by little I decided I couldn’t keep it any longer. Forgive me, but I had to share it. I gave a little bit of it to my friends, who held it close to their hearts and offered guidance and support. I gave a lot of it to curious strangers, never to be spoken to again, and even travelers, who took our secret to far off lands. It was happier being spread out, it made new homes in the hearts and minds of others. It taught them lessons, never to make the mistake that we did.
The very last part of my secret left my eyes through tears that fell onto my mother’s lap. As she held me close she squeezed every last drop of it that I had left.
It was as if the air that entered my lungs had been filtered when the secret left me. Sweet, sensational freedom of my subconscious mind.
By Shahd Al Shammari
When we first met, you told me that I was the reason all the others had never lasted. You told me that I was that one, the one, the one we all claim to know is that one one. You just knew. You said you had waited for me. You watched me from afar, and waited until I had fallen out of love with the one before you.
“I don’t take remains of a heart. I don’t like to put people back together,” you said. You claimed it wasn’t your favorite part of things, that it was up to me to be ready for you.
I was up for the challenge. I would resurrect whatever was left of me, for you. I would become whole again.
And so it was that you trusted me. You labeled me as trustworthy, and I thought I had won the lottery.
And then there was that moment. You lifted your shirt. You showed me the canvas of scars that was your body.
“How could anyone do this to someone they love?” I gasped, touching your skin, afraid of breaking it, and even more anxious of not giving it the attention it demanded.
“It’s just what people do to each other.”
My faith in humanity was lost.
But nothing could have prepared me for the worst part. I found out that you had imagined this pain was self-inflicted, you claimed you were a victim of abuse, and you rejoiced in making me believe your stories. Your secret was, your favorite part of things, the thrill for you, was breaking people, burying them in lies –and watching them fight to come up for air.
By Yas Bin-Shaibah
Strangers on a train.
He with his newspaper, wrinkled face with salt and pepper hair to match, and glasses sitting at the edge of that beer nose. Reading tragedies of yesterday. Perhaps another murder, or that car pile up blocking the A1. I think I see a ‘lost dog’ ad, poor fella, I wonder if it’s the dog digging through the trash last night.
Why’s he getting up? Oh, another stop. (Sigh)
I wonder where he’s going. To work? Or is he coming home from a night shift? Maybe he’s visiting his sickly wife in hospital. Might be the secret behind his unusually tired, worried eyes.
Young people! Finally, I was beginning to feel like the fetus on the train.
Dreadlock Blondie kinda reminds me of myself, hasn’t stopped organizing her stuff since the train left the station. Am I this annoying when my OCD kicks in, too? Hmm.
Her girlfriend is the Indian, female version of Justin Bieber. Or is it just the hair?
Ah, new couples. Shyly holding hands, smiling and blushing so hard when their eyes meet.
I wonder how they met, they seem like a highly unlikely couple.
Yet another stop.
No one went down, and only one cute little young woman came up.
Look at her with her little suit all dressed up, so polite asking me if she can have the window seat with a great, big smile.
I read the words “product relaunch” on her folder. Ah, one of us marketers!
It was a handout of a PowerPoint she’d be presenting when she got off the train. I figured that out when she hurried trough her Starbucks breakfast and started flipping through, silently practicing, but could see her lips move at the corner of my eye.
I looked at the paper and learned what product it was for. Woah, I though that was doing really well! My sister sure makes it seem so. Hmm, it is a different market in the UK though.
Yawn.
I wonder if she’s new, she looks really nervous, and around my age. I wish her well. Unless she’s the bitch around the office! In that case I wish her a broken coffee machine. And for the curse to stay with every coffee machine she gets. But, na, I don’t think the office bitch would be polite to a stranger on a train.
I wonder if someone here is thinking of me now as I am thinking of them.
Another world, a planet orbiting on its very own cycle.
Wondering where I come from.
Wondering where I’m heading.
Wondering why.
Wondering what kind of person I am.
Wondering if my outside fairly represents… ‘me’.
Wondering, “What are her secrets?”
They met in secret and spoke in whispers, but when they fell in love it was quick and violent – a whirlwind romance, some people would say. Others describe it as a classic case of boy meets girl behind the Torres store, under the old avocado tree.
The avocado tree is the holder of all secrets, of all murmured promises and breathless exchanges between modest young girls, barely sixteen, and muscular but green suitors. Boys who know nothing but the muddy streets of San Pedro and the price of every beer have the nerve to stand tall and pledge eternal love to someone’s daughter. Some boys speak with excitement, bouncing on the balls of their feet, wanting desperately to communicate their passion with a kiss (at least a kiss). Some boys take deep breaths and run their hands along the dark, rough bark. They describe a decadent life with gadgets and meats and an endless supply of expensive wine. They can envision the cool dark bottles but they never think about respect or warmth or affection. What is affection? A mere word uttered by husbandless teachers expecting their class to read poetry.
Day after day, year in and year out, boys and girls meet under the avocado tree and spin plush dreams, so different from their dreary life in San Pedro.
The first time she set off to meet him, her feet felt like the heavy tires that she used to roll in when she was a little girl. Even the air smelled rubbery. Her eyes watered and she wanted to vomit. The afternoon sun didn’t want to bear witness to this secret rendezvous; it silently slid behind the clouds and hid away from the scandal. She ducked into the alley between the Torres food store and the sinister butcher’s shop. A powerful whiff of animal carcasses hit her face like a fist, then pushed its way down her throat and made her gag. The dirt under her foot was a deep brick red and she thought it was because the blood seeped from under the butcher’s door and soaked the side street.
The alley was narrow and as if that was not enough, the two small buildings started closing in on her. They were going to squash her, so she picked up her pace and pushed on. She had to see him. Years later, she would recall that fateful afternoon, remembering the toes of her scuffed black shoes against the crimson earth and the unbearable stench of death. Yet she could never remember why she wanted to see him, why she needed to see him. What made her put one foot in front of the other when she was supposed to be at home minding her siblings?
“You are always thinking,” Diana says sharply. She crams years of criticism and reproach in just a few words. “What are you thinking?” A little softer this time, as she folds ratty t-shirts next to her older sister.
“Nothing.”
“What?” Impatience creeps into Diana’s voice again. “Come on. The kids?”
“Yeah. No. The avocado tree and time… Back then, you know?” she just shrugs. How does she articulate her thoughts to her sister?
But she doesn’t have to look for words because Diana knows. They all lived fairytales under that tree, they were all promised silk dresses and gold but look at them now, washing threadbare garments at a common laundry room.
By Osman Naeem
Secrets, out the deep dark blue
The voices outside my head seep through
As I unwillingly break a dozen promises
Unaware of the captives that it’s held over time
Feels like walking in air and swimming in ice
The cycle continues until a friend says goodbye
This is a typical approach to a whisper, or a candy coated lie
Listen closely because I need your attention
But I’ll be wise so I have no names left to mention
We all have them like a mercenary does
A bulletproof vest on to protect himself
From government officials, income tax and debts
It’s what brought a tear to the eyes of an adopted son
When his mother swore on Virgin Mary that she was secretly a nun
The truth behind a man being forced to steal a bun from the bakery
It’s what got Adam bullied for being gay,
After it spilled out from his best friend’s buccal cavity yesterday
The existence of MI7, Area 51, and democracy
The answer to why sometimes confessions aren’t holy
Oh, and from another point of view
A secret is a hole in the membrane that blurs truth
A scratch on the mask people put on to fit in since birth
Hiding mistakes, scars and unknown aliases
The shortcuts in life and hidden pathways
The keys that we pass on in hopes of leaving behind a legacy
You can’t deny the fact that we all disguise
Our dirty little secrets and the location of our treasures
The names of our high school crushes, and struggles through peer pressure
Buried beneath the second degree of desperate measures
By Taiba Al Otaibi
“Come here, I have a secret to confess:
Grandfather used to tie Mother up to a tree
for hours in the blazing desert sun.
For she was too boisterous, you see
And Grandfather was not one for fun.
She rose up with such a dirt covered face
As hot tears polished away her inspiring plight;
Now a silken draped woman, so full of grace
With an efficacious core of iron might.
Although the worst that she has ever done to me
was pinch her face as she nagged in vain.
And yet there are times that I wish I had felt
the searing sting of Egyptian canes.”
By Batool Hasan
You see, I’ve been standing on this bridge for quite a while now. The molded planks are rough with age, tiny wooden needles digging into my bare feet. The pain is sweet, momentarily at least, comforting my nerves. An endless black abyss stretches below me, surrounded by a dense dark forest. The smell of rot is rich in the air as my lungs burn, consuming it. The traffic of venomous voices shuffling around in my head collides with a tornado of my own grim thoughts, unbalancing me.
MAKE IT STOP.
Caught in a state of vertigo, I hear them inside my head and I hear them outside my head. I break through my frozen stance and lunge forward, falling hard on the set of wooden planks ahead. Blood and sweat paint a thin layer on my body as I fight back the tears, it’s too early for tears. The bridge skids to the side as I stretch my arms forward to grip the plank in front of me. Gasping for air through the murky fog manifesting around me-
The frail threads linking the planks of wood cushioning my legs snap and I fall backwards, my hands catching on the edge of the ropes.
GET OUT. JUST GET OUT.
I feel their shallow touches on my mind. I hear them yearning for absolution, a better ending, a cheat.
Blood trickles from my battered palms and—
I slip. I fall.
No longer resisting gravity, no longer ignoring the pull.
I pray to God but I can’t distinguish my prayers from their cries.
MAKE IT STOP.
I’m ready to be shattered, ready to be thrashed into a peaceful state of limbo.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD.
The fog is blinding so I close my eyes, unable to tell how much longer I’ll have to wait. My heart drops as I open my eyes again.
My feet are firmly placed on the bridge once again.
Three-two-one
Here comes the mania
The pressure on my skull increases and I clamp my hands over my ears.
FORGIVE ME.
My heart twists and turns inside my chest, nothing but a stiff lump of mixed emotions. All I ever wanted was to see two vertical gashes adorning both my forearms. They were never deep enough because no amount of self-inflicted pain could counteract the agony I keep reliving inside my head.
Why? Just why?
It’s like a switch. I turn it off. They turn it back on.
I’m exhausted from harboring this secret, this untold truth. Maybe I lost my sense of reality while roaming the roads depression led me on.
No, maybe I’m simply delirious.
How can I be lost when I’m home?
Soft dust swirls around me in a haze of bewilderment, almost tickling me. My body isn’t proud of me. They turned my forearms into a beautiful canvas of crimson red streaks. Scars peek shyly between the red lines on my arms, slightly curving into crescent moons like shallow smiles.
Smiles or frowns?
I’M BEGGING YOU.
”How’d you get these scars?” They’d ask.
“Oh, it was the cat!” I’d answer. Silly cat making perfect parallel lines on my wrists.
I claw at my heart, hoping to stop their pain from poisoning my veins. These voices, they’re not demons, they’re variations of me. Their words bleed accusations drawing depthless rivers interlocking with each other across my thighs.
I often think about heaven and hell. What if hell is as cold as the inner depths of their souls? What if it’s as lonely as the lost look in my eyes?
What if it’s as sad as…
I laugh at myself, never mind, I’ll find out soon enough.
Secrets have a way of intoxicating your mind until you’re nothing but a mess of pure cynical skin. I’ve given myself so many names to satisfy all the changes, all the variations, but they’ve all lost their meaning to me.
I feel everything and they feel nothing. This hunger feeds from a place between their greed and my useless pride, hunger for…
Nothing,
Blankness,
I feel nothing towards them.
I can’t take it anymore.
ON YOUR KNEES.
CRAWL.
BEG.
—————————————————————————————–
Beep Beep Beep
I force my eyes open, blinking away the blurriness of my vision. I move to the side while furiously slapping my phone with my left hand to turn off the alarm. I lie on my back for a few minutes, mesmerized by the tiny cracks in the dirty ceiling. Reluctantly, I pull the warm sheets away, cringing at the sight of dry blood and swollen cuts on my wrists.
I’m just the girl with voices in her head.
By Amira Sheikh
Her mother’s lost smile was back which she longed for
Her brother’s grades now wouldn’t be low,
She bought this happiness which now knocked on their door.
But the price she paid for it, they would never know.
Six months ago when her dad took his last breath
Their rents and bills were due, they cried for bread.
While wiping her mum’s tears, she saw in her shelf,
A pair of her bright red heels, and asked to herself:
‘If it’s money in which my mum’s tears can be soaked,
Being a woman, I surely know the easiest way to earn it.’
Starvation and cries were by what she was provoked,
She thought her dignity was worth it.
Dressed up, makeup on, she would leave at night,
A daughter for whom the dark was a fright.
Her mum thought she got a job at the call centre,
For which daily wages were paid by the mentor.
Self-esteem, character, a lot she lost, to her own self she was a disgrace,
The price she paid for her mum’s smile was her cloaked secret.
Now she looks at the mirror, degraded and can’t face,
The exploited reflection of a mere harlot.
Kuwait Writing Club 