Category Archives: Writers

Socks by Wil

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By Wil

I’ve sometimes wondered what it’d be like to write an autobiography. But then I get slightly embarrassed for even thinking about it. My life is nothing like what you see on bookshelves. So why choose the above title? Shouldn’t I be scurrying along with my average anonymous little life?

 

It was June the 10th, 2011. I was trying to be better than others, as usual. One day, I won’t be, and I’ll be ok with not being. This hasn’t happened in the past 29 years though. Anyway back to my autobiography. We were walking. It was a long walk, but we’ll get to those boring details later. The walk was 100km long, the Oxfam Trail walker Brisbane, to be completed in less than 48hrs. There were 300 plus teams of 4, and about 600 pairs of bespoke carbon fibre walking poles carried by people who wanted to show that they were really prepared.

 

Actually those can be quite useful, 4-legged animals are faster.

 

Anyway, on with my autobiography. So I’m in this walk because other people were, and it was 6pm. We’d seen a guy collapsed on the nasty hill up to checkpoint 2, another nearby throwing up. We’d crossed creeks and taken The Team Photo By The Significant Location Along The Way. I’d even proven my superiority already in finding that my work colleagues in another team were hours behind.

 

Then I discovered that I hadn’t followed the instructions about socks. Actually I knew the instructions, and ignored them like the advice to bring a thermal blanket. You see, I realised this could be the crazy tough wolf hunting/killing/running with wolves initiation-type-survival-experience-that-our-pathetic-weak-modern-man-children-don’t-get-in-this-day-and-age. And I made it like that by not bringing a thermal blanket and not wearing the correct socks. Because that’s what it was like for those young vulnerable Spartan boys fending off wolves for a month during their initiation back Before Christ. They didn’t have the right socks either.

 

We were at checkpoint 5 or so. It was dinnertime. I had blisters. I wasn’t crazy with pain, just aware of the start of something. Got taped up and on we went.

 

We were going up a hill. It was dark, maybe 11.30pm. The wind suddenly picked up and blew the trees like they were grass. It whistled up the valley, pushing like a wave. We were there, in the dark, walking as a team. Silent, together. The walk had begun.

 

We reached Checkpoint 6, at the top of the hill. This was in the middle of the bush, there was a hut. I had a cup of soup in my hands, legs clamped together, knees tucked up, arms tucked in. Keeping warm, feeling ok, smile on my face.

 

Up. Down. Put my Skins on finally to keep warm. More up, down. Other teams streaming around us, we sometimes passed other teams. All walking quietly, talking was about necessities, it was getting late. There’s something about being out in the bush, walking at 1am, head torches burning through the black, listening to your breath, adjusting your beanie so it keeps you warm down the slopes but doesn’t make you too hot on the way up the next.

 

It was around about 3am on the way to Checkpoint 7. My feet. It’s something you won’t experience without walking non-stop for 18 hours. I found myself searching for the flattest sections of the track. I found myself noticing rocks. I had to avoid them. I walked in a zigzag pattern across the track, even fine gravel began to cause pain. Then after a while it just felt like my feet were cheese and the ground was a cheese grater. If I walked on the smooth, tyre width rut in the fire trail it was fine. If I so much as stood on a twig my foot caught fire. Every step. So it was late, I was by this time actually getting tired, there were other aches and pains, it was dark. And because of an item of clothing that weighs about 100 grams, my feet felt raw.

 

It’s easy when you go into one of those cool outdoor camping stores to get all excited about the shoes. There are Goretex lined ones, air soles, wicking fibre, leather, synthetic, Vibram soles, lacing systems, suspension systems. Oh My God. It’s amazing. But they never tell you about the socks. I just wore nylon ones. And my shoes weren’t very wicked either, just Asics cross trainers. So my plan for a proper initiation/life threatening adventure was going well.

 

It got so bad that I started moaning. It wasn’t too over the top, thankfully, but I caught myself definitely moaning with pain. I didn’t really care though, when you’re at that stage of such a walk, there is no expectation of real decorum or politeness. Another example of this is that everyone was pissing. Everywhere. On the side of the track – so there was some decorum… but it was so frequent. I think I probably drank a little too much water, but I didn’t want to stop either because dehydrating is worse than having to take a piss every 5-10 minutes. It was quite funny really. By this time it was about 3:30am and we were with quite a bunch of walkers from other teams and everyone was going off the side of the track all the time just to relieve themselves.

 

It’s this sort of thing they don’t talk about in the briefing session or the brochures or the testimonials from the previous event. But for me if I knew that I’d be only more keen to do it. That’s why I’m letting you know about it. Your feet will feel on fire and you’ll be pissing every 5 minutes, basically in public, as everyone else streams past you not caring because they’re in the same state.

 

Survival.

 

Socks, they’re the difference between feeling like every step is ripping skin off and going for a nice stroll. By the 80km mark, mind you.

 

So that is my microautobiography.

Socks by Lily Young

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By Lily Young

“Can you please tell me how, Zaria?”

A tired voice asked for the tenth time. Dr. Lightwood let out a sigh, it’s been hours since he’d heard another voice than his own. Staring hard at the petite figure across the metal table. She looked odd with her hands cuffed to the center of the table, there was no point of the cuffs, her slender hands could easily slip through if she tugged. Another bizarre thing, she insisted on being restrained. Wide green eyes and black curls framed her blank expression. He doubted the mentality of the detectives who brought her in. She was obviously emotionally drained. Who would take a child’s word without any solid evidence?

She might not be a child exactly, but what fifteen year old would be capable of such things?
Zaria managed to hide her scowl as she turned to stare at the security camera hanging high in the right corner. Her arms were starting to ache, there was no point in holding back anymore. In a way, she got what she always wanted.
“Socks” her dry voice let out, barely more than a whisper. If she hadn’t jerked her head toward Dr. Lightwood, he might have not noticed.
“What was that, Zaria?” She could sense the impatience dripping with his voice.
“Socks, That’s how I did it”

The sound of lockers slamming, metal against metal, sent a shiver down Zaria’s back. As if it were an alarm, a warning about what’s waiting for her.
She shoved her school uniform carelessly deep into the depths of her locker with much force. Closing the door without checking her reflection, she didn’t care about the sad state of her hair or how awkward her arms hung at her sides. People often mistook her for a boy before she forced herself to grow out her hair long. She hated it and they knew it. Avoiding the mirrors and the crowd of snarky comments, she emerged from the dressing room and into the school’s gym.
There was a time when she had friends, well, a friend, that was until her mother had a psychotic break and Emily Donovan overheard her father discussing Zaria’s mother’s mental state with the detectives.

Funny woman, she thought Zaria was a witch so she set their house on fire. That was six months ago.

“Step in li-are you listening to me Zaria?” snapping from her thoughts, Zaria quickly joined the line of bodies formed ahead avoiding Mrs. Gray’s crossed eyes. Pretending not to hear the soft murmur of laughter, Zaria kept her eyes staring at the floor, not really focused on anything. “WITCH!” Emria’s perky voice shot up. The words they said no longer felt like daggers to her heart, she was used to them now. “That’s detention for you Mrs. Tate, go change and head to the principle’s office”. With a hard scowl, Emria “accidently” shoved Zaria on her way to the locker room.


Whatever, hag.

Zaria felt like a walking zombie after P.E., her head felt as heavy as a bag of stones and her body was stiff. She thought about the hot bath she’d take and-

She froze.

Her Locker erupted with dirty socks. The stench was toxic as she backed away until she was glued to the opposing locker. Emria must’ve done it as payback. Sneaky little Hag.
 A crowd of bodies gathered near, she didn’t look but she could sense their smirks, not daring to go near her. “What’s going on here?” Mrs. Gray’s voice broke her thoughts. “Clean up this mess Zaria, Everybody else I suggest you hurry up unless you want to join Mrs. Tate In detention”. And just like that they all parted to their lockers.  Zaria broke into a run, not caring about the mess, the hell she’d have to pay, the fact that she was definitely going to get suspended for skipping school, she was lost in the run. She felt the cool air on her skin as she emerged from the school’s entrance. Running hard on the pavement, she realized she was reluctantly going home. Her real home, the one her mother burned to ashes, not the old house with overgrown weeds her father had rented. Seeing her old home come into view, staring at the debris the fire had left. No one dared to buy the land, cursed, bad spirits, whatever they wanted to believe. She let herself reminisce about her old life, the one before life decided that being normal was overrated. Stepping inside what used to be the patio, she noticed something near the edge, it looked like an old rag, it was dirty but not burnt. Lifting it as a crumpled piece of paper fell loose. Picking it up with her other hand, she turned it over to read it.

Make them suffer.

She dropped the pretty swirly writing and stared at what she was holding. It wasn’t a rag after all, it was a Voodoo Doll made of socks.

What kind of cruel joke is this? What did I do that was so bad? I wasn’t created to be a punching bag for a bunch of ignorant perky heads.

Slamming the doll hard between the debris over and over again as Zaria imagined Emily’s cat-like crimson eyes and fair skin. She’s wanted to squish her into a pulpy mess every time she snared at her or heard her mother’s name roll off her tongue. Rummaging through the debris, she grabbed a pointy plunk of wood and lashed at the now torn doll. Emria’s face popped into her mind as she stopped momentarily. Emria. She was what Zaria once considered a friendly face, until she found out the real reason behind Emria’s intentions.  She was dared to do it. Like Zaria was some alien to poke. A lab rat for them to experiment on. Someone to entertain them.  Jabbing the doll feverishly till she could no longer feel her arm, no longer notice her sharp jagged breaths, she recounted all the miseries. Her shame laced the school halls, even her teachers kept a good distance from her at all times. She remembered the nights after her mom had been taken away, her father coming home late drunk off his mind singing whatever 70’s ballad he had savored deep in his head. She remembered locking her door, being scared of her own father, but it wasn’t her father, it was a demon hiding behind a familiar face. Nobody asked, nobody noticed, it was their secret, but it wasn’t a secret for a 12 year old to hold.
Three years later and she’s right where she was.

Angry. Lost. Confused.
I love you Zaria, always.
Her mother’s words replayed in her head. Each time spraying a little more salt on the open wound which was her heart, but you don’t try to kill someone you love. Her knees wobbled as she fell forward. Blood painted a thin layer on her arms, her gym clothes, mixed in a haze with a little bit of dirt. But it wasn’t her blood, she stared out-of-breath at the bloodied rag. It no longer resembled a doll, she moved closer as the blood sweetly flowed from the cloth ahead.

Oh God.
What have I done?

Socks by Alexis White

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By Alexis White

 

My sole is hidden

Like a pearl at the bottom of the sea

 

My sole is sheltered

Making it hard to be me

 

My sole is covered

So how can it truly touch

 

My sole is concealed

Nature never intended such

 

My sole is confined 

And yearning to be free

 

My sole is burning!

I must take this sock off me!

Birth by Anonymous

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They live in a small house just like every other small house on their narrow street that looked like every other narrow street on the southern outskirts of San Pedro. High walls and iron bars protect these houses. Not like there is any thing precious in house number 97, anyway.  No TV, no fancy computer, not even inherited china from a grandmother. And even if they had a brand new stereo – like Ester down the street who played American music loud enough for the whole world to hear that her husband made enough money to buy electronics – even if, couldn’t some mischievous boys jump over the bars and get into the house if they tried? The walls and the bars are useless. If you want to keep something safe in San Pedro, you carry it with you at all times.

That’s what she does. She takes her children everywhere with her; she does not leave them in the stuffy house behind the iron bars and the high wall. Sofia, a confident child, is turning four soon. She is happy to skip by her mother’s side down the sludgy streets and pick up fallen leaves that she later turns into presents for mama. “Mira, mama, mira!” Look, mama, look. And her mama always looks; she looks proudly at the little girl’s creations. Then there is Manuel, her second born. Her man. Still quiet and shy, he runs after his sister calling out to her, “SO-fee-ah!” When he tires of running he just clutches mama’s hand and gives her a dirty wrapper he picked up. “Mira, mama.”

It’s not hard keeping these two safe. They love being with her and they are such good children that even her elderly neighbors love watching over them. But she’ll soon have one more to worry about, one more to dress, to feed, and to keep safe. And this one is different, in many ways.

The baby growing inside her has already started making demands, telling mama “sit down and rest or I’ll kick until you do.” She already missed a total of ten working days because of this pregnancy. It is getting near impossible for her to stand for hours at the bakery, putting warm, sweet buns in bags and handing them out to old men, overweight mothers of five or six, young working women her age still unencumbered, still free, no baby inside slowing them down. Every day at the end of her shift, her manager hands her two small rolls. For the chicos, he says. She wonders whether he will give her three bread rolls when the baby is here. She wonders whether he’ll just replace her when she takes her maternity leave.

The loud humming and rattling of the dryer slows to a stop. It gives one last clatter, ending her trance. She sighs and tries to clear her head. There’s no use in thinking about the months to come when there is a lot to do right now – clothes to fold and leftover rice to reheat, a raging husband to pacify. She does not even try to predicate what will set off tonight’s shouting match. She just braces herself for another day, another battle.

Birth by Kamanha

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In my Birth Certificate they never mentioned what it takes,

To get an interview for a job of misery and higher stakes.
Oh, speaking of stakes; it’s so nice to meet you,
Streets preach and teach each tear on cheeks but please, please forget these lines, let’s start anew…

Let’s start all over. I’m Kamanha, Twenty years of age.
I grew afraid of people judging me, but not afraid of a stage.
I’m a strange obsessive compulsive mix of ink and blood on a page.
Pages of my fate, a screenplay deranged quantity of my life expectancy’s gauge.

You know what? It’s Dictionary time: “Birth” (noun);
Is the process through which destiny creates a new mad clown.
Also see, giving birth; and that’s a verb, meaning to get a new individual into this haunted town.

And now that you know its definition, time for the philosophical  part,
Birth is the prequel to everything you do and had done to you from the start
Every sad, mad happy and glad moment you have until the final stop of your heart.
You see, I’m not pessimistic, I’m just a realistic diversified deconstructionist who happens to be smart.

I don’t need to deliver my feeling, I’m already writing this from your conscience.
You’ve already heard this combination and variation of the 26 letters of the english language, you understand this.
I brought back to life hellish sensations that are your fantasies of anguish.
But don’t blame me, I’m a warm hearted cool customer and all I want is…

To know who served this gravy flow of blood and gore following pain,
I can’t navigate the terrain, I hallucinate and sustain,
Come closer let me tap your shoulder and tell you “this life wasn’t a worthy gain”
I’m not Christian, but I need one more DEMON-stration and that’s when I get BORN-AGAIN.

I grew to be just fine, even though lustrous lusty life still called me forth.
I stand a man of ambiguous misdeeds, aimless like a lone wolf.
Yet, I’m not sad for I don’t search for happiness in events nor people’s worth.
So let’s all just live life, for all we know… we’re equal in death following birth.

Birth by Ripley Hyde

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I’ve arrived. I’m alive
Cried before looking up at your smile
Safe in your arms
Kept away from harms way
A new life has been blessed today
My earliest memory
You were right there next to me
Holding my hand as we roamed around Tivoli
It was only us
Then others picked me up
And that’s when I met the rest of my family
I detested school, because I was away from you
I remember kindergarten, and recalled when we parted
Things were new without you
And so it started
I tearfully watched as from the gates you departed
Whenever I had a bad day
The voice was always there: “Sweetheart, it’s ok”
That comforting face above that loving embrace
Within a heartbeat I found my tears had been erased
As time went by, I saw myself change
Regardless, though, you were still the same
The most beautiful person I’ve seen since birth
The first thing I see in my life on this Earth
I owe you everything and more
For all that you’ve done for me
You are the reason why my life is everything it’s come to be
Now I wait for my turn to take care of you
And show that my love is genuine and true
The sixteenth of March 1992
Was the day you carried a baby smiling at you
All the while, your smile
Left me nothing but beguiled
No mother alive should outlive her child
“I love you mom. You are and forever will be my hero”

Birth by Seyed Mohammad Abaft

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Your Birth was a Gift
It made me feel Reborn
The second I looked into your eyes
That I would find my Sunshine
My Star
My Heaven
Your innocent eyes
Are like a dagger
Piercing into my Soul
I have walked these steps before
And now so shall you!

Birth by Fatema Bahman

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I follow the night into day

Hoping the sun lights my way

Entrusting its warming rays

With my dreams

Giving birth to inspiration

And fearlessness in my achievements

Making the best out of the day

As if it were my first

And cherishing the moments

As if it were my last

At its end the setting sun Glimmers

On the rising tides

And dives into the horizon

Giving way to the approaching night

Christening the darkness with the moon

And the sparkle of the stars

Promising new beginnings

Birth by Hawra’a Khalfan

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She smiles at the man sitting across from her at the café.

Oh, what a beautiful man, she thinks.

Hunting down her next prey gives an exuberant feeling,

She examines him, to see if he fits the code.

Tall,

Muscular,

Handsome,

            Is that a dimple?

A black haired, dark bearded creature, the perfect prey.

His big chest calls for her.

     Yum, he should be a tasty one.

She goes over to talk to him,

And sooner rather than later, he is devoured.

The creases on her forehead tell the unsaid

Blood dripping

Love no longer matters

Life no longer matters

All she wants to do is rip his heart out and feed on it

Enjoying the taste of his blood, his flesh.

As tough as it is to chew on a muscle, she has managed with exaggerated movements of her jaw.

She chews and chews, then aches for more.

She licks her blood-covered lips as she smiles and thinks about how her plan never fails her,

Step one

Study him

Step two

Trap him using the one thing she will ultimately feast upon,

And then finally,

     It’s dinner time.

Oops,

She has devoured yet another one.

The taste of his blood

The texture of his heart on her tongue,

He was okay, next time with a side of veggies, though.

 

She moves on,

And on,

And on.

Her heart? Once as holy as the Black Stone, as sacred as its home.

Medusa’s eyes got to it, though.

     She would be proud.

 

A smile creeps on her lips as she envisions the next creature that will belong to her

The next person she is going to give the gift of life.

This is her way of giving Birth to these lifeless creatures.

This is her way of making their deaths meaningful.

Birth by Buddha Qais

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Dear Child,

I write this letter to you before you breathe existence.   I write for fear of losing these thoughts, these thoughts that are strong and fresh in my mind, before they grow numb and die.

You will brighten worlds with your eyes; you will give hope and happiness to parents looking to settle down.  An unleashed pearl from its oyster, this world is at the palm of your hands, and I am sure with future technologies, opportunities will be much accessible with advancements beyond my imagination.

With hope, there comes another side.

A side that dominates the world.

A side that blinds all from the hope that is.

There will be those that will take you by the head, beat you down; there will be those that only want to see your frown, never your smile.  Your emotions will be abused, your mind will be infected, your resolve will be tested.

It is a bright world, but the dark side of it shows more face. It is in these times that you must remember, that no matter how dirty you become, it wont change what is in your blood.  You are who you choose to become and you can choose to be your own and others hope.

I have seen and experienced these troubled times, but for now…

I look forward to celebrating your birth, my child. I look forward to you growing up in my eyes and arms. I look forward to your life. My child.

Birth by Yas Bin Shaibah

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Childbirth is beautiful, they said.

I clicked the little play button and sat back.

There she was, squatting, legs wide apart seemingly straddling her nine month old baby bump. Her pussy was bloated, bright pink all over, color clearly visible behind her light pubes. My jaw dropped and I froze.

The soon to be mother screamed in pain as her husband and two midwives chanted ‘push, push, push!’ So she did, in the middle of their living room. Her once tight, beautiful pussy was slowly but surely ripping open. Mine grew numb at the sight of it. A moment passed and the baby’s head was somewhat visible. Gradually, uh, ‘peaking’ further as she kept pushing.

All of her was hot pink at this point from all that pressure. Frankly, I was very surprised she didn’t shit! Suddenly, as long as the past minutes were, the baby shot out like a bullet from a chamber into one of the midwives’ hands. The ripped up, mutilated pussy was forgotten as the mother held her baby and slipped into a laugh-cry fit, but it was all I could see. A broken pussy.

The video was over.

Myself, traumatized. I’m guessing so will the mother be after realizing her loose as fuck vag is never gonna be the same again. Never knew a pussy could function the way that one did. Definitely not thinking of pussies the same again for a little while.

Childbirth is beautiful, they said.

It’s the ultimate pussy destroyer, I say!

Birth by Rahaf AlMubarak

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Breaths of sweet phantasmagoria,

I sip on your exhalations with these insatiable lips
I digest your hallucinations through a monstrous peristalsis

Into a starless stream you spread
Into a moonless mind you melt

From these stifled thoughts you arise; a psychedelic rebirth is felt

Birth by Noragotcharisma

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By Noragotcharisma

 

The first screams of life echo throughout the earth. The fear of these new surroundings takes its toll and we always fear the unknown. But we quickly adapted, moved on from that moment of ultimate terror.

 

Our egos soon were built on the pleasure of our arrivals. Fed with love and attention, we grow accustomed to this throne, this birth of pride.

 

*                               *                             *

 

Time went on, our thrones were yanked from under us, and we no longer occupy the highest level of importance. Other matters began to overshadow our extravagance. With the death of power comes the birth of envy.

 

 

*                               *                             *

 

Adjusting, we begin to take interest in the opposite. Thoughts of bodies of strength, masculinity, eminent ecstasy. Visions of softness, grace, and beauty pour into pools of desire. As our minds drown in sin, we drown in the birth of lust.

 

 

*                               *                             *

 

Dragged into a state of euphoria, indulgence of bodily loss of control transforms itself into addiction. We crave the warmth of another’s touch, hours wasted skin to skin. Prayers no longer seem to do us any good, faith is lost—the birth of sloth.

 

 

*                               *                             *

 

 

Frustration. Clenched fists, we try to regroup. Attempt to find ourselves again. Try to find God. Rage fills our veins; comprehension of our youth has slipped through our fingers won’t come easily. Obsessed with revenge, the birth of wrath.

 

*                               *                             *

 

Disturbed by the void of time, we grow discouraged. As the calendar squares are crossed, as our birth years grow farther away, we trick ourselves into wanting more. We pave our future with materialistic possessions, enslaved to the birth of greed.

 

*                               *                             *

Life has come and is about to leave us. This wave of hopelessness and apathy engulfs our thoughts and orchestrates our every move. We want more but we don’t need more. We wish to leave this earth with a feast fit for a king, striving on the birth of gluttony.

 

 

Our enemy is our thoughts. The final breaths of life gracefully take our goodbyes, but we depart for the last time after seven births.

Birth by Dee

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By Dee.

All my life there was only one thing I ever really wanted from my mother. I wanted her to sit me down and tell me how sorry she was for bringing me into this world. I don’t think there’s anything you can do to someone that’s worse than giving them life. What a horrible thing to do, taking a soul out of the peace of nonexistence and pushing them into misery, the both of you kicking and screaming all the while. For what? Survival of species and family lines. Social and emotional validation. Giving birth should be a crime.

Birth by Abrar AlShammari

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By Abrar Alshammari

Red: too loud. Blue: too mellow. Green: too environmental. Yellow: too cheerful. Pink: too girly. Purple: just a darker shade of pink. Black: too glum. Giraffe: too exotic. Cat: too furry. Monkey: scary in the dark. Scooby Doo: too old school. Mummy: likely to trigger nightmares. Batman: too –

            “WAHHHH!”

            My train of thought screeches to an abrupt stop when the sound of a miniature demon’s screams invade my ears. Part of me wants to grab one of the large lollipops on display and stuff it in his mouth; another part of me deeply sympathizes with the wretched toddler’s pitiful parent.

            Naser, a young father, is walking away from the toy stand where he had just returned one of the toys that his toddler Hamad was obviously begging for. The toddler is standing in front of the toy with his arms outstretched, the toy placed too high for him to reach; he screams for it. This only lasts for a few seconds, as he realizes that he should be screaming at the man who took away his toy in the first place. His father’s stride is firm and unrelenting, and he walks away from both the toy and the toddler without looking back.

            The toddler charges at his father’s leg and clings to his jeans. He digs his little nails so deeply into him that it makes his father hiss in pain and frustration, reaching down to release his son’s hands from his leg. As Naser walks away once again, the child wipes his wet nose and tearful eyes with his shirt, and approaches one of the store’s employees, dragging him by the hand to where the toy is, and points to it. The employee naively hands it to him with a smile, and the boy gleefully skips away to the cashier where his father is, not understanding that his father has to be willing to pay for the toy if Hamad wants to take it home with him.

            At the cashier, his father had been paying for two other toys, looking calm and collected, seemingly unfazed by Hamad’s tantrum. Naser’s composure is completely thrown off the moment his son excitedly places his toy on the counter with an expression of victory on his childish features; his father’s face, on the other hand, is seized by a newfound fury. His yelling vibrates from deep within his chest, “Ghasib? How many times did I tell you to put it back? I’m not going to ask you again, Hamad!”

            The boy’s sniffles and wails renewed, he picks up the toy and shuffles toward the aisle he found it in with the lethargy of a man walking to his execution. Giving it one last longing gaze, he walks back with slumped shoulders to his father, who is having a no-nonsense conversation with the boy’s mother.

            “Naser, habeebi, just let him have it.”

            Her husband stands his ground; no army toys will come into his house.

            Silenced, his wife surrenders, and shakes her head at their son, gesturing for him to give up the fight too. Her husband was hoping he would not have to explain, but she had pushed him, and that one statement alone had shamed her and boiled the blood in his veins. Their son does not understand, but someday he will, and someday he will thank him. He is a three-year-old boy born in 2010, during an age of privilege, wealth and comfort, in a safe country that has not experienced war in thirteen years, the 1990 invasion being the only true event of war it has experienced in the entirety of its history. He knows nothing of war, and as of yet, he does not understand his own name. He does not know that he was named after his grandfather Hamad, one of the hundreds of POWs killed at the hands of soldiers, puppeteered by dictators. He will never experience the loneliness of growing up without a father, and the bitterness of knowing it could have been prevented.

            Naser is determined for his father’s death not to be forgotten – but also for it not to be reborn. Not in his son’s ideology, not in his country’s politics, and not in theera of the generation that has the chance to change what their forefathers could not.

            I, for one, ended up leaving the toy store with a puzzle – literally and metaphorically.

Birth by Shahd AlShammari

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By Shahd Alshammari

I remember our first firsts

And that day you said “I can’t love you” as easily as you said hello.

And I echoed that love was just another way teenagers labeled the bulges in their trousers and the spilled secrets under their t-shirts

I do not love you (because that’s what you need to hear)

But I fell in love with you with the same intensity I fell in love with Bronte and Plath.

Those two madwomen bled life through me (and others, I know)

Just like you, you with your Inconsistency, one day breathing and the other bleeding into me.

You have a way with perfecting the plot- just like my dead writers.

You build me up and that makes me want to travel halfway across the world, just to kiss your vocal chords.

But you break me when you say “I can’t love you, because there’s no life here, only Death.”

 

You say you are dead inside. That sentence stretches across my brain corners,

And I find the solution: that heart of yours must shed layers for me.

We put our hands together, my love and your patience, and sculpted you a new heart.

It beat slowly, tentatively at first.

I glued my head to your chest and heard it’s first rhythmless beats.

And as I looked up into your eyes, they held me in place and asked me to stay.

This time, a new you was born

I have missed this you since day one.

 

Ink by Yas Bin Shaibah

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By Yas Bin-Shaibah

Ash, cigarette butts, and stained coffee mugs. Tears are my ink. With you on my mind the ink is abundant.

Surreal, this all feels.

What I type,
this mess of assorted stains,
I want to shout it,
scream it to you,
make you listen.

But instead I clench my fists at my side at the mere sight of you, and lock my jaw.

I’m crippled by pride.

Ink by Sayed Mohammad Abaft

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By Seyed Mohammad Abaft

My life is stained with darkness,

Like a drop of thick ink on paper

Of all the things I witnessed

The Death, the Destruction

The things I never did

To stop this darkness

The questions I never asked

Would have ended this suffering I had

If only I had a hand to pull me up

I would reach my Utopia

My Perfection

My Wonderland

The place where I can feel free again

Free from this ink

For now I must start a new page

Remove the stains on my paper

The darkness of that ink

The pain I suffered

To reach my new haven.

Ink by Dee

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By Dee

Ink stains on her fingers. One would think she was still a scribe whiling away her hours in the safety of a musty library, not an exile roaming the deserts with the guns at her hips as the only true constant in her life. But then, Anne wasn’t like your every day Sinner. In fact, she wasn’t really a Sinner at all. Anne was Unmarked, one of the few born to every generation who never got the Sign that marked them as Sinner or Saint. She was also the first Unmarked anyone had heard of who chose to forsake the safety and comfort of a Saint’s life to wander in exile with the Sinners.

Few from her old life as a scribe in the Priesthood would recognize her now, riding rough for days at a time, never settling at any of the ramshackle exile townships. The only thing that hadn’t changed about her was her thirst for knowledge. It probably never would.

That thirst was the reason she had joined the Priesthood and it was the reason she’d later abandoned it and chose exile. She struck out to search for the Forbidden Texts when her studies of the Priesthood’s books had proven fruitless. Not futile though, never futile. She knew that she had learned much those years she spent teasing out truths from between the crumbling pages. But in the end, everything she had learned there only made her want to know more. So she abandoned everything she knew to seek it out. It wasn’t a decision she had made lightly. Most days it weighed heavily on her, what she had done, but it helped her to know that her quest was not a selfish one. The knowledge she sought was not only for her own sake.

She knew that somewhere, locked in ink, there were truths that would set the entire world free. Truths that people, she suspected perhaps the Priesthood itself had kept hidden to suit their own purposes. Purposes she meant to discover. If that meant the destruction of the current order, so be it.

Ink by Yasmeen Abulezz

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By Yasmeen Abulezz

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

He can hear the air go in and out of his lungs as if he was hearing it from another’s ears, the pounding of his heart matching his ragged breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

His eyes remain cast down, locked on the contract before him. Unsure whether he is brave enough to take the plunge, he continues to heave air into his lungs. Hoping the air will clear his mind and help him make his decision.

“Sign!” commands a seductively soft voice from within. “It’s the only thing that will save you…” continues the same voice. He shudders absorbing what his mind is saying to him.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

He closes his eyes and drops his head, resigned to the betrayal he is about to inflict. He opens his eyes slowly and with an unsteady hand takes the pen lying in front of him and signs the contract with a shaky hand.

“Well done son! You made the right choice.” says the man opposite the man who hangs his head. But he doesn’t care. Shame courses through him, as the weight of what he has just done crushes him.

I just turned in my own brother. I might as well have signed that contract…. That CONFESSION in his own blood not ink.

He keeps his head low, knowing that whatever he does, it will never be held high again.