Voiceless by Hawra’a Khalfan

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She opened her eyes to once again reunite with a world that she feels alien in. She opened her eyes with a suffocating passion towards something she can not control. She opens her eyes to find all the doors she saw in her dreams closed shut.

Forcing her already wrinkled thirty year old face into a smile. This is how I’m going to look all day. She repeated to herself, forcing an even wider smile. She almost climbed out of bed without giving him a kiss.

She lifted the sand colored mattress to reveal a hidden creased photograph. Her grief-stricken eyes have studied this photograph so many times, endlessly. She can mentally draw it out, spec by spec. It was of a young boy, holding a kite that was half flying in the wind, and half on its way towards the ground. He was wearing a knitted sweater, decorated with holes. He didn’t seem to care that his kite was on it’s way down- his smile lit up the picture like a thousand suns. That smile set her heart on fire again, and she couldn’t let herself go there. After quickly giving the photo a kiss she placed it back under her mattress.

No. It has happened again. Here they come. She mentally fights a million wars within herself daily. Some days are better than others. She screamed, fueled by the momentum of his thousand suns. She begins gasping for air; and the more she gasps the more it hurts; the more she feels it the more it’s real; the more she tries the more she plummets down, down, and further down; into that hole she’s been living in.

There was nothing left to say, she has spoken out and yelled and fought. All words have lost all meaning. She can’t fight with them and prove that she belongs. She can’t prove her love and devotion to this land. She can’t say more than she already has. She wailed to let it out, feeling her heart stop vibrating altogether. There was no more left of her to give. He was all she had. He was the only family she had left, and he was electrocuted to death at the age of seven.

Voiceless by Merriam AlFuhaid

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“Waaaaaaaah!”

Wake up, parental units. No, I don’t need my diaper changed. No, I don’t need to be fed. I’m just bored. Since I can’t sit upright yet and watch TV, looking at your exhausted faces at 3 AM is the next best thing. And let me tell you, it’s pretty damn good. The schedule is fairly predictable: First, we have what I call The Mommy Show, which is cool but it comes on all the time, and I get tired of mentally making fun of Mommy’s singing voice. If I manage to cry for 45 minutes to an hour straight, then I get The Daddy Show. The Daddy Show is my favorite because Daddy is scared of breaking babies. And let me tell you, that is fun to watch.

No one is scared of breaking adults. Some people actually make a living out of it. (I think they’re called police officers?) But I’m a baby. I’m considered untouchable. Because I’m useless and incapable of speaking, somehow I’ve convinced everyone that they have to do whatever I want, all the time. I don’t know how this happened. I’m not even cute yet—I’m bald and toothless. If that were appealing in the adult world, Daddy would have found someone way hotter than Mommy.

The best thing is, because people can’t figure out what I want most of the time, instead of breaking up with me and telling their friends I’m crazy, they just try giving me everything I could possibly want until something makes me shut up. The cool thing is I discover that a bunch of stuff I didn’t want is pretty awesome too. For example, they always assume I’m hungry when I cry. And I’m like, dude, I don’t do anything. I lie in bed all day. What do you think could be making me hungry this often? But thanks to what is either stupidity or the desperate hope that I won’t be able to cry with my mouth full (not true), I’ve discovered the joys of emotional eating. When I grow up, I’m going to eat to dull the pain of the unbearable isolation of the human condition, but right now I do it because nothing helps me sleep at night like demonstrable evidence of my power.

The whole setup is so awesome I don’t even mind the main drawback, which is that everyone sees me naked all the time. And then they take pictures and show their friends. I was quite offended in the beginning, until I realized that this is the only phase of my life where my au naturel pictures will be called cute and not sexual harassment. Plus, after looking around at my parents and their friends, it seems that this is the best my body will ever look anyway.

The depressing thing, though, is that this is going to end. Sometimes I actually cry about it, and even the power aspect of my tears can’t make me feel better, because when my parents show up I’m just like, “Oh crap, I’m going to end up being a loser like you.” The only thing that does cheer me up is remembering something my older brother once said, which was that no one really considers you an adult until first grade. By that standard, I have more than five and a half years left to do whatever the hell I want. So until then…

“Waaaaaah!”

Voiceless by Kholoud Hussain

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The became nothing but silhouettes
Dancing away with the twilight
Faceless figures and nameless shadows
Criticizing stealthily from afar
Determining one’s fate without their consent
Toying with dolls of anguish and distress
They became nothing but marionettes
Dashing away from their masters
Feeble fences and splintered arrows
Ceasing their warrant of freedom
Dwelling upon the thoughts once dreamt
Trundling out with visions of power and success

Voiceless by Fahd AlSaleh

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They need to know!
(a.k.a. What’s inside the box?)

“She doesn’t need to know”, “please don’t tell him”, “she’ll get scared”, “it’s best if he doesn’t know”. These are phrases that we, as medical professionals, unfortunately hear every day. In medical school our teachings are based on four rules: autonomy, beneficence, non-maleficence, and justice. These are considered the pillars of medicine.

Beneficence is bringing benefit and improvement to the patient while at the same time not causing them harm i.e. non-maleficence. Justice is making sure that access to proper healthcare is equal to all. The focus of this piece is on autonomy, which is rule number one and is the most important of them all.

Autonomy is defined as the freedom of thought, intention, and action with regards to a patient’s healthcare. In layman’s terms it’s their body and they are free to do whatever they choose to it. So, it is their decision to undergo treatment, taking a certain medication or undergoing surgery. It also the patient’s choice to refuse the intervention. In the end it is their body that is going through this ordeal. Not their son’s or daughter’s, not their brother’s or sister’s and most importantly not a friend who is “like family”.

In Kuwait, and in most Arab states, this rule is not followed. The patient’s family usually try to hide sensitive information from their mothers, fathers, etc. The rationale regarding this is usually “they will get scared” or “get depressed”. That they wouldn’t be able to comprehend or understand the situation. That they will not be able to make the right decision.

The question that I always ask these people is “wouldn’t you want to know what’s happening to you?”

In my opinion, hiding or lying to the patients only protects them from the initial shock of the bad news. In our line of work, unfortunately, delivering the message is often hard. No matter how nicely we phrase it, telling a person that they have cancer or that their leg needs be amputated will always be difficult to us and to the patient. But what amazes me every day is how good these patients absorb this initial shock and shortly thereafter maintain a positive mentality towards the rest of their treatment. What makes things usually worse is when the patient is kept in the dark. H.P. Lovecraft said “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown”.

Imagine yourself taking an exam but you don’t know what the subject is. Or fighting a war but you don’t know who or what is your enemy. How can a person undergo surgery or get treatment for something they don’t know. In the end managing and treating a patient is a two-way street. A patient must be aware of the possible side effects or signs of disease progression. Imagine yourself saying to person “look I’m going to give you a box with an item inside. I will not tell what the item is. But what I can tell you is that the item may or may not lead to some sort of trouble in the future. This trouble may be a minor issue but may also become quite serious or life threatening. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you what’s inside the box in fear that your mental state may get affected. This is by the request of your family. Bearing in mind that knowing about what’s inside the box may actually help you deal with whatever you may face.”

Some may argue that a person has the right not to know. Maybe someone doesn’t want to know what’s inside the box. To these individuals, I say you are correct. Part of our protocol in breaking bad news is usually telling a patient that they have a serious medical condition and before we go into details we should ask and confirm if they want to know more details. Some opt for knowing and some opt for not knowing. Some may change their minds later and want more information in the future. In the end, it is their right and not their families.

Lying or withholding information can make things worse. Because in the end lies can only breed more lies. Let me give you an example from my own personal experience. A situation which I for the most part feel ashamed to have been part of. A while back, a young mother brought in her eight-year-old boy who was complaining from abdominal pain for the past two days. After our assessment, it was proven that he had acute appendicitis which would require emergency surgery. His mother hid this from him and requested us to do so as well. The boy was keen and observant. He kept asking questions from the trolley in the emergency room all the way to ward and from there to the operating room. He asked “why do I need an IV cannula?”, “Why are putting me in a medical gown?”, “Why are you taking me from my room? Where am I going?”. He then asks “are you going to operate on me?” and we say no. The questions just keep coming and we try our best to deflect them as much as we can. On the operating table while being prepped for surgery he asks “what is it that you are attaching to my legs?” I mistakenly say this for the diathermy probe we use during surgery. His pupils widen and I can see the tear forming at the angle of his eye. And before I could rectify the situation the anaesthetic medications that was pumped into his vein had done its job and he was sound asleep with tears going down his cheeks.

After the surgery, he was mostly distraught and angry at us and mostly his mother because we didn’t tell him the truth. He was discharged the next day. All this time he kept silent and didn’t speak a single word. All of this could have been avoided if we simply just said the truth in the beginning. “But he is only eight, he is a child. It is ok”. You might say that but see after a few weeks he came to our clinic to follow up and his mother said to us he no longer trusts her anymore. Her relationship with her son changed. His image of his mother has changed. His core beliefs were wounded and if it ever may heal it will definitely leave a scar bigger than his surgery.

Also, another example witnessed quite recently. We had two patients in the same ward and their rooms were next to each other. Every day when we rounded on the patients we would pass them by one after the other. Both were admitted with similar issues and both had to have one of their legs amputated just above the knee in an emergency setting. One was fortunate to get a full detailed explanation of what was about to happened and what will happen later. The other was unfortunate to have had a difficult family that forced us not tell him. Both had the surgery. One knew what happened and began his rehabilitation a few days after surgery. The other was shocked and felt betrayed for he woke up and found one of his legs missing. The first was discharged 5 days later. The second stayed in hospital for roughly 2 months. He was also depressed and refused to undergo rehabilitation. A few weeks later both were seen in the clinic. The first was walking with an artificial limb the other was bound to a wheelchair. Mostly likely for the rest of his life.
I can go on and on about this all day but it will never matter if we as a community don’t change. Walt Whitman wrote in his poem leaves of grass “Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you. You must travel it by yourself”. This is by far the best explanation/summary to this whole problem. It doesn’t matter if you are a child or an old frail grandfather. If we ever in life get ill, it is only ourselves who are ill. And it is only ourselves who will get the treatment. Instead of being one of those who hides the truth let us be those who embrace it. Let us become the sturdy walls that they can lean upon. Let us stretch out our helping hands and not to covers their eyes. And always ask those who oppose “Don’t you want to know what’s inside the box?”

Voiceless by Fatma AlSumaiti

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1
It’s cold today.
Yesterday was cold, too.
Splinters are a daily ritual.
Blisters always come through.

2
The nice lady always comes around.
Tuesdays were her days.
She was sad today, but we smiled at each other.
My children are starving, I was sad too.

3
I told my 2 year old to stop crying.
I gently stroked his hair,
as the sweet doctor removed shrapnel from his left thigh.
Syria is crying, too. Shrapnel is what we call her now.

4
Father told me to act like a man.
Brother told me to stop wearing skinny jeans.
Clothes should be stitched not ripped, he said.
What about my soul? Who’s going to stich it back together?

5
In a tornado my thoughts are whirling.
Pills help keep me grounded.
Colors slowly seep their way out,
and I can’t seem to pull through.

6
Frag-
-ments of souls dissolve in silence.
They tried crying,
they tried bleeding, too.
The red was too loud,
the cries were bright.
They dissolved in silence,
and we said nothing, too.

Voiceless by Mariam AlMutairi

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I wish i could lay under a telescope and let them study me, to strip down my bones and maybe then my mother would understand why my vocal cords traveled from my throat down to my hands. Maybe then will she smile when i scratch my face, because that’s my way of telling her i missed her, and that i’m tired of being close to my enemy.

I try to spell her name, but my hand shivers from the beginning, and I end up leaving her with a cold letter that doesn’t belong to a martyr who spent 30 years bleeding. She tries to get close to me, but i crawl back and glue my body to the wall. She’s crying and i’m scratching my face till it bleeds.

Mom, Can you hold my hand without asking me why my veins take the shape of your silhouette?
Can you take me back home and let me sleep without checking my heartbeat every 20 seconds?
Can you disarm me when the weapon is my hand?
Can you sit 10 meters away from me, and still keep an eye on me?
Can you read me a bedtime story that doesn’t end with me trying to convince you that i am not a caged bird?
Can you smile for me?
Can you keep the coffin open on nights when my skin craves the bedbugs you pray away?

Mom, pity the disease for choosing a body of a voyager, and feel sorry for the people who were waiting for my heroic story.

Voiceless by Toby Al-R

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To all the voiceless out there, I am not here to give you a voice, let’s get that right, it doesn’t trouble me to confess that I don’t care enough.

I am however inclined with a transcendent tendency to assuage and calm the entry of the Trojan horse into the gate.

I feel like I should say this;

It is more for my ears than yours,

That I have reached a conclusion; through skepticism, reason, rationalism and brain drilling arguments, that we all are… freaks in a freak show.

So embrace yourselves and raise your glass and I will be the first raise mine.

To all the voiceless bullied out there, enchant your minds with the realization that your bullies are victims of their unhappiness and unsatisfactory incompleteness. But if you don’t want to build their castles with your rubbles, then just smack the twat in the head. You will be surprised of the outcome and their hesitation to bully you again.

To all the shy and voiceless nerds and geeks out there, keep wearing your mystic cloaks and use your kukri daggers to plunder pouches of gold coins so you can purchase potions of health in your journey to defeat the gargantuan sea urchin lurking in the hidden swamp, in order to access the next level of whatever the fuck is your quest… keep living there, trust me it is a better world than the one we live in.

To all the dying out there… well, I guess we all are going to follow you sooner or later. Make the most of today, and hey! No one really knows what happen when the game is over, right?

To all the rejected and voiceless homosexuals, for one thing; statistically you are more elegant, good looking, organized and creative. Secondly; you are secretly doing humanity a favor in balancing the planet’s population. So keep splashing your colors, you are the Knights of nature whom swore an oath not to over populate a dying planet.

To the voiceless depressed and suicidal, it is a mistake that is commonly made to think that what you are feeling today is necessarily going to be the same feelings you will have in the near or far future, stay tuned and be positive, you never know what will happen! But if you insist to die… then refer to category 3!

To the voiceless insecure and lonely ones, trust me; there is no better company than yourself. I am always alone and never lonely. Imagination is far more entertaining than any conversation you might have, discover your endless maze of your mind. This life is a mysterious puzzle box, shuffle the pieces, free a bird, feed a puppy, count the stars, color a butterfly wings, collect seashells, plant a tree, and keep chasing that one look she gave to you near a grocery store. Never make the mistake to be insecure, as we are all strange, different, grotesque, odd and bizarre in one way or another… but believe in yourself and you will perform miracles… I personally moved three mountains and caught a shooting star, but all of this is irrelevant to you, because this life is a self-journey, and we all are freaks in a freak show.

After all, if you still can’t find your voice, then… trying drinking water.

Jay by Mohammed Al-Houti

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What I wouldn’t give to be
Jay for a day: speeding by

on his roller skates, balancing
dirty dishes and coffee

as he swivels around and
refills mugs with a smile.

He moonwalks through life
takes every turn, adds another

plate to the wavering tower
and still slides forward.

After-hours when the pace
slows down and the chairs

have been pushed aside he spins
until all he sees are streaks of light.
 

Jay by Toby Al-R

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“J” stands for joy, and joy is the judge and jury to deliver justice. She is the waitress of the Mastermind.

She serves him knowledge and wisdom as she blends information in the carousel of dead horses, running in a vicious circle. The Mastermind resides in a crusted medieval fortress with a gate of raven wings and walls of shady skulls, a mosaic of death seeking to bring life to the lifeless surroundings.

Like a parasite of truth plaguing a land of lies to remove the masks from the dull headed faces.

“Jay what is the cauldron of life is offering today?”
“Regardless… get me my knife and fork.”

The Mastermind is always hungry for more, and Jay is always ready to mother and smother. She learned how to access the tree of knowledge through pain and hardship.

“You won’t need knife and fork for this cluster, Mastermind.”

Everything is in a process of change, and nothing lasts.

Life is a journey into the unknown.

And understanding things backward is the only way forward.

“Hmm bittersweet, nevertheless… tasty. Have a seat jay…”
“I never really questioned; who you really are?”

“Me? I am… an idea. That ignites your senses, I am your curiosity, your closed doors, your fantasy, your dreams and your imaginations. I am your pointless fears, your source of courage, your insanity and audacity. I am the volcano boiling your blood, the furnace blasting your head. I am your immemorial memories, your sexual desires. I am your remedy, your white noises, your endless thoughts, your companion of the dark nights, your acquaintance of the lonely ones too. I gave birth to your instincts, I sparked your tunnels, I tasted your tears and sang your laughter. I am your soul, your hunger for more.
I am your Waitress.”

Jay by Layla

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Waitress

20s

Another table to be served

Will they look me in my eyes this time around?

If I act nice will I get a better tip?

Does it even matter?

It will matter when the rent needs to be paid, what am I talking about.

I need to get out, why am I here.

Why am I doing this? . . .

I need to get out.

How did I get here, waiting tables?

This is not me. I don’t feel like me.

I need a smoke. Just one more. Last one.

Who am I kidding it’s just the first of many.

Here I go again. Chain smoking.

I thought I’d quit. This. Just one more puff.

I thought I’d quit. This job. What’s holding me back?

I can do more. I’m better than this.

I’m smart. Why am I still here?

I need to get out.

Something is missing. I feel lonely.

I need a man. Maybe that will change my life.

What if he leaves? What if I do?

I need to get out.

I need to get out of this job. I need to get out of this city.

I need to get out of this mind. I need to get out.

I just need to get out.

Jay by Areej

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I have never loved and loved without loss. I have never stepped inside anything so beautiful without a piece of me breaking. She is still sitting on the counter. Still whisking flour and baking soda, breathing in smoke she doesn’t not allow me to see. She is drinking coffee without me, then drinking it with me on mornings where it is too beautiful to be inside. She is still hugging me from behind, pressing soft kisses to the top of my head. She is still saying hello to regulars and welcoming the new. She’s slipping slowly. Every time I scrub the floors, every time I lock up for the day, I see less and less of her. She says goodbye faintly in the night, and I can see her disappearing into it. One day she won’t come back. One day the only images of her will be at the front of the menu. When Sal asks, I’ll tell him she’s doing alright, no matter how many times I’ve told him before. She’s doing alright, Sal. She’s doing alright.

Jay by Fatma AlSumaiti

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It was a night of silent darkness.  I closed up the café and headed towards the bar where he’s waiting for me.  The full moon looked suspiciously bright that night.  I didn’t know if it’s because of the overwhelming darkness that surrounded my aura, or if it’s shining bright to juxtapose the reality of my intentions. My senses were heightened.  Surroundings amplified.  My sure stride seemed to lose its balance. Then again, maybe it’s all in my head.

 

It took what seemed like years for me to get there.  He was sitting by the exit, as if knowing he’d need to run.  I sat across from him and said nothing.  He looked at me with infatuation.  With fear.  With certainty.  The past 6 months were a splendor of good food and intoxicating euphoria.  All of which have been in preparation for that night.  I extended my hand to him in a gesture to leave that place.  Hand in hand we walked hungry with anticipation.

 

The sun shone the next morning with incredible warmth.  I was satisfied.  I drank my coffee as I examined the room with amused eyes.  Maybe next time I won’t use a saw.

Jay by Hawra’a Khalfan

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“I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, you know?”

“Yes, go on…”

“Laa’- oh my god- I don’t know how to express this. I just woke up feeling like today something is going to change. I didn’t know what, though. It was one of those shuffle shuffle tap tap days, everything was normal, but I wasn’t. My brain wasn’t normal. One of the switches in my head was just turning fluorescent and pounding. You know? So when he yelled “Jassim, your orders are all wrong. What’s going on with you today, is everything okay with you?” That fluorescent switch erupted like Shiveluch on steroids. And I was just like yup – I’m done – that’s it. I’m fed up of all these broken promises to myself to leave this place. I’m fed up of all the maybe’s and the tomorrow’s. I want to feel free. I want to let go of this shit! Abi atnafas! Every breath I’ve taken for the first twenty years of my life was pungent with the stench of regret and longing over all the time I wasted. Bas. That’s it. I’m peacing out of this bitch. Oo you know how good the Kuwaiti in me is at dramatic exits? Fa I tore off my apron and exhaled ‘FUCK. YOU. SALEH.’ I then flattened out my frustrated forehead, he’d love to be the reason my face is full of wrinkles in five years, wouldn’t he?” He smirked. ”Anyways, having imagined this moment a million times over I thought I’d have more to say than these three words. Bas somehow, and for some reason, they sufficed. I threw my apron on the ground and ran out. Ya’nee I don’t need the money from the job tech-ni-cally. Baba covers necessities, so I just got it so i’d be able to afford a laptop case, which I technically got. Months ago. So, it’s fine. I’m fine. I can live without new nice things for a while…”

Silence devoured the room whole and erupted within them. They were now lost within their colossal trains of reflection, which they both struggled to barricade and contain. After a deep minute, she finally prevailed to halt the silence and annihilate it. She anchored her pen back in its natural habitat between her fingertips.

“How do you feel now?”

“You know, this moment reminds me of one of my mother’s favorite stories about me as a kid. I dressed up in my sisters cinderella gown, and rushed to show my parents how pretty I looked in it, too. All I got as a response was a lecture on how it was ‘wrong’. Ya’nee I still don’t quite fully understand why it was wrong. I was like five, for fucks sake. I just wanted to be pretty.”

“Why does it remind you of that, exactly? What parallels can you find between both situations?”

“I don’t know, really, I just remember how I erupted then, and how I erupted today. I refused to speak to my parents for a week after that. I just wanted to be pretty! My mother painted her face and straightened her hair day and night. But when I mimicked her I was wrong! Of course I was met with the ‘you’re a man- you should be strong’, but I never comprehended that, either. My strength doesn’t have to be physical or emotional, what’s wrong with that ya’nee?”

He looked up examining the room, exhausted from all the gray he divulged. She didn’t respond, preferring to treat that question rhetorically. They sat in silence, mentally picking at his embers.

“So, you’re saying the only relationship you find between both experiences is your self expression?”

He nodded. She scribbled more attentively into her notepad, then looked up at him with a small smirk on her face.

“So, what now?” She asked.

“Now!” The question caught him off guard, causing a million thoughts to flood back into his mind. In reality, he hadn’t thought of ‘now’ at all. “Um, What now?” His hands automatically sought each other for solace. “I don’t know. I want to do something I’m good at. I’m good at writing, I think. You know they say every writer’s worst critic is him or herself. Wallah If i’m being really honest, I only applied for the waitressing gig because of baba, he refuses to pay for things he considers ‘luxuries’, whatever that means. I needed that Balenciaga laptop case, just like I needed the Bulgari sunglasses after that.” I paused. “I mean, we do live in a dessert! The sun is blinding. Does he want me to go blind! It’s not like I asked him for a private jet!” He immediately recognized that he was going to dig himself into another tantrum, so he interrupted himself by flattening down his ruffled forehead. “Wallah, at this rate, i’m going to get wrinkles faster than a homeless cokehead.” He smiled.

She studied his face, posture, hands and his face shape. He looked to her like someone who was once full of passion.

“You’re saying you don’t need to get another job?”

“No. I’m going to eventually need the money. But for now I’ll look. Maybe I can get some freelance work?” Having realized she was reading his body language, he was starting to get self conscious about his facial expressions and manually flattened his forehead again gently.

“You said you have a Bachelor of English Literature, and a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing?”

“If you want to be technical about it, yeah.”

“Have you tried to pursue being a teacher, or a writer?”

“Hellz no!” He burst. “Me, a teacher?”

She looked at him patiently waiting for an explanation.

He gulped a mouthful of air. “Okay, this is how I see it. I can’t teach just because I love the language. It’s not enough. I don’t love teaching. I just love literature. Ya’nee imagine what I’d do to the little fuckers they put me in charge of!” His eyes zoomed in on her zealous pen and notepad. “Look, I love the mystery behind it. I love figuring out what makes writers write. My dream is to find a physical entity within a writer that is the part in their brain that blends in all their experiences at that moment in their life and just create using it all.” He looked down at his hands, “just CRE-ATE! You know? And as for being a writer; let’s be realistic. Before the crash it was hard to make a living writing, and now it’s actually impossible. Even if I wanted to sell my soul to the devil and write for a newspaper, i’d be making more more money as a waiter.”

“So, is it about money or not? As a young adult today, where do you think this need for luxury comes from?”

“I think that’s an unfair question. Where does anybody’s need for luxury come from?” He started getting agitated. “I just needed those things. I didn’t spend that money on things I didn’t use. It’s just like things I needed.”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Why did you need a laptop case that you would only be able to afford after months of saving. Why not just a regular decently priced one?”

“For the quality, it is decently priced.”

She gave him a blank expression. She wondered how he can still give such a response.

“Inzain, there was this one kid who at school with me. His name was Mish’al. The only honest way to describe him is if you call him an ogre. He was rude, foul, smelly, and just weia’. Nobody wanted to be his friend. His idea of ‘joking’ with you was to wipe his snot on his hand and hunt you down, threatening to wipe it on you. He did it to me TWICE. Am-baih. I’m still tormented by him today. You can imagine that he had no friends, and he made up for that by eating his heart out during recess.” He giggled “Once we all signed a petition to get the school to kick him out, which led us all to get recess detention for a week. Fa anyway, I was in seventh grade at the time and faj’aa Mish’al shows up to school with a Nokia in his hand. That was a huge deal. Ya’nee the only people I knew with cellphones were Stacey Dash and my dad. You know? Suddenly, his eating habits were “cute” and his popularity boosted to the extent that people huddled around just to watch him play Snake. Suddenly, he had the ‘cool’ parents who let him bring his phone to school. Suddenly he was invited to everyone’s birthday party. Suddenly, I started seeing his face everywhere. And all he needed for that was a phone! So, before I knew it, I was begging baba for a phone. But by the time I got one it wasn’t good enough because there was this new thing called an iPod, which became the more exclusive thing to have. I just HAD to be the first to get one. And the cycle began. If you didn’t get nice things when they’re the thing to have, you basically don’t have a social life anymore.”

“You’re saying your need for things is directly related to your popularity. You still haven’t answered the question though- where do you think your need for luxury comes from?”

A puzzled look sculpted itself on his face. “I don’t know,” He whispered to himself.

Jay by Bader A. Shehab

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Hey Cutie,

I’ve been coming here quite often, your cherry Chapstick left a mark on the straw paper you helped pull off for me. I kept a piece of it just to remember you, Jay, the patch on your diner cloth. You’re the cutest girl in this pit and you carry yourself around like you know it. I’d do the same if I were you… I’d like to sit by you on a warm evening at the theater chairs and ignore the hour and a half film to just side gaze at your defined cheek bones and curling episodes of brown-golden hair lines while every once in an occasion you turn to me and catch my eyes.

Sorry, this is supposed to be short and brief, but you probably deserve a book of poems, or books if I could. That asshole in the kitchen who treats you like shit always burns my hashbrowns, overcooks the eggs and “accidentally” dumps a pound of salt all over the sausage, basically your diner is shitty… Needless to say, I only come here for you.

I go on the rest of the day dealing with high blood-pressure headaches and bacterial black coffee just to catch a glimpse of you. I stutter and forget my order when you look down on me, as if you’re the pedestal and I’m the stone, oh I’m stoned by you that’s for sure… You just sing with your honey-molten telephone operator voice of yours “I guess it’ll be the usual if you’ll stay quite like that…”

Look, I know I’m not the first guy to hit on you, but I’d like to ask you when was the last time you were worshiped in the dead of midnight? I’m sleeplessly lucid dreaming of you. Or how about a painting of you hanging over my one-room apartment? I dried the oil on it myself. Not washing my hands for days on end after you mistakenly touch it with the tip of your polished nails…

Your fragrance, your ponytail, your ankles flexing, your fingers playing with the number 2 pencil, your eye brows cornering, your earrings bending, your hazel eyes, your Goddess-designed nose, your smart-but-acting-dumb moments, your “I work two jobs” line to reject me moments, your playful smile, your Victorian handwriting I can tell you’re cultured… Your yawn behind the counter on a 6 AM Monday, or your palms touching my cup feeling the cooling thermal equilibrium between your touch and mine. Excuse the “cutie” line, but I’m a good man…

Call me? 1-800-NOTACREEP

THE EVERYDAY© NAPKINS – The best Napkins money can buy!

Terminal by Fatma AlSumaiti

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You were limbo

I knew you but I didn’t

Our kisses were glimpses of an unforeseen death

Oh, by I saw it

I smelled it on your sweat as it dried up on ny chest

I touched it on your face just before I scratched it bloody

You were a terminal

Known but so unknown

A gateway to hell

And passage to my own distruction

You killed me

I killed me

I held your neck and sucked you dry

Oh, but it was me who was bleeding

Blood drops slowly made their way out of every patch of skin you kissed

Out of my eyes that you looked so deeply into

Out of the words you tigtly sheathed and held close to your heart

Were they my eyes that you were looking into?

Was my blood laced with memories of her?

Were my claws too sharp for your skin to bare?

You and your armor

Me and my naked heart

I screamed for you to listen

Bit your ears off for they might have been faulty

Banged my fists against the walls, the floors the ceiling, YOUR ARMOR

Only to find bloody pieces of me hanging from every corner of this cell

My skin, my eyes, my lungs and my fingertips

Have them them for breakfast, lunch and dinner

Savor my blood

And i hope to some existing god that I will be that stubborn piece of flesh stuck between your teeth

And then tell me, how your armor protected you from the inebriation of my love

Terminal by Hawra’a Khalfan

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I look up at the fluorescent lights; at the perfectly lined up squares covering the ceiling.  My eyes flirt with the smoke detector, as my mind wanders to a world where I have the health to light up a cigarette, and set it off.  Ironic, isn’t it? That when you can, you justify it.  But when it might possibly be the reason you’re in this mess to begin with; you don’t loathe it- but you loathe yourself for letting it slaughter you.

A smirk creeps onto my face abruptly.  Oh, the amount of people I may never have known if it wasn’t for it.  And as soon as my smirk settled; it fluttered off by her voice.

She screams, as if her soul is in yearn for an escape.

She bawls, as if there was nothing left to live for, but pain.

She howls, as a reminder to all the provinces, that she, unfortunately still exists.

She cries from the agony of breath.

She is now laying still, as tears camouflage her face

And her mind jolts itself into the darkest corner within, she

thinks of him,

thinks of them,

alongside everything there is to think about, before she can think no more.

She feels aches in every lump of her that still exists

But the most painful ache there is,

Is that despite all of this; all she yearns for

Is to have him stand beside her mechanical bed

And hover over her, silently.

Terminal by Bader A. Shehab

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It was suppose to be the end,
The end of all conflicts,
The end of all beginnings,
and the end of it all…

The inevitable breath that forecasted
a thunderstorm of cries into the nights
that turned to day in the wake of shellings.
They whistled and hurled into the mist,
and the fog that condensed ghosts into hordes,
magically wandering the trenches
as their bewildering grows.

Not the hands that shook,
nor the suits that shone,
shoulder-cut and pressed
to a perfecting being.
The Oxfords that sounded
into the empty halls of diplomacy.
Could bring this war into a halting terminal.

Take me back to my wife, mother and brothers…
I am a long lost soul in the golden burials of man’s greed.

– Epitaph of a fallen hero on an unmarked grave.

Terminal by Fatma Al Shehab

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05I was old enough to remember the doctors and the teachers and the therapists
all painting their tombs white when they thought I wasn’t looking.
“You’re just a little sick, sweetie. It’ll be okay.”
Says who? The brain scans, or you?
I spent my nights wrapped up in bleach white sheets
listening to my heart thump on a little silver machine.
I had this reoccurring nightmare where it just stopped.

I guess growing up like that makes you different from the other kids.
Having different childhoods, different lives, different fates.
Other children spent their Saturdays playing tag with daddy.
I spent mine barfing up dinner and listening to mommy cry.

Experiencing this affliction physically hurts
But I think, for me at least,
the emotional damage always cuts the deepest.
I remember feeling guilty when mom went to the other room to cry,
like maybe it was somehow my fault I was Terminal.
I stopped looking at other little girls in the eyes
because I always seemed to find something I lacked.
At the time, I think I called it ‘hope’.

My life became weaved together with words like ‘life expectancy’ and ‘treatment options’.
Every time I fell asleep, it became a habit of mine to say goodbye just in case.
A little girl should never have to think about dying in her sleep.
Ever.

Writing this wasn’t meant to solicit sympathy,
I am sharing my struggle with you in the hopes that you might find hope in what I am today.
So yes, I am still sick,
but now I know that ‘sick’ is not who I am.

Home by Bader A. Shehab

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I am not sure if it was the carrot stew or the parsley diced thinly over the potatoes… Maybe it was that sprinkle of sea salt I saw him apply swiftly and with skillful hands. The cucumber melting into the olives as it swims in the streams of freshly squeezed organic tomatoes. In a shallow pool of lava emanating from the oven flamed potato stuffed with vine leaves; my God, was I in heaven from the first bite!

It probably was the ear-catching crumbling and crushing sound of the freshly warm baguette dipping into the dish piece by piece, which elevated the taste. But there really is no way, even without the Parisian bread warming my palms in the frigid Belgian winter, the dish still stands out marvelously needless to say! Perhaps it could be the pumpkin sauce and garlic salt dabbed very lightly from the iron spoon atop the sauteed cocktail of vegetables harvested from the fertile lands of Charleroi. It added to the aroma fuming the room around me lavishly, reddening the Belgian-French border cheeks from the faces sat around me, as if the Czars have come back from the cold dead to dine with us!

Whatever it is, it is all the above and something that I just can’t seem to put my hands on… It surely can’t be that sip of the heavenly white wine of Sancerre from the Valleys of Loire. It moves my senses to ecstasy with each bite and every drop of the 2004. I could not help but make the sweet, sweet, love to this heavenly gift of a meal, finish the remaining crumbs and walk across the great hall into the kitchen. I’m greeted with buttered saute vapor and the grinding noises of pans slamming against the flames worked by tireless hands.

Alain Ducasse was seated resting with a cigarette next to an old stove with nothing but a tea table adjacent, an ash tray and a small shot glass of thé à la menthe. The greatest chef in the world ever so humble. I started towards him nervously slowly brushing past the rushing pastry chefs, busboys and busgirls, who gave me hard looks because I wasn’t allowed back here.

I hesitated at first but when he looked up at me past the issue of Le Monde I cleared my throat and asked, “Excuse moi monsieur, chef Alain, but I have a question, ahm… actually a comment and a question if I may…” I began sweating as I stood before one of the world’s greatest chefs, if I didn’t mention that already. He folded his news paper and took a quick sip from his tea.

“Oui, sil vous plait, go on please.” He replied with a faint, yet welcoming, warm smile.
“Yes, thank you very much for the wonderful dinner, but monsieur, I have been coming here to this wonderful restaurant of yours for a while now and I always loved it but, for the love of God, I have never dined like today ever before. The special dish you made for the conference table earlier, what was it?” Curiosity took over my manners and I finally questioned the hands of the man himself…

“Oh, well my friend, it is traditional French Ratatouille…” He answered casually unattended to my excitement. I had to interrupt him.
“But monsieur, I know what it is, it is more than just ratatouille. I mean the recipe is prepared to perfection, the sauce is just heavenly, everything is perfectly tempered and presented… Is there any real secret to it?” I finally imploded and let everything out at once, the thousands of questions in my mind all into one breath.
“Oh I see, well that is very generous of you, but really there is no secret… Or, you know what, since you are a wonderful customer I will let you in on a ‘secret’. Back in my old restaurant in Paris I have won the Michelin star for that dish which elevated the status of my dining and my career. This dish, ratatouille. Is no ordinary recipe…”

Ducasse stood up, placed the newspaper on the chair and put his arm around me. He then walked a few paces leading me to a nearby window overlooking a great plain as the sun began to set. “It was my mother’s recipe, it’s the true color of France; the ratatouille that changed my life. It is, my friend, a little taste of home.”

Home by Layla

By Posted in Home, Layla Leave a comment

I’m cold
I’m reckless
I’m homeless
I don’t feel, when I bruise them
I don’t care, when I hurt them
I walk alone, I fly solo
I’m cold, careless, reckless
I have nothing to lose, nothing to gain
I put a mask on to get through people
I put a mask on so I don’t get questioned
I’m not broken, the flame just died out in me
And I am cold and senseless.
Something died in me. A long time ago.
I truly believed nothing can revive me
I heard a shout, of my name
Just as I was closing the door
Someone decided to seek me
Someone decided to step in
Someone decided to join me
To feel me, to hear me, to see me
The mask was slowly lifted
A spark was lit
Something in me was awakened
I’m still careless, but I feel
For him who entered
For him who stepped in
For him who joined me
I care, just enough to hold him
Just enough to call him home
Just enough to rest
I love, oh how I love
Just enough to be broken again
Just enough to be cold and frozen again
I have everything to lose, and I’m not afraid
Because either way, feeling and not feeling
Are equally satisfying.