Secret by Batool Hasan

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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.

Secret by Amira Sheikh

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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.

Secret by Noragotcharisma

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By Noragotcharisma

You take a step forward. You put one foot in front of the other. You carry on with your life. One day the world is full of color, the next the shape-shifting realm that is reality seems grey and boring.

You live moments of joy, moments of hope, moments of utter euphoria. You experience difficulties, forced to make slight detours, you pick up the broken pieces of yourself, not knowing how you’ll do it, but you just do. You heal yourself, you grow strong, you put one foot in front of the other. The beauty of life is its inconsistency.

The one thing you do know is karma, but what we receive is what we yield. That’s a pretty simple law to abide by to guarantee things’ll go better for another tomorrow. But there are unknown destinations, bigger things you’re unaware of, greater secrets swallowed into the core of the universe.

This feeling of the unknown is so graciously forgotten as we go on with our lives. You grow selfish enough to think that what you get is what you make, but it’s a parade of partners that you don’t see, helping you unravel what is to come.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you, and life’s biggest secret is your destiny.

Secret by Fatma AlSumaiti

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By Fatma Al Sumaiti

They both buried their words and hid behind glances. They couldn’t speak their hearts, so they walked. They walked until they couldn’t anymore.

They stood on a cliff, both staring at dangling thoughts. Thoughts yearning to be vocalized, but to no avail.

“Tell me a secret,” he silently asked.

“I am slipping through the cracks. I wish you would’ve told me. I wish you would tell me now,” she bellowed.

He remained as silent as a book. Soundless, but oh so full of noise. She could always sense silhouettes of his thoughts. So close, yet so out of reach. If only he would share his secrets, she thought.

“This,” she gestured to her surroundings, “would be as clear as day if you would just say it,” she shouted with vehemence only a scarred soul would muster.

“But is that really what you want?” he questioned with the calmest tone. Slowly, he retraced his steps and went back into his dark chambers.

She goes to sleep that night with her subconscious still a mysterious stranger.

Secret by Wil

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By Wil.

Archeology can change your life. Archeology can lead to personal growth. It doesn’t even have to be impressive archeology. For those particularly prone to life-changing events like me, it can be something quite minor. Like an article about excavating a 150 year old house in a small city called Adelaide at the bottom of Australia. No, it wasn’t the house of my ancestors, I wasn’t involved in the dig – heck, all they were looking for were sets of dinner plates. So what could be so inspirational about that? How could one get excited about archeology of the mundane, about a not very ancient house in the suburbs of a backward, quiet sprawlopolis, a report on a search for crockery?

‘The Ideology of Domesticity and the Working-Class Women and Children of Port Adelaide, 1840-1890’ by Lampard talks about people striving for status and respectability in the 19th Century. I discovered the article four years ago and it has stayed in the back of my mind ever since. This is despite my not really knowing why. It’s like my mind put a bookmark in my life at that point and has patiently waited for the rest of me to catch up with its significance, and go back for a closer look. Now, in 2013, I finally have.

The article is about literally digging through deposits of possessions at a few households in a dockside working class suburb. It mentions proper archeological activities like counting how many buttons and other items related to sewing exist in the deposit. They also looked for matching sets of teacups and dinner plates in these deposits of 150 year old items at each house. They inferred a family was of higher status when they found matching sets.

Deposit is quite a lovely word to use because it comprehensively depersonalises the set of possessions of a household found at a site. It makes one think of one’s own entire set of possessions within one’s house – how would a stranger, god forbid an inquisitive archeologist keen on making historical and cross cultural comparisons, summarise my life based on what items they found in my living room and kitchen?

The idea of such an examination set off a chain of reflections for me. I acknowledged something I have known, but simultaneously tried to keep secret from myself and especially others. I am desperately seeking status. I have always been vaguely, and sometimes quite plainly, aware that I am of low status. At school as a kid, it was obvious I was not from a rich family. Growing up, there was always this annoying aunty who gave my sister and I hand-me-down clothes from her own children. These were often better than the clothes my parents bought us. As a kid, I was also quite aware of the distinct groups of people based on status. The kids from richer families hung out together. They were cooler too as they had more possessions, and the possessions were more exciting. For example they had mobile phones in high school. This was back in the late nineties, early 2000s when having a mobile was more expensive.

Observing all of these consequences of status had a big impact on me as a child. It made me quite competitive. I realise now that I became from a very young age fundamentally motivated to change my status. To improve it. To essentially be one of those rich kids. I also realise that this motivation remains with me as an adult. So what are some examples of ways I have demonstrated my obsession with status, beyond childhood?

Take my decision to study psychology. I made this decision when I was 18, probably the biggest decision I first made as an adult. I was attracted to it for two reasons, it was a high paying profession and it required a high Grade 12 score to get into. These two elements of eliteness attracted me enough to enroll. What really makes this an obvious status based decision though is that I am completely incapable of reading minds and of socialising well. I had no good reason therefore to study psychology based on my talents or interests. Psychology is also highly theoretical, there is no getting your hands dirty working on a project outdoors for example. Instead, there is lots of research methods critique and analysis of thought and sometimes emotions. If I had been honest with myself I would have avoided the degree like the plague, knowing it would make me unhappy.

But I didn’t. And I soldiered through a four year degree hating it, but not allowing myself to act on this feeling – further proving my unsuitableness for psychology come to think of it! All because I thought my status would increase. And it would have, if I had liked it enough to invest fully in it, do well enough to get into Master’s, then start a career. But because I kept secret from myself my unsuitableness for the field I never could invest in it, never could feel passionate about it, and ironically never increased my status because of it. I got a horrific job afterward doing disability support pension assessments, did that for 10 months, then quit the career altogether after getting burnt out. Yes, my brief psychology career caused mental health problems.

Are there any other examples of this secret motivation? Yes! I am here. I am an expat, paid well, though living as a foreigner. I knew no one before I came and I can’t speak the language. I left behind someone I loved, whom I was beginning to think about from a long-term perspective. These are large sacrifices for anyone to make.

I left all that behind to work for a leading global engineering firm on a massive, pioneering environmental rehabilitation project. Yep, definitely sounding like this relates to status again. For sure. Funnily enough, the father of the family that I had status issues with as a kid because we got hand-me-down clothes from them also worked in Kuwait once. I feel like I am here showing I can do what he did.

And maybe that makes me feel like I’ve made it. And maybe that makes me feel like I can finally acknowledge this secret motivation. It’s served its purpose of increasing status. Since it’s made my life hell, my subconscious mind has kindly released it to my consciousness, allowed me the chance to seek freedom. Freedom from collecting matching dinner plates for archeologists to write about in the year 2163, for example.

Again I say I am grateful for this writing club. I am grateful, too, to Lampard for changing a life through digging up old cups and plates. I am grateful for the chance to work it all out, and realise it’s all going to be ok. Also, now I’m a rich person, I can finally see what I’ve been missing out on. You know what that is? It is the annoying feeling that there are yet more rich people of even higher status above me. I’m done with this. I just want contentment now, efficiently.

Socks by Hawra’a Khalfan

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By Hawra’a Khalfan

There had been a dust storm the day before, as soon as he saw those orange skies all he could think about was his job. He knows those Kuwaitis complain about not being able to leave their homes when these frequent storms happen, but all he could think about in that precise moment was having to get up and sweep it all up tomorrow. It is now his job to sweep the dust, it is his job to inhale the dust particles and cough uncontrollably. Oh, well. I have it better than the trash pick-up workers, they roam around all day in huge reeking trucks infested with insects, so I should be thankful I have this job.

I forget where I am for a moment as I stare at the gravel under my feet, focusing on the feel of the small stones and sand particles under them. I close my eyes and pretend the sun isn’t bothering me, and that my nylon yellow jumpsuit isn’t suffocating my skin. I really don’t want to move just incase she comes today. Nobody really pays extra attention to me except her. To everybody else, I must be part of the street. I’m just as good as a traffic light, well, the traffic light is probably even better than me because it guides them and provides order. What do I do that’s so special? Collect cigarette buds and Pepsi cans? His train of thought came to a halt as soon as he saw her car driving up towards him. “Salam!” She shouted, pulling down her car window. “How are you, are you good?” She asked rhetorically, she knows he isn’t ‘good’, and that he’s as far from it as humanly possible, and that he’s too polite to mention otherwise. He nodded and smiled. I know, she thought, I know. I can see past your toothless smile, I can see into your life, old man. I can see that you’re hurting, that you’re tired, that your skin is peeling from the sun, that your shoes are torn, that you’re starving, and that you’re trying to provide for a family that you probably haven’t seen for years. I know. She thought. I know. She reached into her purse and handed him a 1 KD bill, smiling as she said goodbye and drove off- moving on with her day. She didn’t even give him the chance to thank her, but she ‘knew’.

He stood there staring at the bill with a huge smile on his face before he stuffed it in his pocket.  I should go buy one of those ice cream cones I see the kids eating after school. It will be refreshing to eat something cold. Or maybe I should just save the money and send it to my family? Why send it? I’m sending everything else- I’ll indulge just this time and buy the ice cream. I do need new socks, though. Ice cream, family, or socks? My sister needs to pay her dowry. I’ll just send it along with my salary, he sighed. A different car stopped his train of thought this time- it came so close to the pavement, stopping just an inch away from him. “Salam!” He smiled again enthusiastically, is it going to be one of the good days? Maybe I can taste the ice cream after all? The back window rolled down, and a housekeeper’s head popped out of it. An older Kuwaiti woman is driving and she seems to be frustrated, “Salam!” he repeated with more enthusiasm, but that just caused her to glare in his direction and speak in her Kuwaiti tongue, she seemed to be trying to get the maid to hurry up.  I can never understand these Kuwaitis when they start using their mother tongue. They normally slow down and talk me to like I’m stupid, which is fine. I am stupid, all I know how to do is pick up trash off the sidewalk so I don’t blame them. The housekeeper looked at me, and she knew. She knew. She knows. She feels it. I could see it through her smile, through her eyes. She pulled her arm out of the car and handed him a bag full of rubbish, there’s that smile again, he thought, that broken excuse for a smile. He took the trash bag out of her small dry hands, knowing that the second the Kuwaiti woman drives off he would never see those hands, or that smile again. Not even a coin? Maybe this day won’t be as good as I thought.

He walked, staring at the street ahead of him trying to limit where his feet touch the ground by hopping into any shaded area he finds along his way, and smiling to himself because he must look ridiculous to the people driving by. They probably think I’m crazy, but it really does burn a lot.  The soles of his shoes were thin enough to allow heat in, but at the same time thick enough not let it out. People don’t know that, they just see a probably senile old man who isn’t doing his job and cleaning the streets like he’s supposed to, but instead hopping around in the sun.

He holds his breath and squints as he sweeps the ground, but the sand particles make their way into his eyes and lungs anyway. I really shouldn’t rub my eyes, they will start hurting me again. Maybe I’ll get lucky and people will give me enough money to buy soap so I can clean my hands and body. I really hate the way I smell, but how do I buy soap? The soap I take from the bathroom in the park only lasts so long, and I always feel bad about taking it all. By noon he is sweating bullets, but he must carry on, he must not pause or walk slowly, he must be done cleaning because that is the only way he feels like he can make a difference. He walks and walks, and the only time he takes a break is when a car slows down next to him. He greets the driver with a smile and a “Salam” hoping he would get enough coins to be able to afford some soap now, as he can feel the sand particles moving around in his eyes. There are so many people who can take over my job- I could get replaced so easily, and then my family will suffer because my feet were sweating, and my eyes made friends with the sand? The ice cream and socks seem like tedious purchases now, because his eyes are burning and he can’t afford to take time off work. I want to wash my hands and take the sand out. I want to wash my hands and take the sand out. I really hope I don’t end up with worse eyesight- this happens every time a sandstorm takes place. I feel myself losing my eyesight slowly, he smiled, sighing- it is what it is.

Socks by Shahd AlShammari

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By Shahd Al Shammari

You wake up one day, and suddenly, your feet do not belong to you. They are, most definitely, separated from your body. But no, that can’t be, because you look down, and yup, they’re still there.

You touch, and you sniff them. They feel like they have been suffocating under woolen socks for years on end.

Okay, time to wiggle my toes, before I actually attempt the impossible: getting out of bed.

Each toe feels plastered to the other. And, as if they have plotted to work against my brain’s insufficient commands, they decide not to move.

“Ugh.” Not again. I reach over, attempting to massage them. Nothing. They refuse to respond.

I drag myself out of bed, knowing exactly what this means. Today, my feet won’t be able to touch the ground without feeling like I am wearing an infinite amount of socks. Blood stops rushing to them. And each step towards the door feels as though I am walking through water, and my socks are drenched in mud –my feet are heavy.

I open the door, to call for my mother. I need to tell her that I need help putting on my socks and shoes, because this looks like just another Multiple Sclerosis relapse.

Socks by Taiba AlOtaibi

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By Taiba Al Otaibi

Socks, hocks, fiddly locks, a little house on the prairie.
Hots, shots, imminently lots, the boys jumped on the ferry.
Locks, box, sly cunning fox, the girls hid all the cherries.
Hone, zone, fervently shone, the boys flipped ducked and parried.
Attack, crack, the one lonely pack, here comes the long white and hairy.
Divide, collide, a once holy pride, chained to a thought that is scary.
Amuse, bemuse, left all the old muse, stuck in a place with no berries.
Align, decline, whats yours will be mine, its all so necessary.
Sock, shock, finally unlocked, exposed toes are so airy.
Grin, shin, the one lonely fin, took off like a white canary.
Soul, hole, stunk like a troll, they all fell down the aerie.
Lock, hock, fiddly socks, and it all burnt ’round the prairie.

Socks by Buddha Qais

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By Buddha Qais

He took his usual seat besides his wife. It was that hour of the day again, the hour of when they agreed to always sit and talk about their day’s events.
He looked at his wife with longing eyes, and guessed he had to start today as has been recently.
“So I begin again?” he chuckled. “Well I tell you, it is not fair, so this is the last time.”
“Work has been getting abnormal lately. People have been acting differently towards me.” He said. “Different in the sense, they seem to avoid me, and when they are put in a situation where they have to deal with me, they seem to act very…safe.” He started scratching his beard as his thoughts wrapped around his statement.

“Honestly, I do not know what is going on with everyone around me lately, honey. Friends keep having these intervention talks with me. The families are always trying to talk about something. Even the kids! Imagine!” He laughed in a barking manner.
“Funny enough, they all seem to agree on a common ground, which is that I am stubborn. Me! Stubborn?” He waved his hand in the air as if waving off the notion.
“You know me! I’m not stubborn. I just need a little logical reasoning. I mean, look at these socks I’m wearing. It took you a while to get me to swear them, as I thought they looked ridiculous even though I know you knitted. But look at me now! I’ve been wearing them everyday. Ha! … Stubborn… Me.” He sighed.
He looked at his wife, smiled and said “I guess, today you won’t say anything again.” He got up form his seat.
He started walking away, looked back at his wife and said “I miss you, Marie.”

Here lies
Marie
Loving Wife & Mother
May she Rest in Piece

Socks by Dee

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By Dee

 

Everyone comes into the world with a shared fear, the fear of being alone. Because being alone means that you don’t belong. The world was made to be shared with another. So you curl up together and hold each other close for fear that something will come to tear you apart, and you’ll never see one another again. And what will become of you then?

 When you lose your partner, you lose everything, including who you are when you’re together. When you’re with them, you’re part of something, but alone you’re nothing, of no consequence and no use. And no one wants to become useless, especially when you’re already so dispensable. You know that you’re nothing special, likely to be discarded at any moment. But if you’re together then the world can try to get rid of you as much as it wants. None of it will matter, because you’re still not alone. But when you are alone, there’s no hope for you and you might as well let life go. You’ll lose it all anyway and there’s nothing you can do about it. After all, there’s nothing in the world sadder than a sock which has lost its pair.

Socks by Seyed Mohammad Abaft

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By Seyed Mohamad Abaft

 

Many things comes to mind when someone looks at a sock

Christmas

Comfort

Shoes

Sports

Stinky feet

Athlete’s foot

But when I am looking at this small cute baby socks

I think of my child, her innocence, her cute laugh

The smile that could melt a million hearts

The day when she took her first step makes a grown man cry

Even if he were the most cold hearted Son of a Bitch man you have met

The trials of being a father of a female teenager

Makes you turn into the chief of police when she brings home her “friends”, yes I’m talking about those low life punk looking gangster boys

And to think she was the little princess I’ve raised, and now she’s wearing a short skirt with a tank top

Now we come to her college graduation, the moment when you feel that joy and sadness have met

She is now a full grown woman, who has overcome the challenges of having a full education, and not being interviewed by Dr. Phil during her teenage life

Now let’s end this memory and go meet my granddaughter.

Socks by Kamanha

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By Kamanha

 

Oh I remember the good old days…

It doesn’t seem so long ago that I walked bare-footed growing sore

The hot burning wax drops drop from the heat. Indeed, what was it all for?

But wait a minute, we had a lot of fun, didn’t we? No, we didn’t. You’re such a lying whore

You chewed and spit me relentlessly. Congrats, I couldn’t find an uglier facial mask than the one you wore.

 

Or… should I start with how we first met on the beach with our socks filled with sand?

How we turned our meeting to a love cage, then a house with neighbors on the avenue and made it grand

How in our touch the world made perfect sense and how our eyes spoke a language unknown to man

Dante once told me: “Fratillo mio, It’s divine comedy. Want to make god laugh? tell him of your plan”

 

And God must be laughing right this moment. Such a keen ambition I had

Weird way how he shows me who’s in control. Boy, I must have made him real mad

Love was truly from above, because you astro-killed me. well, I flew with you… my bad

Remnants of my past shattered, scattered, then gathered to make you a flamboyant iron clad

 

I led a dead life harvesting pain from nine to five to at the end die alive

For you I sailed seven seas and cruised lands to where I never knew I could arrive

Our soliloquies and Beelzebub’s disguise couldn’t prevent us from thriving to survive

Or at least that’s what I thought, before you made me trust you then stabbed me with your poisonous knife

 

You abrogated the covenant of cordiality with a virulent misdeed

I languish to heed how many heartbeats did you need to decide to cheat

An epiphany! I plummet in a utopia of idiots drowned in a land of wet dreams, indeed

I hate you, you worthless sock! So, stop begging and get off my feet

 

So to wrap up, would you please, just please, GO…

…Kill yourself for me?

Hey… did I mention that all this is what I would’ve said if SHE was the one who cheated on me?

Too bad she wouldn’t have said the same thing… I’m truly sorry

Sorry, I misled you. But, I guess… I’m the dirty sock in this story 

 

I’m the one who pickled her cheeks from the sour tears she shed

I’m the one with the thousand lies that I had her fed

I’m the most low-budget, third-rated, fungus-infested sock, I admit

So, baby, just change me and wash up all this dirt 

And I’ll be over there watching over you from your laundry basket

And finally, I hope you don’t regret your allergy to my pathetic fabric.

Socks by Rahaf AlMubarak

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By Rahaf Al Mubarak

 

To the sapphirine warmth of winter’s susurrous reveries,

Mind-melting catastrophes embrace,
Undertones of a heartbeat’s lyrics ignite,

Sentiments’ skeletons pirouette in psychedelic socks,
Glacial words slip through lips and sink into souls,

Muffled escapism incinerate snowflakes,
Sightless stars consume our thirsts,

We display nothing but lashes as we savor the sapphirine warmth of winter’s susurrous reveries,

Nothing but lashes and a cold glass of heat.

Socks by Ripley Hyde

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By Ripley Hyde

 

You’re switching sides

You’re snitching. Why?

Caught red handed you insist it was a lie

You failed

Betrayal

And it’s too late to bail

Hammered in the coffin, another rusty nail

 

You had a choice and chose to cheat

You blocked yourself out, just admit it

You know what? No. Don’t even speak

Sit there, shut up and put a sock up in it

 

They’re cowards, all of them

Those who befriend Untruth

They have power, it enthralls them

Not noticing they’ve become uncouth

 

Lie after lie they spread

But once the truth has been heard

They sink into their sea of lies

And, like lead, have nothing but the seabed

 

You could have made things easy

You just had to go and do it

Don’t come crying to me man

Just take this sock and chew it

 

 

Hypocrisy

Don’t talk to me

Everything will go unheard

There’s an idea

Why don’t you show me?

After all, actions speak louder than words

 

You can’t can you, Hypocrite?

Come on now don’t you bore me

Take this sock from my mouth

Stick it in yours

Maybe then you can do it for me

 

Some people in this world just need to be muted

Their mere presence enough to leave life polluted

Though look on the bright side

It’s not a total loss

Go do some shopping

Socks are 80% off

Socks by Noragotcharisma

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By Noragotcharisma

Little toes at a daycare are stuffed into colorful rainbows. You wiggle your toes and I wiggle mine.
“I like your Batman toesies.”
“I don’t like Barbie, but yours are nice.”
Exchanged kindness made it easy for us to be friends.

It’s Christmas time. Our mothers sent us with stockings full of goodies for those kids at the shelter. You lit up just like they did. We were only twelve, but we were already imagining the charity we wanted to start.

It’s football season now. You’re more excited than ever, buying yourself the latest Nike cleats, color coding your socks to match your home and away uniforms. I remember you being surprised the coach didn’t pick you to start, but that never put you down.
Your diligence shined through when you scored that winning goal in the last 4 minutes.

I remember the day your grandmother fell ill. All your family came together as if they weren’t torn apart from rough divorce battles. You’ve never looked so weak. The only time you changed your dirty socks was to go pray. But you made it alive, and your temperance kept you moving.

We both got employed at the biggest law firm in the city, and we were on our way to becoming the people criminals like OJ wanted. You were in your navy suit, and I was in my black tights. Ladies began to know you, wanted to get you, but your chastity quickly bored them. You always were a gentleman.

Life was becoming routine. We went to work every day, you wore the same striped socks everyday, we brought home the bread and butter every day—but we were missing something. We were missing something and patience was out of the question. When it came time for you to settle down you only looked in my direction. After all these years, we finally wed.

We spent our lives together, actually living together. Coming and going, travelling, growing, hurting, rising. We witnessed each other’s lives from the very beginning and it wasn’t time to stop. The crinkles in your eyes every time you smile, the greys in your hairs that I won’t let you dye, they are all imprinted in my memory. As I stand over you now, watching you be lowered into the earth, I hold one thing: the knee highs you made me for my sixteenth birthday. You were always humble, but you were the best thing that ever walked into my life.

I must now live without you. But I won’t live; I’ll be joining you. Until next time, my everything.

Socks by Meshari Bin Hasan

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By Meshari Bin Hasan

 

It’s been sixty-five years. Sixty-five years, Yousra remembered the story her mother told her once, since her grandmother, Jameela, frantically packed generations of her family scattered around the house in an old hijab and huddle it over her back.

Sixty-five years since children walked the holy land with socks bearing holes that looked them in the eye.

Sixty-five years since children like Nasim kept on staring at his blue toenail from a window of cotton and cheap polyester.

 

A dreary, overcast April 15th. A congregation of brown tents hanging over the brown ground they once owned listening intently to the sermon by a preacher of grey cloud and brown dirt.

Brown socks covered the feet tattooed with mud. Rusting poles held up the towns, neighborhoods. A grid of brown, broken spirits and cold feet.  

 

Yousra knit socks for her three dolls. She didn’t want them to be cold. She’d tell Nasim, while her limbs choreographed a harmonic dance with her feet, that cold dolls are sad dolls. That she once heard her Mama say feet are the window of the soul, it is where the soul escapes the body. She covered her dolls’ feet with socks so their souls would not escape. Nasim and Yousra sat on top a hill overlooking the predominant brown and grey. Yousra didn’t wear socks. Nasim wore the pair that had the window of cotton.

“Look, it popped yesterday.” Nasim showed Yousra the ball he stole from school last year. Somehow, a shard of glass cut it.

“I’ve a game tomorrow and that’s my only ball.”

“You think we can fill it with socks?”

“How? I only have the pair I’m wearing.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve three pairs for you.”

The corners of Yousra’s mouth walked towards her ears to paint a smile of midnight assurance where almond blossoms grew.

“Want me to get you a cup of tea, Nasim?”

Socks by Dina Al-Awadhi

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By Dina Al Awadhi

 

We first started out so similar,

You and I.

With our crisp white socks,

those stitched in doilies adorned by a simple lace.

Obviously a mother’s choice at hand

to match out such ugly, block shopped uniforms.

 

And I don’t think I recall how I first met you.

All I do remember,

as vividly as though it were only yesterday,

was the day we became friends.

 

It was recess.

And the children were rampant

in that wild jungle emporium of slides and swings,

monkey bars galore.

A wild, romping adventure

that playground was.

The shouts, the screams,

the obligatory crying child,

the marbles bumping along the grey pavement,

those teachers in the corner that always used to gossip,

the hot and bleary sun.

 

My favorite pastime was primarily catch,

I loved to run and hide

And join in the jumping and screaming.

be the first to reach the safe haven,

and just feel unstoppable, unbeatable,

Powerful.

 

And it was all a mistake really,

I wasn’t a bully.

In a mere stumble of a miscalculated step,

I elbowed you into a muddy slush,

and it got all over your pretty white socks and white shoes.

And to tell the truth,

I think you might have cried for a full ten minutes straight.

And I,

I had no earthly idea what to do!

 

You just kept on it,

crying and crying crying.

You didn’t stop

even when I said I was sorry.

And then I was worried that a teacher would come over

and would put me in timeout

and write a letter to my mother

who would also put me in a timeout

and then be disappointed.

And no cartoons,

and no Legos,

and no bed time stories,

and no Electric Blue Raspberry Fruit Roll-up,

and and and…!

 

And I guess I did the only thing I could think of.

I promptly took off my smudged and dirty velcro sneakers,

rolled off my crisp white socks,

and handed them over to you.

 

You stared at me incredulously for the longest moment.

And for a second I thought you were going to start crying again.

But then, with an abrupt euphoric giggle,

you accepted the sacrificial offering,

pulled me into a too-tight hug,

and wouldn’t let go of my hand for the rest of the day.

 

That day, after recess was over,

I don’t know why, I shared half my peanut butter and jelly sandwich with you

and you dutifully handed me half of your Graham crackers.

We playfully kicked each other under the table, giggling wildly.

You with my clean pair of white socks on your bright white shoes

And me, with only a pair of velcro sneakers on.

 

And it’s strange,

because I never wondered how

we suddenly had become best friends.

I just accepted it. 

A smile for a smile,

a laugh for a laugh,

and a sock for a sock I guess.

And then again,

I never had a best friend

 

And God, I thought I was lucky,

We spent all of Elementary in the same classes glued together

You would come over to my house to watch movies

And I would go over to your house

And play games with you and your older sister.

 

You started to go shopping with your mom

and choose out your own socks.

You’d come to school displaying them so finely

With you sparkly clean white tennis shoes,

Baby pinks, sky blues,

pale lavenders and pastel greens.

 

And as is the way of child perversity I suppose,  

I consequently went nagging on my mama

to buy me new socks.

And hear you all this,

I abhorred shopping.

I loathed shopping,

right down to my very toes.

 

But choosing my own socks wasn’t too bad I found.

In fact, it was surprisingly fun.

The striped rainbows, the dotted purples,

midnight blue with golden stars,

and deep mango orange,

checkered black and red,

glow-in-the-dark, and my favorite,

mismatched pairs!

 

And you and my mother egged me on

and I had never smiled so brightly.

 

And then we entered middle school.

And we were all stunned,

utterly paralyzed with fear.

The piles and piles of homework stacked higher and higher

And this whole new world of responsibilities

and “maintaining your GPA,”

and daily quizzes,

and essays and drafts and peer-editing,

and and and…!

 

And I found refuge in the library.

A place so beautiful and wholly different

I could spend hours and hours browsing through the books.

And you,

You.

You found more friends with whom to share this load of newness

 

And just as suddenly as we had become friends,

you were gone.

 

In the hallways,

I saw you,

with your hot pink socks and squeaky clean tennis shoes

but you didn’t seem to see me and my mismatched socks anymore.

And it’s also strange,

because I never wondered why it turned out that way,

I just accepted it. 

 

And now I was left alone

to eat my peanut butter sandwich at the stairs

and seek comfort in my books.

 

High school was a quick haze,

a blur filled with great and intimidating, hulking seniors

that we then quickly grew into.

Now we had SAT’s to worry about

and more essays and tests and quizzes,

and colleges also want extracurricular activities,

and a high GPA,

and stress and pressure,

and stress and pressure,

and and and…!

 

And who am I kidding,

that place was hell.

 

I think you sat behind me in chemistry one year.

I could always hear you whispering,

snorting in laughter most of the time.

It wasn’t very comfortable.

And it was strange,

Because even though I could hear you mocking the teacher’s lisp

and gossiping about that this person and that,

I didn’t think back to the old days

when we used to share my peanut butter sandwich.

 

One day, in our last year,

I heard someone saying

Isn’t it so weird that you two used to be best friends?

Weird,

as though I had mutated into some freak show,

with the perpetual nose in a book

and purposefully mismatched socks.

Weird,

because I was strange and awkward in comparison to you

and your beautiful long, and flowing hair,

and your ever squeaky clean tennis shoes

and pretty pink ankle socks.

 

But you see, that made me think

how strange it is

that two little girls

who once upon a time had found the sacred gift of friendship

could now pass in the hallways without a simple hello.

For you had become you

and I me.

And nothing

could or would ever bridge that gap.

 

What a horrible thing time is.

 

 

Not too long ago,

I went back to that playground.

And I cried.

Because everything had become too small

and rusty and faded.

The swings, the slides

Even the monkey bars.

And I found that little spot where

you fell in the mud.

And I cried.

 

Because if a pair of crisp white socks and an innocent child heart

wasn’t enough to make a friendship last,

then what was?

Socks by Amber West

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By Amber West

 

Socks, bras, and panties

All hidden away in my dresser drawer.

My intimates, My personals, My Ambers Secrets.

But underneath the socks,

Underneath the bras, panties, and all

Are my deepest darkest ‘treasures’

There lays my journal and portraits of you.

There lays my past.

Thought I no longer wanted to remember you

But somehow I refuse to discard, burn, or erase the evidence you existed.

Memories of when you slid my socks on to cover my cold feet, so sweet.

When you slid my bra off to uncover my breast, so sexual.

Slid my panties down to entice me with your tongue, so sensual.

Hidden away in my sock drawer so my new love won’t uncover them

Hidden away because I still need them

Underneath the socks,

Underneath the bras, panties, and all is where I go when I want to escape…daydream.

But then I remember…

Remember when you slid your tongue in her mouth, so confident.

Slid your arm down her back, so casual.

And slid her dress up to reveal her secrets, so careless.

But I heard you left your socks on.

She must have not been that important!

Kind of ironic don’t you think?

Cuz now your memories are in my sock drawer

And really…you’re not that important!

Socks by Quamar Al-Mumin

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By Quamar Al Mumin

It was the day before Christmas and the snow was still falling lightly onto the sidewalks. Little kids peer through the windows of the toy shops, wide eyed and excited for what they might get wrapped up under their tree tonight. Couples waltzing around in the streets, secretly predicting what their lover’s reaction will be to their sweet gifts. It seems like such a wonderful time of year. The shops and houses decorated with colorful lights, snow men freshly made, angels and mistletoes, reindeers and sleighs. The essence of miracles filled the air. But sitting alone, his knees held tightly to his chest was one man who couldn’t find a reason for this night to be any more special than the rest. If anything, this was his least favorite season of the year.

He shivered violently, his back against the wall sitting right where the lights stopped shining in the alley. ‘Just like the theatre.’ He thought, the audience would be hidden from view, while the actors played their parts under the bright light. The only difference was that the audience would come out of the dark and then their existence would be acknowledged. But this man, in the dark or not, was ignored, he would sometimes lift his hand to wealthy looking men in hopes of being given a dollar or two to get himself something to eat, but all he received was a dirty look. And the only people who would give him money would give it out of pity, or so that they would look generous in front of their friends.

Losing hope in the kindness of others, he decided he would stop asking people for help and instead live off of rummaging through the trash, collecting cans and selling them for cash.

He blew into his hands trying to warm them up, rubbed them against each other and then rapped his fingers around his bare blue-ish feet. His pinky toes were completely numb and the rest of this toes seemed to vibrate slightly. It was painful, but he was starting to get used to it. If he sat down he could just wrap his over coat around his legs from the front and tuck some of the material under his toes to keep warm.

He looks at his clock, two hours to midnight. Standing up and stretching his sore feet, he catches a glimpse of a man carrying a big cardboard box over his shoulder. The man carried the box towards the trash, placed it inside, and then walked away. He was like a cat, so curious, he walked over to the trash, not caring if it was death in that box. ‘Nothing to lose.’ He thought.

Reaching into the trash, his heart beat quickened. What if it was a box of food? Or maybe finally it was his turn for a Christmas miracle and that this box was full of money! Getting impatient he messily tore the box open, a big smile on his face.

Socks. This was one big cardboard box full of socks. Big socks, small socks, socks of different materials, socks of different colors, any kind of sock imaginable was in this box. He brushed his hand over the soft texture and sighed. Better than nothing, maybe he could sell them. But who would buy used socks? He grabbed the box, and carried it to his alley. He took out the thickest socks and put them over his feet and hands. Then he sat there and looked at his big box of used socks.

The socks couldn’t be sold and they were a terrible source of entertainment. Instead of dully looking at the socks, he decided to make a game out of them; he’d put all the socks of the same color in one pile and then separate them into sizes. He stood up and observed his organized mess of used socks. ‘What now?’

After a few minutes of poking at his socks he got an idea. He sat up and started putting all the red, green and white socks in a pile, then he took some gum out of his mouth and started sticking the socks to his alley’s walls. Creating a design of Christmas colored sock decorations. He even tied a few socks together so it would almost look like a star, and hung it as far up the street light as he could. When he was done, he stood back and smiled at his work. Though it was dark and gloomy at this time, in the morning his alley should look almost as good as any old decorated house. But one thing was missing, his stocking. So he chose the biggest sock of them all and hung it right in the middle of all his decorations. ‘My Christmas miracle, I guess.’ He thought with a crooked smile.

He gathered up the rest of the socks and made himself a pillow, then curled into a ball and fell asleep right under his stocking.

*Thump* Something heavy fell on his head. He jerked up and grabbed a sock for defense. Imagining how silly he must look, he lowered it and realized no one was near him. His eyes trailed slowly to the thing that had fallen on him and his eyes widened with disbelief. His stocking, was so heavy with whatever was inside it that is had fallen off the wall. He opened it to find it was stuffed with candy. *Thump* another sock fell, and then slowly the socks started falling off his wall and onto the ground. He looked into the one closest to him and saw that it was full of coins. The rest had dollars, toys and even letters. Some of them read, “Merry Christmas!” “Have a nice day!” “I loved your decorations.” “Such a beautiful sight!” His heart swelled with joy. It turned out his box of socks was just the beginning of his Christmas miracle.