OF MARTYRS WHOSE BLOOD CEMENTED MY DNA // NOUF ALHIMIARY

in ,

you are a product
of all the bravery your ancestors
harbored at the south, carrying
the mass of ancient prejudice
upon the twists of the ropes of
their DNA. singing in the nilo saharan
to the melancholy of the african diaspora
of the indigenous people, songs of
the maxim of justice and liberty.
don’t you dare apologize for your
unrelenting pursuit of justice. don’t
you dare apologize for basking in
the liberty your ancestors shed
the nucleus of their souls fighting for.
you, are not an apology

DOWN THE WRITING BLISS // SHAIMA ALSSLALI

in ,

It’s empty stares all over again. Your hollow eyes take leave as the breaking dots of every word in every dictionary chain themselves to your neck, and you caress the markings because masochism is creativity. So you plead to your ears: “anything that doesn’t wreck me,” and your ears, sensitive and selective, cast your words away.

What is your destination? What are you left with?

Weights of words that nestle themselves on your left shoulder, taking refuge in the back of your neck, straining every last nerve with the possibility of an idea, or at least an ending.

The words string themselves to your hair, adorning your face with every little failure at eloquence, or just basic wording.

The letters, the weld themselves to your skin, reiterating every thought of self-doubt that takes the midnight train to your mind with black circles and favourite lyrics as side-notes.

Writing is a parade of self-mockery you’re the stunt-double in.

Writing is the bruises you photograph for memory.

Writing is your skin inside out.

 

THE LEGEND OF THE LAST SAMBOOSA // OMAR ENEZI

in ,
THE LEGEND OF THE LAST SAMBOOSA // OMAR ENEZI

Hunger.

It is the imperfection of all that is mortal; a limitation of every living thing; another one of the Reaper’s many scythes.

In a distant land of sand, a war had begun and ended. Villages burned, cities fallen, and corpses lay upon corpses. Food became scarce in this unyielding land of sand, so much that only the strong could live another day on a few crumbs, not enough to sate a bird. The weak? They perished long ago.

On a cloudy Ramadan night, in this very land of sand, walked a lone traveler. Baraho was his name. Tall of figure, brown of skin, with a full head of silver hair. Brave at heart, calm at mind, with an empty stomach.

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فتاة // ALI ALGHAMDI

in ,
بدأت القصة بأنها فتاة، قُدِّر لها أن تكون فتاة، لم تقرر ذلك. احفظ هذا السطر. كبرت تلعب، كانوا دائمًا مايفضلون الذكور عنها وكأنها مواطنة من الدرجة الثانية. بدأ الحشو وغسيل الدماغ، أنتِ فتاة، أنتِ ناقصة، أنتِ عورة، أنتِ وإن كنتِ أفضل من ذكر فهو لا يزال أفضل منك.
ليس لكِ حقوق، قالوا لها. صدقت، وعاشت حياة عبد. قراراتك ليست لك، فكما ذُكِر آنفًا فأنتِ ليس إلا عبد ومواطن درجة ثانية. عُنِّفت، ضُرِبت، ضُحِك عليها… وكله كان خطأها. وحين أتى ذكر وتحرش بها، قالوا لابد من أنه خطأها. لا بد من أنه خطأها. لا بد أنه من خطأها أن ولدت فتاة.

A STUDY IN WAR // NOUF ALHIMIARY

in

* war in definition is the violent contact of distinct but similar entities.

* war was in the violent contact of our truths, our last words, our silence thereafter.

* (war) in the collision of our bodies, violent, overwhelmingly so.

* you felt your heart burst at the tip of your tongue, and the world not blur but crumble at the sides, leaving only the urgency of the moment demanding your gaze to be directed at it. war; the crash of our fears at the realization of the inevitability of absorbing the taste of another human’s divinity in an exchange of souls.

* war in our creation, the collision of stars. in the frailty of our ability to withhold our essence when it comes pouring out of our fingertips, our fists opening to clasp, unclasping to let go.

* when we were no more, war was. still in the disposition during all the time there was no assurance of our contrary.

* our war no longer is.

 

more of nouf's photography // writing

HERE // MESHAEL

in ,

Here’s to leaving words till the very end.
To never really gauging our reactions to what’s happening.
To evolution giving me up to stasis.
To the winter that will some day justify the idleness.
To the drowning; to the disassociation that makes the water colder and the surface farther.
To wrapping yourself with enough double entendres to make you blue.
To truly realizing what he had meant by “Morals are simply a matter of time.”
To all the times I had my heart on my sleeve only to end up with broken arms.
To the word “envelop” and how you did just that.
To your forever, to never letting it show.
To that spot that makes the buildings look like tombstones.
To just growing older, not “coming of age”.
But most of all, here’s to never writing things down.