THE FORGOTTEN NABTAH // JOHARA ALMOGBEL

It feels 
as if
my brain was a dandelion
its seeds scattered all over the ground

And people calling it a weed.

KÁKTOS // MARLENA CHERTOCK & ŞEHRİBANU TURAN

Thorns adorn his house
like snake’s fangs.
Káktos, from the Greek,
part of the Cactaceae family.

Pots of cacti line the shelves.
They don’t need water,
they just exist.

He plants saplings and bushes
in the earth, knows how to transform dirt
into a shag carpet of flowers.
He knows how many hours
of sunlight annuals and perennials need.

Stay in the center
and you won’t be pricked
by their exposed spines.

***
text // marlena
photo // sehribanu turan

ماذا أعطاني الربيع // KHALED ALQAHTANI & SAMAH AHMED

افترق الأشخاص المُجتمعون وقادتهم أقدامهم إلى الأرض الخضراء , وما ان وصلوا هناك حتى بدأت الأقدام بالتهام العشب والأعشاب الطويلة، وطمأن ظهري أمي الخائفة بأنه لا توجد كلاب نائمة تحت الظلال. وخرقت الأقدام كل شيء وقطعته إلى أنصاف, حتى ظننت أن كل شيء جميل ولا وجود للأسرار. وبدأت أصوات الشعراء واضحةً بداخلي حتى شعرت بأني لانهائي وأن كل شيء قُطع من حولي. وما إن اجتزت منطقة الأمان وجعلت فضولي يقودني إلى الوراء، حتى بدأت الأزهار القاسية تُدخل الأشواك بفخذي وتربط قدمي محاولةً الانتقام ولكن لا شيء يوقفني إلا الشمس التي بدأت بالزوال، وبحيرة من طينٍ وعظام أو أوجه غرباء تحدق بي من بعيد أو صوت أهلي ينادي بأنه حان وقت الرحيل .

وهل يجدر بي أن أثق بكل شيءٍ جميل أو بدنيا تخفي الكثير خلف أنيابها الصفراء وأصابعها الدقيقة؟ أو بالأعشاب التي تتسلق حتى تصل إلى ركبتي في هذا الوقت وتختفي معظم الأوقات؟ أو بالطرق الفاصلة بين كل صفين مليئين بالحجارة والحشرات البيضاء التي تستطيع الزحف و الطيران؟ أعطاني الربيع الكثير من الأسئلة و الشكوك، والقصائد الحزينة التي كُتبت على مكاتب صنعت من أخشابٍ نادرة، وشعورًا باللانهائية...والبرد.

***
text // khaled alqahtani
art // samah ahmed

ANALOG PARALYSIS // FAI AHMED

STILLS

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ROOTS // JINAN MOH & ŞEHRİBANU TURAN

She stepped into the land of her forefathers. The soil beneath her feet was soft against her skin. 
Almost welcoming. 
She bent over and grabbed a handful of it. She let it crumble between her fingers. The contrast of the soil against her pale skin made her rub it into her hands even more. 
Some of it fell back into its rightful place. 
The smell lingered, lingered and lingered. 
What was she doing here?
She remembered a strange floral scent. Some time at around sunrise after she was done from her morning prayer. She opened the door and stepped out. Like a curious child seeking adventure, she followed the scent. 

She walked far from home, barefoot. 

And she walked, walked and walked. 

Her feet captured the essence of the earth beneath her. As if it wanted to capture all the stories, all the things this land has ever seen. It’ll be forever stored between the cracks of her toes and lines on her feet. 
And alas, 
She stumbled upon a field of lilies. 
Nothing but a sea of floral white field. 
She laid down on it. And they welcomed her with open arms. 

They whispered tales of the women in her family. The same women who ran thru these fields when they were young and free. How their long locks of hair always smelled of flowers and there’s always petals in their braids. 

“Go to the oak trees” they whispered. 

They guided her back to the forest. She followed the trail of flower petals that fell like breadcrumbs. 

She found the oak tree. 

How it stood tall and proud. Like many men in her family. Its branches spread far and very high. 

“Khalo..khaltoo..setto…” she started naming all the members of her family, branch by branch till she lost count. 

“Come closer..” it whispered. 

She took two steps forward, sat down. And listened. 

“Welcome home, child.”

***
text // jinan
photo // sehribanu turan

HEAVEN GROWS FROM HELL // MONA ALKHATEEB & REEM ALMUTAIRI

Arson. Fire takes over with its crown of omen and disaster. The dollfaces flee; beetles, bees, spiders, ladybirds, ants of black, red, and white; their charade for escape hassles its way through with twisted legs and broken wings. Arson. Flames are enforcing petals and grass as their new homes and hostages. The muse burns on, spreading more destruction on its way–there is nothing ahead but ravens and crows: death. Arson. Dead hallow trees of dry bark and sharpened claws for twigs lay afront as two roads diverged (both of similarly compelling charisma). I, the lone traveler, stare at the course of wind, earth and fire, yet trace no element of water following. Inside, I feel nothingness; nothingness grows inside my soul as do poison ivy vine leaves around my ribcage. Arson. Arson manifests its way through my system, and I end in a pile of charred bone and ash of black. Flame of shades of red, orange and a light discernible blue rage and wrath on until no pollen has a chance of survival in the cool of an enduring petal. Arson. Arson plays its cards right, and it’s the one with the upper hand, but then its skin burns and life barges in; waves of liquid confidence march on. The crown falls, and every ruby tips off and is a victim to the wave; the fire is dead. Arson. A state of mind very few muster up the courage to admit to, and repeatedly deny. Now comes the age of the monsoon. Come wind, earth and water all at once, and let there be growth and nourishment; put out the torch of oppression and torment, and let there be an earthly heaven. Rise, almighty roots, stems, leaves, petals: aid my breath, for my lungs are filled with smog and smoke and wilted hope. Aid the daisies, aid the daffodils, aid the meadows, aid the oaks, and aid the willows–let there be life of blues, yellows and greens; let there be a tropical fest. Climb the mountains of palms and smash the coconuts rather than the dusty champagne bottles–let there be life to the protagonist of wealthy growth, and grant the arsonistic antagonist silence after its weary begging for mercy after distress; let there now be rejoice in the chosen diverging road.

***
text // mona alkhateeb
art // reem almutairi