Airport Road 13

ISSUE 13

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AIRPORT ROAD www.electrastreet.net/airportroad

NYU Abu Dhabi 19 Washington Square North New York, NY 10003 Send inquiries to: Cyrus R. K. Patell Publisher Airport Road 244 Greene Street New York, NY 10003 nyuad.electrastreet@nyu.edu © 2022 Electra Street

Front and Back Covers: “Four Hours Later” by Yoon Hee Kim

CO-EDITORS

EDITORIAL BOARD

FOUNDING EDITOR EXECUTIVE EDITORS

PUBLISHER

Oscar Bray Fiona Lin Ioanna Orphanide Karno Dasgupta Jung Ho Han Dylan Herman Jianna Jackson Jyoti Jin Adina Maratkyzy Amy Qian Aakif Rattu Sachi Leith Charles Siebert Deborah Lindsay Williams Cyrus R. K. Patell

Issue 13 Spring 2022

CONTENTS Oscar Bray, Fiona Lin, and Ioanna Orphanide, Introduction .......................7 PROSE Sarah Afaneh, rays of the same sun .......................................................... 11 Al Reem Al Beshr and Emma Anderson, In Other Times, Other Places..... 17 Amrita Anand, Mirage ............................................................................... 18 Manuel López Ramírez, Worms................................................................. 29 Joseph Hong, Six Shots, Data Structures, and

a Four-in-the-Morning High .................................................................. 53

Xiaohui Liu, Happier .................................................................................. 59

Bruna Barreto, Summer in Italy.................................................................. 80 Jung Ho Han, Calla Lillies .......................................................................... 84 Jung Ho Han, Matricide............................................................................. 89

Zhiyu Lindy Luo, Blue Inca....................................................................... 103 Jianna Jackson, The Wide Fit .................................................................. 107 Al Reem Al Nuaimi, Journal Entry #27 .................................................... 133

Karno Dasgupta, To those who do not linger .......................................... 135 POETRY Mohammed Muqbel, My Story ................................................................. 14 Nelda John, On the Fence......................................................................... 24

Klethon Gomes, What Is The Shape Of Your Body? .................................. 26 Karno Dasgupta, The present cannot. ....................................................... 33 Joseph Hong, Alone.................................................................................. 39 Stefan Mitikj, Hit in the Marrow ................................................................. 44 María Emilia Baca, The soul that forgets ................................................... 49

Sarah Afaneh, adolescence ...................................................................... 69 Mostafa Elsaid,the back seat..................................................................... 71 Jung Ho Han, Auld Lang Syne .................................................................. 72 Karno Dasgupta, for shame, or sorry ........................................................ 74 Zhiyu Lindy Luo, Solarisian........................................................................ 77

Al Reem Al Nuaimi, What Dreams Are Made Of ........................................ 78 Karno Dagupta, still raw kin ...................................................................... 82

Sophie Helena Biervert, Unbroken ............................................................ 86 Joseph Hong, Advice ................................................................................ 92

Al Reem Al Nuaimi, mismatch .................................................................. 95

Manuel López Ramírez, Cheers .............................................................. 101 Aisha Al Hammadi, Journey of Exploration .............................................. 105 Karno Dasgupta, feet on the streets ........................................................ 113 Zelalem Waritu, The Universe within the Black Woman ........................... 117 Al Reem Al Nuaimi, The Gazelle .............................................................. 122 Joseph Hong, A Love Story .................................................................... 125 Mahrukh Riaz, Stuck with Words ............................................................. 128 Sophie Helena Biervert, The Underneath ................................................ 130 Jung Ho Han, Acceleration ...................................................................... 137 VISUAL Yesmine Abida, pictures on the wall .......................................................... 10 Mohammad Hindieh, Amman Citadel........................................................ 13

Yoon Hee Kim, 2 PM, Train Station in Madrid ............................................ 22

Ning Zhou, 渡我 DUWO ............................................................................ 23 Insiya Motiwala, Self-Portrait ..................................................................... 28 Aman Assali, Waves .................................................................................. 25

Yoon Hee Kim, 1 PM Casa Batlló .............................................................. 32 Yoon Hee Kim,Just Look, Don’t Touch ...................................................... 38 Victoria Marcano, D i s t a n c e d ............................................................. 40 Amy Qian, Suzhou City ............................................................................. 48

Ilya Akimov, In My Room ........................................................................... 51

Yesmine Abida, bedroom meets the sea ................................................... 58 Amy Qian, girl in a museum ....................................................................... 68

Yunyi Wang, Recess ................................................................................. 70 Fatima Rija Nadeem, An Abandoned Blur ................................................. 73

Ilya Akimov, Floating Orange .................................................................... 76 Amy Qian, past and now ........................................................................... 79 Rayni Li, Xianda (Grandpa) ........................................................................ 85

Ilya Akimov, Lady by the Window .............................................................. 88

Yoon Hee Kim, 20-Minute Hike ................................................................. 91 Yoon Hee Kim, Table for Two .................................................................... 94 Yoon Hee Kim, Adjectives Sihyunhada ...................................................... 97

Yoon Hee Kim, Outside Looking In (I) ........................................................ 99

Aman Assali, The Moon .......................................................................... 100 Roudhah Al Mazrouei, Free ..................................................................... 102 Aayat Azim, Aayat after Hector McDonnell’s “Temple of the Winds” ......... 104

Aayat Azim, That Fire Petaled Within ....................................................... 106 María Emilia Baca, 10/08 ........................................................................ 112

Rayna Li, My Father’s Job........................................................................ 116 Insiya Motiwala, In Aankhon Ki Masti....................................................... 123 Yesmine Abida, finding nostalgia ............................................................. 124

Yunyi Wang, Bamboo Shadow ................................................................ 127 Yoon Hee Kim, Lady of Soonra ............................................................... 129 Bayan Assali, Minimal Plant ..................................................................... 132 Yoon Hee Kim, what we’ve all been waiting for ....................................... 134

Yoon Hee Kim, Half-Past Twelve, Musée d’Orsay .................................... 136

Yoon Hee Kim, Outside Looking In (II) ..................................................... 138 MULTIMEDIA Matthew Tan, Impromptu Op. Covid 19 (film)............................................. 52

Peter Mahhov, Nothing to Fear (interactive fiction)...................................... 98

INTRODUCTION In the aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic and the global lockdown

that followed, it becomes more important than ever for us to consider the ways in which we connect with others. As we began formulating

our ideas for this issue of Airport Road, our editorial board came to the

understanding that the pandemic has been an isolating and difficult time

for all, but that growth can come from that hardship. This issue’s unofficial theme of “inside” was born from this understanding—that despite, or

perhaps because of, the isolation and restrictions that fell upon us in a period so unprecedented and unstable, we’ve come to reflect on our contexts, on our situations, and on ourselves.

Returning to campus in fall 2021 was a relief, to say the least, and even a lifeline for many of us. That being said, the impact of two years of

enforced isolation from each other—and from the space that many could

consider a second home—didn’t disappear instantly. We still took classes over Zoom for the first two weeks of the semester, the Omicron variant

ravaged the world for months, and the pandemic has arguably changed

our generation’s ‘normal’ for good. This is why we believe that now more than ever, we need art to remind ourselves of how to connect through

difference and diversity. Whether this variety is shown through medium, language, subject matter or simply individual style, we at Airport Road

hope that the works we have compiled serve as comforting challenges that will help you think and feel beyond whatever walls confine you.

Our consideration of the idea of “inside” is twofold. First, it is a reflection of our physical situation over the past two years and the remnant of an

experience that will continue to affect us for years to come, even as we

walk out of the shadows of the pandemic and begin to rebuild. Second, it is an engagement with interiority, with identity, with the individual who

remains when external factors cease to exist. And so we asked: who are

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we when we are left alone? How do we navigate a world that is reduced to one room or one space, and what becomes of our ability to expand

within that space? How does artmaking become a medium through which we reach into ourselves and into the world around us to explore and discover whatever spaces we can find?

The work in Airport Road 13 has engaged with, challenged, and

transformed these questions. We’ve felt, through each word, each line,

and each stroke of color, the ways in which our community has proved their resiliency in the face of our changing contexts, the perspectives

they’ve begun to explore in this period of contradictory aloneness and togetherness, and the lessons we’ve all begun to absorb.

The negotiation of differences is never straightforward, and the opening up of the world has inevitably paved the way for prejudice and all the violence it begets. It should be no surprise that much of the work we

received meditates on these themes and the damage that these fights for power and agency can cause to the psyche of people and communities.

“The Wide Fit” and “The Universe Within The Black Woman” focus on

racial otherness, while the poems “On The Fence” and “feet on the street” confront more generally how conflict manifests through protest and

discourse. We see feelings of uncertainty baked into the structures of the

texts, as “Journey Of Exploration” and “Hit In The Marrow” use translation as sites of internal struggle.

With this issue, the journal’s embrace of difference extends to the idea of form. The editorial board is thrilled that for the first time, we began accepting and publishing multimedia submissions. It only seemed

appropriate given that when we were all stuck inside, technology became the key mediator not just for communication but for entertainment,

closing off our world as well as opening it. By now, it is something of a

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cliche to point out this double-edged dependence, but it continues to

hold true, as the multimedia projects represented here demonstrate in different ways.

The text-based adventure game “Nothing To Fear” places you in a world where going outside puts you under intense scrutiny from a corrupt

government, but staying indoors leaves the protagonist with their own paranoia and dread of others. “Impromptu Op. COVID No. 19” was

created as a direct response to being limited as a filmmaker by home quarantine, with the film exploring the possibilities in limited space

while acknowledging the frustrations of involuntary artistic constraint.

You will find URLs and QR codes for these pieces in the pages of the

periodical and on the webpage devoted to this issue. We hope that future issues of Airport Road will continue to feature innovative and thoughtful

experiments in form and inspire other artists to try out new approaches to storytelling and art.

In many cultures, the number “13” is thought to be unlucky, an omen of

ill. With Airport Road 13, we declare that we are not bound by that kind of fatalism. We declare that we are at once freed and confined by the state

of the “inside,” by the gaps between our situation and our interiority, and

that we carry within us the means to connect these existences, to emerge from the inside, more brilliantly than before.

—Oscar Bray, Fiona Lin, and Ioanna Orphanide

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pictures on the wall Yesmine Abida

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rays of the same sun Sarah Afaneh

as for we who delve into nostalgia

i have a scar on the top of my head from the time my brother threw a toy at it while we were cleaning out the basement of our first house in Ohio. it bled my mom panicked i cried he laughed my dad home in a breeze.

we are made of flesh bones blood. life and death in our hands? the world a more painful place to live in. green grass and fountains of water splash

us, i do not remember what they are called but Maryam loved them. love is a silly game. Aya told me to trust my gut. tea with mint in the morning accompanied by stories of a past disrupted by war. distant memories

become familiar words. i never found out what thoughts occupied her. shawerma reminds me of cobblestone Istanbul and naivety. the past

can(not) be erased. mama’s lipstick collection evolved into my own. eight planets in the universe did it start with a collision? lemons grow on a tree

in my grandfather’s backyard; in the middle, there is a swing set built from a block of wood, held together by two strings. i have lost familiarity. one begins as a daughter but becomes a black hole

my sister and i together every morning like clockwork; chocolate milk and swirly ice cream feels like home. tip-toe around the house so as not to

get caught. memories, we veil some forget others. i watched nothingness atop a cliff overlooking mountains amidst the clouds. holes of nature.

holes of tranquility. holes of forgetfulness. hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me. hidden cafes in Prague. are you scared of the unfamiliar words that roll off my tongue too quickly to understand even if you

could? green tea no sugar. black coffee. how do you tell someone that it doesn’t get better? he is a man i will never trust but love dearly. our love

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is undeserved. memories hold a tighter grip than reality does. the wind against your face in a speeding car, that is freedom. yet we insist that it happens for a reason

sitting on a wooden porch, a book in one hand, green tea in the other. crystal clear memory. Aya. three summers after we lived in the same

room and she listened to podcasts about serial killers every night. to

understand the way the world turns you have to run with it. collision with myself. the first time she cried i did not know what to do. the top of a

ferris wheel is that what God feels like? our bodies sway to Lana Del Ray. maybe we’re all pretending. pink cotton candy. my sisters convinced me to go on a ride that spun upside down my stomach hurt in a good way.

do you draw outside of the lines? a day at the beach windy blue sea sand stuck beneath my toenails. do you crave cosmic relief too

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Mohammad Hindieh Amman Citadel

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‫حكايتي‬ ‫محمد مقبل‬ ‫حكايتي سحب بيضاء‪ ...‬و سماء زرقاء‪ ...‬حكايتي موطن ليس هو موطني‪ ...‬حكايتي عمياء‪ ...‬هي‬ ‫أنني من أبناء األرض الذين لم يطؤوا تلك األرض‪ ...‬هي أنني من نقاد الدهر لم يسمع بهم الدهر‪...‬‬ ‫‪...‬حكايتي هواء و استنشاق الهواء‪ ...‬حكايتي عناوين تنقصها قصصها‪ ...‬ألحكي قصصها‬ ‫حبيب و حبيبة‪ ...‬افترقا ليلة زفافها‪ ...‬بل لم يلتقيا منذ البداية‪ ...‬خيوط القدر تربطهما‪ ...‬واحد تلو‬ ‫‪...‬اآلخر‪ ...‬خيوط معقودة‪ ...‬حبيب و حبيبة قتلت شوقهما الغ ْيبة‬ ‫علم و غاية‪ ...‬استنكرهم الفتى راية للمقاومة‪ ...‬في سحب غير بيضاء‪ ...‬نسجت للسماء حجاباً‪ ...‬فال‬ ‫‪...‬راية ت ُرى و ال علم كفاية‪ ...‬علم في غير موضعه‪ ...‬في غير موطنه و غاية بال راية‬ ‫اسم دون مسمى‪ ...‬حمامة في طي جناحيها حنين للهوى‪ ...‬قضبان متينة منعتها المر ّحب‪ ...‬فال هي‬ ‫‪....‬واصلته بل سقطت سقوطها‪ ...‬ال حرية لها وال لمعذبها‬ ‫مدون فاقد مدونته‪ ...‬كتب كلمات من أنبع القهر‪ ...‬قليلة حيلته ‪ ...‬على أسطر التفكير‪ ...‬صافية‬ ‫‪...‬منسية ‪ ...‬تحت رفوف عربية‪ ...‬أعلى الكتب اإلنسانية‬ ‫انتماء منقوش البنية‪ ...‬فتى حائر في أصله و نسله‪ ...‬في اسمه و نفسه‪ ...‬وجد عائلة في غير‬ ‫عائلته‪ ...‬وجد سكينته في شكره و في حمده لربه‪ ...‬فلكل أمر نهاية‪ ...‬تجزءت أحرفه دون النقاط‪...‬‬ ‫‪...‬تنقصه البداية و النهاية‬ ‫حكايتي حقيقتي‪ ...‬هي أنني أَشعر و أُشعر ‪ ...‬حكايتي مشاعري‪ ...‬و مشاعري كياني‪ ...‬هذه‬ ‫‪ ...‬حكايتي‪ ...‬هذا موطني‪ ...‬و لكل منا حكاية ‪ ...‬و لكل منا موطن حكاية‬

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My Story

Mohammed Muqbel My story is white clouds ... and a blue sky ... My story is a home that is

not my home ... My story is blind ... It is that I am one of the sons of the land who has not trodden that land ... It is that I am one of the critics of

Time that Time has never heard of ... My story is empty as air my story is

breathing air ... My story is titles that lack their stories ... So I can tell their stories ...

A lover and a beloved ... separated on their wedding night ... Rather, they

did not meet from the beginning ... Threads of Fate bind them ... One after the other ... Knotted threads ... A lover and a beloved, separation killed their longing ...

Knowledge and a goal ... Denounced by the boy as a banner for

resistance ... In clouds that were not white ... Weaving a veil for the sky ...

No banner can be seen and no knowledge is sufficient ... Knowledge that is out of place ... knowledge that is outside home… and a goal without a banner ...

A name that lacks its named ... A dove whose folded wings contain

nostalgia for passion ... Concrete bars prevent her welcomer ... Unable to reach him, she fell her fall ... No freedom for her, nor for her tormentor ....

A blogger without his blog ... He wrote words from the depths of

oppression ... helpless ... On lines of thought ... Pure, forgotten ... Under Arabic shelves ... On top of humanistic books ...

An engraved belonging ... A boy confused about his origin and his lineage ... about his name and his self ... He found a family outside his family ...

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He found his peace in his thanks and praise to God ... Every matter has an end ... Fragmented are his letters without their dots ... Lost are his beginning and end ...

My story is my truth ... It is that I feel and I write poetry ... my story is my feelings ... and my feelings are my being ... this is my story ... this is my

home ... and each of us has a story ... and each of us has a home for their story ...

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In Other Times, Other Places

Al Reem Al Beshr and Emma Anderson Love, to my 7-year-old self, was defined by late night story book reading with my dad and my mother cutting me fruits. I had to wait a few more

years to realize that in other times, other places, parents show their love by praying for a person you don’t wish to become. Love moves through

other ways. It slides between my mother’s palms as she braids my thick black hair. It pulses in my hand as I rub my father’s belly. It is the secret

escape hatch when I feel trapped. Love crawls up my throat and places itself on the tip of my tongue, it falters for a moment then slips away. Is

it in my stomach ring-a-round-a-rosieing with the fruits, or is it grasping

onto my ear filtering every word I hear from dust and debris to sprinkles

and confetti? Love trickles out of my eyes as I stare off into the distance waiting for my boomerang of affection to return and propel the tears away.

Love, to my 19-year-old self, is a bottle of champagne shaken 10 times.

The cork bursts out of my belly and up my throat followed by a tiered

fountain of butterflies. A butterfly ballet. It no longer hesitates. It dashes across my tongue somersaulting, cartwheeling, and backflipping. It

doesn’t always stick the landing. But, in those moments, in other times,

other places, I have myself. I wipe the sweat off my forehead only to see glitter.

Inspired by page 39 of Ru by Kim Thuy

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Mirage

Amrita Anand Studies show that soul-patterns between partners that complement each other are more likely to signify a lasting, healthy relationship rather than

partners whose soul-patterns complete each other. While the correlation between dependence and the completion of soul-patterns is yet to be

investigated, speculation invites the idea that power dynamics are shaped by the need for completion of a soul through dialogue with another. The mentality behind partners having to complete each other has already begun to change, and researchers from the National Soul Institute

claim that compatibility via soul-patterns is a causation, due to healthy communication between partners in a relationship …

Medha slumped back in her seat and sighed, pressing the heels of her

palms to her eyes. She hadn’t begun this search by looking into the soulpatterns of people in healthy romantic relationships, but the patterns of those lacking romantic partners at all.

Her phone chimed with a text. She checked who the sender was, and brightened.

Found your missing piece yet?

Coming from Jacen, it was light-hearted, teasing, like he was referencing

an in-joke. Her soul had long since complemented his, though their bond

was far from romantic. She found herself grinning even as she sent back, Can’t find what wasn’t missing in the first place.

An instantaneous beep. You know that I don’t see any missing pieces in your soul, yeah?

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Replying with a quick yeah, see you later, she sank back against her chair.

It creaked loudly.

In a world where one’s soul was visible to the world as a strange, shifting puzzle, it was impossible to escape commentary about one’s “pieces.”

Not that she’d ever really cared about it—people grew and changed.

Perhaps it was useful for a quick personality sweep or some sort of parlor

trick where she’d simply pick out the most generic patterns she could find and repeat what she’d read about them in the studies she’d looked up near-obsessively. It got people ooh-ing and aah-ing every time.

Medha idly scrolled down the rest of the article, the words blurring across the screen until the large, bold typesetting of a title of a different article

caught her attention enough for her to focus her sight again. She’d been

complaining about the infinite scroll function on these websites the other day, but just this once, she would let it slide.

The Illusive Soul-Piece: Why some people think others’ souls are incomplete when they’re actually not

Not the best of titles, but it did catch her attention.

She kept scrolling.

Accounts of this particular phenomenon have only appeared to surface in the last seventy years, but the dilemma that people face regarding these

supposedly “missing” soul-pieces has likely been around for far longer. A recent survey shows that people whose souls are on display have been increasingly asked about a singular missing piece, though when they

searched for it themselves, they only saw a whole soul-puzzle without any gaps. Studies have investigated this in the last fifty years, and chalked it

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up to lack of self-awareness, with people occasionally being sent to soul specialists in order to find out how to “fix” these gaps in their souls.

Medha blinked. That sounded a lot like her situation, though she hadn’t been sent to specialists yet. She mentally thanked her parents for their lack of involvement in the matter, and kept reading.

Those who spoke to us about their “missing” soul-pieces admitted that

they found the methods used functionally useless, and unchanging of the

outcome. 76% of those surveyed reported that they preferred to keep their souls hidden from view, so as to not invite such comments anymore. This

only increased the “nagging,” as an anonymous subject commented, and requests to display their souls to others. The association of concealment of one’s soul with that of “having something [unpleasant about their

personality] to hide” has compounded the suspicion that these individuals garner from those in professional environments.

This wasn’t particularly new, Medha thought, clicking out of the window

and gently shutting her laptop. She stretched in her chair and stood. The chair creaked again. She’d need to get it replaced.

Her thoughts were a maelstrom in her mind. If there was nothing to be done about the “missing” soul-piece, then why did so many strangers concern themselves with it? Soul-patterns were only occasionally

commented on, but the idea of missing a piece entirely was worrying— especially when she didn’t see it.

Her sister had thought it belonged to someone else—that when she met

them, the missing piece would slot right into place. Soulmates, in a world where souls were visible as puzzles to the rest, were far more tangible

than fiction made it out to be. There was none of the abstraction to it—if

two people had compatible souls, their patterns would shift and begin to

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complement each other. Medha had quickly done away with that idea,

even the thought of somehow being “incomplete” without some specific

person making her stomach churn. But there was nothing to be done, and her sister fantasized about what she wanted to.

It was, after all, harmless.

She tried to keep the bitterness out of her words, knowing the truth all the

while—that there was nothing missing within her, and there never had been.

She let her soul retract into the flesh and muscle and bone of her body, visible only to herself in the dead of the night. The pieces had different patterns on them now, but stayed the same, because growth.

None of it countered the feeling of her skin crawling whenever she kept her soul totally hidden from view. She’d used to display it constantly

before, but the onslaught of concerned remarks about her soul-piece had had her retreating into a shell like a frightened turtle.

Medha didn’t feel frightened, though. Just exhausted.

Eventually, she let her soul unfurl unconsciously, too tired to conceal it

constantly. It would show to an instinctive amount, now. The exhaustion turned into—not apathy, but indifference. She stopped thinking about

the looks she got from family she visited in the holidays, discarded the

unwarranted referrals to specialists in the area, and walked onward with her blinders on.

Perhaps she’d never convince others that she was perfectly whole.

Maybe she’d go old and gray by the time they took her seriously.

Medha looked into the mirror, one last time, at her soul, and watched it turn a deep and proud gold.

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2 PM, Train Station in Madrid Yoon Hee Kim

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渡我 DUWO Ning Zhou

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On the Fence Nelda John

She is on the fence

Because nothing is perfect

The outside—too much The inside—too little

The outside—crowded The inside—empty

So she dwells on her fantasies

Because reality disappoints her

Her hobbies—sinful

Her bummers—useful

Her wants—indulgent

Her dislikes—recommended So she stuffs her frustrations inside

Because no one can judge her there

Her inner voice—silenced

Her consciousness—always asleep Her spirit—broken

Her desire to live—shaky So she gets off the fence

Because the inside’s closer to perfection

The vibe—peaceful The peace—vibeful

The vibe—immaculate

The peace—unmatched

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`

Self-Portrait

Insiya Motiwala Acrylic and fabric paint on canvas using a special Pakistani block-printing technique

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What Is The Shape Of Your Body?

Klethon Gomes

Too dark to be one

Too light to be another Too curly to keep it on

“Please shave it off, my love” Says his Mother

Too skinny to be loved and seen

“I think you should go to the gym” Says his friend and brother.

What about the eyes, mouth, legs, and hands?

He wonders

But it doesn’t matter

He’s just another one among hundreds “Where are you from?”

They ask him

“Because you look mixed” They say

He says “Brazil”

He knows it’s not enough to describe the shape of him Because he’s not in heaven or hell He’s in between

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He carries the Berlin wall on his shoulders He’s the living Ham’s Redemption

He’s the consequence of a plan to “clean up” a nation

He’s the intersection of war, bloodshed, and subjugation “What is the shape of your body?”

They ask him

“The shape of my body is history” He replies

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Waves

Aman Assali

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Worms

Manuel López Ramírez Years later, when spilling his guts beneath the bathroom lights, he remembered the day he had met her.

(That little white house with black metal fences and fresh-smelling gardens extended into infinity. The sky had been gray.)

Now it was all yellow. Through the tiny window in the corner of the room.

In his nails and eyes and skin and walls and lights. Twirling and whirling around him, up and down, then inside and out. In the toilet bowl too,

pouring out of his insides, though he couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten.

(Could it have been that day? The day her spit-like hair had not moved in the wind. It had decided to grow heavy—viscous. She had too.)

And now viscous was his vomit, and his loins too. Gummy worms? He

had stopped going to the store for anything but liquor. Maybe they had been a gift. But then again, who would?

(He had given her nothing. Not a dress, nor a shirt, nor a sock. Not a house, nor a chair, nor a book. Not a toy, nor a lollipop, nor a smile.

Those nothings had propelled her everywhere she had ever been. They supported the foundations of her perfect little house, the one she had built out of the pieces of her frustrated hopes and dreams.)

Nothing was now his. On his floor. A deep surface. A flat forever he

wished he could dive into, taking on his true form. One of those crawlers that slither through the grainy darkness of the below. Worms eat each

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other, don’t they? Yes. That’s what he was gushing out. He could

suddenly remember picking them out of the crackled concrete floor. What would she think if she could see him?

(Her eyes were just like his. And that of her children too. She had brought them out that day, as if they had been trophies. A sparkling girl and a

bright-faced boy. Before the wooden door the three of them were like

mirrors, the ones that make people appear taller, shorter, fatter, thinner.

Each a better version of him. Reflections of what could have been.)

What was it like to raise children? He was too old to wonder. He had

sensed the cuts and creases carve themselves onto his flesh, then had

felt his muscles evaporate. Now, bendy bones and flowy skin prevented

him from getting up. He could only sleep and heave. His was not a body to feed children with.

(But it had never been. He himself had made sure of it—hiding it,

contorting it, bending it twofold, threefold, fourfold to fit into the tightest corners, where he couldn’t see her and she couldn’t see him. Before that day, he had only met her through dusty windows and cracked

wooden doors, her child-body perpetually wrapped in that floral dress her neighbors had made for her. She had become a sort of communal

offspring: belonging to all, belonging to none. But that day she had worn solid white and had burst into heavenly flames.)

He started burning up. His throat and his eyes were on fire. His whole

body stung and throbbed; his teeth seemed to melt into his mouth. So he

immersed his head in the cool lemon waters of the toilet bowl. Refreshing.

Then, acrid. Corrosive. The acid toyed with his flesh. The yellow turned red. Yet there he stayed. There was nowhere else to go, only what his

stomach had conceived. In his drowned screams, he could hear her words.

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(He had heard them softly flicker around his ears for decades. They had

started coming to him as soon as she had learned to speak. Sometimes they came from her mother’s furious whispers, echoes of her laments.

Sometimes they came from desperate letters she used to write in colored crayons. He had always waved them off, as though they had been flies.

Then one day, sitting next to his wife, looking out of the window, he

realized what he had done. It came to him like a sign from above. It hadn’t abandoned him since, festering in his stomach and driving his implacable search for her—she who no longer wanted to be found. That day, he had

finally heard them come from her own throat. The dust from which I came; you are nothing to me.)

(They had cut through him like razors.)

Now he was ripping himself apart for her. That shimmering Madonna

watched over him the way he should have watched over her. She wanted him to compress his limbs, his organs and bones into a single, tube-like

mass. She wanted him to jump and disappear into the sewer. She wanted a metamorphosis. And that’s what he would give her.

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1 PM, Casa Batlló

Yoon Hee Kim

32

The present cannot.

Karno Dasgupta

2 picks up the camera and stares into its lens, thoughtfully, eagerly, trying to look at its guts.

I’ve heard that if you look into a camera, really carefully… If you crane your neck ... you should be able to see the other side.

What’s on the other side. What’s on the other side. What’s on the other side.

The kaleidoscopic glasses on the lens.

It’s like the little lights, you know. They’re so far away, they’re

not really there. If you looked at them really carefully, you’d see memories of places that died.

Looking down. A tarot on a flat surface.

1: So, did you look?

2: I tried.

1: And what did you see?

Another tarot.

1 is sitting down, as if for a conversation. (Position 1)

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2: Rolling in three two one.

1: Before we start.

2: Yes? A hand reaches for a book.

2: (conversational, like small talk at a party, mumbling in the

background) This one’s my favorite (touches the spine of a book) Actually, I went to this really old library once. They were closing

because this crowd of people had a day off and decided to burn it.

I was in the city for a few days, and someone recommended I join in.

Another tarot.

1 is sitting down again, as if for a conversation. (Position 2) 2: Rolling in one two three.

1: Before we end.

2: Yeah?

On a hand.

1: [on a hand] Did you do your nails? They’re beautiful, what

color is that? Really? I need to go shopping. I chip mine so often, I haven’t had any on for months now. I love that color though, what’s it called?

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1: Caerulean.

The sky.

1: Before we— 2: Yes? (beat) 1: I need to know.

A plant.

2: That plant will be dead in a nine months and six days because

one day you will forget to water it. You’ll move out shortly after and no one will live here until the end.

1 sitting.

1: I need to know.

A tarot.

1 staring out of a large window.

1: Will it be easier if I look away?

The roads in a distance.

1: Tell me, then and there.

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1 staring silently at you.

1: I’ve heard that if you look into a camera, really carefully.

2: What if I cannot be careful?

A painting on the wall.

2: What if cannot see that far?

1 staring silently at you.

1: Then you come back here. And I will ask you again….

1 different position.

2 is still looking into the lens, a little more intensely now, slowly growing desperate.

1 montage, walking around different spaces.

1: Of all the time we will have lost…

There isn’t anything there, only a cold sensor and.

2: And?

After a number of memories of 1 doing things and going places. Right before the long-winded montage ends: 1: And memories.

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Camera is on 2 now, back in the conversational mode, but flipped.

2: Should we get started then? I have so many questions and we’re losing time.

Back on 1. 1 is emotional now, eyes slightly watery, she reaches out and grabs the camera off its stable stand.

She looks into the lens, craning her neck, trying desperately to see the other side.

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Just Look, Don’t Touch

Yoon Hee Kim

38

Alone

Joseph Hong Sitting at the bottom of an ocean of tears, I played a tune for the dead.

The notes I played, as they reached my ears, up and turned and fled.

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Distanced

Victoria Marcano The prolonged social distancing measures have transformed people’s

routines and relationships. Today we are distanced from our loved ones, from normality, from coherence. Depicting activities characteristic of

this period of confinement, my work explores how these activities and

social relationships have changed, adapting to the current conditions. My images show the passing of time during the long-lasting quarantine, and the human search for connectedness and companion, now exacerbated by social distancing.

Most relationships have become long-distance as a consequence of the

imposed distancing, and my goal is to represent them as anchors facing uncertainty. This series is a reminder of the social nature of humans and of the importance of relationships as sources of support, because no

matter how different our days are or how far apart we are, we are all going through this tough period in our own ways and feel the need for human contact. “D i s t a n c e d” is a meditation on how technology shortens

distances, allowing for a “company” that is the only source of constancy and normality in a world that changes at the minute.

In this series I capture scenes of virtual conversations taking place during quarantine, emphasizing on the interlocutor’s activities while they make each other “company.” Very dissonant activities coexist in one same

moment, a video call, reflecting how, despite our different ways to cope with isolation, we hold on to relationships as sources of normality in a

convoluted world. I explore the themes of isolation, routine, monotony,

and relationships, while attempting to make a universal statement of their importance in this prolonged isolation period.

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The passing of time is also represented in these portraits through the accumulation of objects in space. This alludes to the duration of the

separation and adds to the importance of the virtual company. My images put different lifestyles and activities into conversation, highlighting the

sense of irony in how their natures contrast and in where and how they take place. What looks like a fancy dinner consists of canned food,

studying happens in bed, one person shaves while the other exercises.

Daily routines lost coherence and consistency, but company remains

as the motivation to keep moving forward. The cropping of the images removes identity from the subjects, bringing focus to the depicted

activities and the contrast between them. My intention is for viewers to

picture themselves in the situation, which is more easily achieved when faces and hence identities are excluded.

The cropping and the expressionless lips combine to transmit a sense of monotony, routine, and boredom of this long-lasting isolation.

“D i s t a n c e d” is particularly dear to me as I used my boyfriend and myself as the models, therefore it is truly based on my feelings during

this quarantine. I recreated our interactions to represent how the need

for human contact defies social distancing. My purpose is to look back at these images one day to remember how my life was like during the pandemic and what was it that kept me afloat.

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42

Distanced

Victoria Marcano

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Удар во сржта Стефан Митиќ Навикнати сме да живееме по свој терк, мислејќи само на себе, независни, а припиени еден до друг. Во денешно време, еден глобален „удар“ врз човештвото, ги натера луѓето да мислат едни на други. Наоѓајќи се во една од најпогодените земји од Ковид-19, се прашувам кога како луѓе ќе бидеме рационални? кога ќе размислуваме со чиста глава и ќе се трансформираме од пасивни во активни? Кога ќе преземеме одговорност за нашите постапки? Часовникот отчука 18:00, Само што ја завршив вечерата, и наеднаш се сепнав. Не можам да го напуштам домот, па веднаш се враќам на работа. Спроти мојот прозорец, слушам детски џагор што згаснува, монети што во брзање паѓаат од џебовите на земја, стапки што чекорат за последен пат денеска. Започна полицискиот час. Индивидуализам за доброто на колективот или колективизам за индивидуалното добро?

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Hit in the Marrow Stefan Mitikj

We’re used to living in our own way, thinking solely of ourselves,

independent, yet reliant on one another.

In modern times,

a global shock played a key part in making humanity think about each other.

Finding myself in one of the hardest hit countries in the world due to Covid-19, I cannot stop asking myself: when will people become rational?

When will we think with a clear head

and transform from passive to active citizens?

When will we assume responsibility for our actions?

The clock has just struck 6:00 PM, I am finishing my dinner

and I am suddenly startled.

I cannot leave my home,

so I go back to finish my homework.

I can hear through my open window children’s clatter fading away,

coins that fall from pockets to the ground due to hurry, steps that are walking for the last time today.

The curfew has started.

Individualism for the good of the group or

collectivism for individual benefit?

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Прашањето е сега. Пандемијата полека ни ги отвора очите, и удира во сржта, каде најмногу боли – ги погодува најблиските. Како да ја пронајдам човечноста во другите, кога никој не се грижи за себе, а не па за тој до него? И кога ќе се прашам „Што можам да знам?“ Не сакам, како што вели Имануел Кант, само да го познавам природниот свет, туку сакам и да ги откријам најдлабоките тајни на метафизиката. И кога ќе се прашам „Што треба да правам?“ не сакам, како што вели Кант, само јас да дејствувам рационално, а другите да не го почитуваат универзалниот морален закон. И кога ќе се прашам „На што можам да се надевам?“ не сакам, како што вели Кант, само да се надевам дека нашите души ќе бидат бесмртни, сакам навистина да се случи тоа.

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That is the most pressing question.

The pandemic has slowly opened our eyes,

and hit the marrow, where it hurts the most – it strikes the ones closest to us.

How can I find the good in humanity,

when no one takes care of themselves, let alone the people next to them?

And when I ask myself "What should I know?"

I do not want, as Immanuel Kant says, just to figure out the natural world,

but I also want to discover the deepest secrets of metaphysics.

And when I ask myself "What should I do?"

I do not want, as Kant says, only to act rationally, while others do not obey the universal moral law.

And when I ask myself, "What can I hope for?"

I do not want, as Kant says, just to hope that our souls will be immortal, I want that to actually happen.

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Suzhou City Amy Qian

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The soul that forgets María Emilia Baca

The long forgotten memory of a crowd

chases me home

Into the four white walls that surround me from morning till noon.

So high

are the walls.

So high

are the echoes.

So high

is the night.

The illusion of a

Patient. Peaceful. Prideful. world

resonates around me.

I will not be a soul that forgets.

All the words once

Given. Exchanged. Taken.

All the words once

Dreamed. Deferred. Deciphered.

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Although our hope is harder to bear, Life is heavy

There is hope Life is heavy

There is hope

50

In My Room

`

Ilya Akimov

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Impromptu Op. COVID No. 19 Matthew Tan

Impromptu Op. COVID No. 19 is an experimental documentary that I

made in the fall of 2020 when I took a leave of absence from NYUAD due to the pandemic. I was frustrated by my inability to make films

outdoors as a result of lockdown restrictions, and consequently, like

many filmmakers, I tried to view the household as a limitation that can

encourage rather than confine possibilities. Impromptu is an attempt to

capture the various facets of my experiences being confined at home in

Penang, Malaysia, from the “negative” emergence of new insecurities to “positive” rediscoveries of beauty in the mundane.

https://vimeo.com/481286269

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Six Shots, Data Structures, and a Four-in-the-Morning High Joseph Hong the first shot brings confidence. Mise-en-place. You’ve been preparing for this moment for the entire day, going through the motions over and over again. Your surroundings are immaculately messy, a carefully constructed chaos only you can navigate. A blank monitor in front of you, with a couple of motivational quotes stuck to its frame to keep you from breaking

down, surrounded by a stack of textbooks for reference. A keyboard

and mouse to your right, wiped down with a dab of hand sanitizer that leaves them smelling like strawberries, carefully balanced on top of a

mug of questionable liquids and a pile of snacks for late-night munchies.

An assortment of writing utensils a little bit above eye level, sorted

by color and size, placed alongside the top of your alcove in a loving

manner—these are your tools of trade, after all. Everything you’ll need

tonight is exactly where you need it to be, and you could probably do this blindfolded. But you won’t of course, because that’s just plain foolish.

Today is about getting things done, not showing off to some nonexistent audience like you usually do when you’re alone. Well, to be honest, it is about showing off—just a little bit. You like a challenge, and this is no

exception: finishing a code in less than three hours. Your professor said

that at most it would take five, and at least it would take three. You might

not be the smartest of the bunch, but you believe yourself to be the most resilient. You crack your knuckles and grin, ready to take on the task in front of you—it stands no chance against your mise-en-place. the second shot makes you realize the true power of mise-en-place. You roll the contents of the shot on your tongue, savoring the sharp taste—the bitterness—

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and feel a slight buzz of energy rising up from within, along with a sense of wonder towards the French term. It’s not just a word that chefs use

to denote a clean kitchen space; it goes beyond that, pointing to a way of life—a philosophy, even—that boosts efficiency and productivity in

the midst of a hectic schedule. Your fingers glide across your keyboard, typing away at symbols and characters without so much as a single moment of hesitation. The light clacking of plastic-against-matte-

aluminum and your steady breathing are the only sounds in the otherwisesilent room. Mise-en-place. Put in place. You linger on those words as you jump from line to line with a terrifying speed. the third shot brings a slight feeling of disappointment. You were so sure that this

story would have ended with the second shot, but things aren’t going as smoothly as you expected. Less of a breeze, more like a … small gust? You’re coming across more problems than you thought you

would, so you might be staying up for a bit longer than you originally

anticipated—maybe thirty or forty minutes more? You manage to smile

as you type away, occasionally pausing to scribble down a segment that

needs some more work. Mise-en-place. Put in place. Something like this was expected. That’s why you have extra shots, just in case things get

delayed. This is only a slight setback, so you’ll be done with this thing in

no time. You nod, convincing yourself of this, and continue tapping away at the keyboard, albeit at a more cautious pace. the fourth shot tastes bitter. Imagine ninety-nine percent cacao chocolate, but worse

(somehow). Things were never supposed to have turned out this way.

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You’re already two hours behind schedule and the number of problems increase with every line you add. You chuckle with despair, bleary eyes trailing over the latest message that the terminal displays. If it’s at the

point your computer is telling you “fatal error: the number of errors is

too great” then it’s safe to say you’re pretty screwed. The very action of

having to delve into your reserve shots is a glowing tribute to how stupidly optimistic you were back in your mise-en-place, where everything went according to plan. The red letters on the display are like burning coals

that press deep into your self-esteem, sizzling away at what you believed to be the indestructible technique of putting things in place. Accounting for everything is impossible, it seems. Until today, you didn’t even know

that there was an error for having too many errors. You laugh at that, but freeze when you hear a hint of hysteria in your voice. the fifth shot is when you realize that you’re not straight thinking anymore. In fact,

words seem to mix up a bit amongst themselves and some words like

what look like what. The smallest things bring a smile to your face and for some reason you keep laughing. It’s not funny, your brain tells you.

Yes it is, your brain replies. For a moment you feel like you’re having an out-of-body experience as your head tightens in on itself—or is it your

brain presses against your skull—and you feel woozy. You laugh again, then frown as you look at your terminal. Another fatal error. You shrug,

not really caring either way. At this point, it’s about getting things done and not showing off—for real this time. Real? What is reality? You sit and ponder what makes something real and delve into the depths of

epistemology and ontology, of what you know you know and know you don’t know and don’t know you know or don’t know you don’t know,

before finding yourself watching videos of kittens. Click, goes the mouse.

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Clack, goes the keyboard. Woof, goes the cat. What? You blink rapidly,

trying to keep your eyes from drying out. You curse yourself for being so distracted, then proceed to look up whether or not water is wet. the sixth shot lies untouched, next to a haphazardly-placed bag of chips. Next to the bag of chips is you, giving the Gettysburg Address to the empty air.

Giggling with glee, you take a small bow to an invisible audience and hit

‘Enter’ on your keyboard. Fatal error. Seasons change, friends come and go, but errors will never leave you. To be honest, you’re not really sure

what you’re doing anymore and what’s in front of you is something that

some person was working on a few hours ago. You check the time. 4 AM. It’s been ten hours since you first set out to ... You frown, not sure what you were trying to do. To be honest, you’re not really sure what you’re

doing anymore and what’s in front of you is something that some person was working on a few hours ago. You check the time. 4 AM. It’s been

... You frown. Something feels redundant, but you can’t place a finger

on it. You shrug, tugging your shirt collar with your index finger as you let out a wide yawn. You need to finish this soon. You frown yet again.

What do you need to finish? To be honest, you’re not really sure what

you’re doing anymore and what’s in front of you is something that some person was working on a few hours ago. But what does that have to do

with you? Well, to be honest, you’re not really sure ... You catch yourself

mid-thought and yell out “Eureka!” as you jump up from your chair, point

a finger up at the ceiling looming above you. That’s what’s been bothering you this entire time, the sense of redundancy—it was your frowning! What else could it be?

You decide there and then not to frown again, then turn to look back at

your computer monitor. It’s in screensaver mode now, thanks to your little

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mental escapade, but a tap on ‘Enter’ brings everything back to focus.

Focus. You frown. Suddenly, you’re really, really in the mood for some pho.

the final shot is what you take in order to bring everything to a close. You look out

the window, into the glaring afternoon sun. Yesterday was a nightmare, and staying up all night was not a good idea. You spent the next day in bed, regretting every shot you took and how it messed up your sleep schedule. However, that’s in the past now. It’s been put away, put in

place; out of sight and out of mind. You chuckle to yourself as you take

a sip of the shot and let its soothing heat and bitterness slide down your throat, settling happily at the pit of your stomach. You managed to finish the code somehow, despite the thousands of errors that came your

way. Three hours turned to ten, but you pushed through and got it done.

Times got bleak and at one point you’re pretty sure that you went crazy.

Everything seems a bit hazy, like it was all a dream—though the end result sits in front of you, running without a single error. You’re not really sure

what happened last night, but what you do know is this: mise-en-place rules.

Wait.

Did you hit submit?

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bedroom meets the sea Yesmine Abida

58

Happier

Xiaohui Liu The glasshouse, covered with colorful glazed tiles, was sitting in the

midst of the wood like a beautiful prop from a Chinese shadow play. The

summer wind brought the scent of freshly cut grass and lilac to the living room, where Captain was checking her equipment as usual. She was a

young, tall police officer with short hair and eyes like amber glimmering

in the darkness. Her fingers went through every detail of the gun, as she

imagined aiming, pulling the trigger, and hearing the delightful noise made when the bullet hit the target

“Today’s highest temperature is 25 C. ” NeuroGreen reminded her in

her head, “Your health code is green. Your mental health score is 98, or

99th percentile.” Her score was always in the 99th percentile. It was one of the reasons she made it to her current position at such a young age.

NeuroGreen made another beep in her head, this time much more loud and urgent.

She drove her car straight to an abandoned office building. The area was already evacuated. Today’s target was totally her type: a former mayor in

his late 50s. She loved hunting down powerful people because they were more self-delusional and thus always resisted the most. But not today

though. It was a fairly new team and she wanted to see how her officers performed.

They located the target easily near the third-floor entrance, hiding

underneath a big pile of chairs and tables. The target vigilantly stuck

his head out, and a yellow health code glowed above him like a strange

halo. Apparently, he thought that the chairs would somehow protect him, and they did. Before they knew it, he quickly found an exit in this bizarre labyrinth and started running.

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To their surprise, he was remarkably fast. He was still wearing a black

suit from work and was leaping forward with two skinny legs like a bald chicken. The officers tried to follow, but there were so many chairs and cubicles around forming a barricade. Everyone was stuck behind with some kind of furniture, apart from a short, red-haired girl who swiftly

passed through the gaps and got near the man. Captain saw the man

already got to the edge of the platform. He was climbing over the railings.

“Now!” she shouted.

The red-haired girl pulled out the gun and aimed at the target. But nothing happened and the man just kept climbing. What was she waiting for?

But it was already too late and the man jumped off the edge.

When Captain got to the edge, she looked down and saw the man

twitching in pain, blood all over the ground. Bad fall. She sighed. Without emergency care, he would probably die in half an hour. But that was not the most important thing right now.

“You.” She turned around and found the red-haired girl, who was looking at the man with a petrified look. “Why didn’t you pull the trigger?” In her

head, she ordered NeuroGreen to look up the girl’s mental health score. It had major fluctuations.

“I— I froze,” the girl said. “He was just really fast. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not true,” Captain said coldly, “He spent six seconds climbing

over that thing before he jumped. It was more than enough time to react.”

“I’m not lying,” the girl said. “I hesitated. And I hesitated because his

health code was yellow, and I thought— I thought with proper medical treatment, he might be cured. But if I shot him, he’d just be dead.”

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Captain sighed. “Did you read that man’s profile?”

“I got here as soon as I got the call—” “The guy was a pedophile,” Captain said. “He managed to block the

signal of NeuroGreen for three days and raped three kids. One of them was his own child. A four-year-old.”

The girl’s face blushed, “I’m sorry, Captain.”

“It didn’t matter whether his color was yellow or red. NeoGreen indicated

there was a great chance for him to harm himself and other people, so by law you are obligated to do your duty. Your actions put yourself, colleges, and citizens in danger,” she said. “You just got yourself a secondary sanction.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said.

“Also,” Captain turned to the vice-captain. “Don’t send the report yet. We are not done.”

Vice-Captain gave her an “are-you-sure-you-wanna-do-this” look and the red-haired girl looked like she was about to cry. She ignored them both and went downstairs.

She asked the officers to form a circle around the man. The man was barely alive, throbbing in a big pile of blood, making a weak, animal sound. Captain handed her gun over to the red-haired girl.

“This man is dying. He is in great pain.” She looked straight into the girl’s eyes, “Even if he makes it to the hospital, he will have to stay in a facility

for the rest of his life. What you are about to do is not an act of cruelty. It’s mercy that he doesn’t deserve. ”

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The girl, though still shivering, nodded quietly. She aimed at the man, shot, and looked away. The man stopped twitching.

“Good. The rest of you may leave,” Captain said. The girl still looked

concerned, like a child waiting to receive reprimands from her parents. To her surprise, Captain took out a pack of “Lotus-Eater” cigarettes, picked out the rosy one, and handed it to her. This flavor, called “Sukha”, was

one of the rarest on the antidepressant market. As the rosy fog dispersed through the air, the girl smiled unconsciously. She remembered the

fragrance of fresh roses, the fleeting shadows of birds when they flew over a lake, and the days she spent with her mom in a little cabin.

“Feeling better?” Captain asked gently.

“Yes,” the girl said, still dwelling in a peaceful fuzziness, “Thank you.”

“Good kid,” Captain said. “Now go.”

Captain got herself a regular cigarette and leaned against the wall.

She knew she was pretty harsh, but it was necessary. She would do

everything she could to protect her team. Police officers dealt with all

kinds of abnormal minds on a daily basis, and one moment of hesitation could be fatal.

More than twenty years ago, there was a serious mental health crisis across the globe. Depression, anxiety, and madness were spreading

between countries like a pandemic. The birth rate dropped, and suicide became the primary cause of death. Parents jumped off buildings with

their young children, teenagers joined extremist groups, and planes were crashing down with passengers into Olympic stadiums. The level of

production and consumption dropped to unprecedentedly low points. For most people, it was hell.

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Fortunately, scientists invented an algorithm called NeuroGreen. Brain

implants were already invented and widely used in the general population, and what was special about NeuroGreen was that it could evaluate the mental state of the user, and allow them to receive medical treatments in time. NeuroGreen was initially implemented in high-risk groups, but

quickly became mandatory for the entire population. There were three

colors: Green meant normal, Yellow meant immediate medical attention

required, and if a patient stayed Red for a long time, the doctors had the authority to implement euthanasia.

Because of the nature of this job, Captain was able to afford her fancy

glasshouse and got invited to cocktail tasting parties hosted by important people. But what she loved the most about being a police officer was

the deep sense of fulfillment she felt every morning when she woke up, knowing that what she would do for the day was important to the well-

being of many people and the construction of the happiest nation in the

world. A feeling better than any anti-depressant. Maybe that was why her mental health score was always so high. * NeuroGreen reminded her that she had a lunch reservation. As she got

out of the car, she saw her boyfriend was already there, a 6’3” bearded

guy sitting in a little pink chair on the emerald-green lawn. He was staring at the menu with a solemn face, humming as his legs vibrated, revealing his socks: one green and one red, like traffic lights. Then he suddenly looked up and spotted her.

“Honey!” He shouted, waving at her cheerfully, “They have mousse au

chocolat!” He suddenly stood up, scaring an old couple, and walked all

the way over to give her a giant hug. “Je t’aime—et tu, me, me manques aussi.”

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“Your pronunciation is horrible,” she said. “And we literally just had

dinner last night.” But she couldn’t help smiling. He was always happy to see her.

“Come on, it’s our anniversary,” her boyfriend complained. “I got you a gift.” He took out a jewelry box. Inside was a necklace, but instead of

a locket, there was a tiny, oval-shaped bottle attached to it. The bottle

contained soil, a tiny herb, and an even smaller dead spider pinned on top of it.

“A rare species, part of the Theraphosidae family,” he said. “It was just discovered last month in the rainforest of Xishuangbanna. I asked my biologist friend to get it because it reminded me of you.”

“That’s really thoughtful of you,” she said, deciding not to ask why,

“Thank you. I love it.” He seemed content and went back to studying the menu. He was a mathematician so he examined everything carefully.

Captain genuinely liked him, even though sometimes his jokes confused her. NeuroGreen paired them up exactly a year ago, and just as big

data predicted, in many ways, they were perfect for each other. His

sweet, easygoing, golden-retriever-like nature was a great balance with her determined, ambitious, and somewhat aloof personality. From a

eugenics perspective, they would certainly produce high-quality children.

In her mind, she asked NeuroGreen to remind her to look into surrogacy agencies. It might take years or decades for her to have children, and maybe not with him, but there was no harm in planning ahead.

She put the jewelry box into the right pocket of her pants, and then realized something was already in there. It was a black envelope.

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“Could you excuse me for one second?” she asked. Her boyfriend

nodded and still seemed fascinated by the food. She walked over to a quiet corner and opened it cautiously.

XiaoAi Gu died.

She didn’t know any XiaoAi, or in fact anyone with the last name Gu.

What was even more disturbing was that the handwriting was very similar to her own.

She carefully put it back in the envelope and decided to examine it later.

“Everything okay?” Her boyfriend asked, finally looking up from his food.

“Yes. You were saying?”

“I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this, but why did you move here two years ago?”

“Well,” she said. “Woke up one morning, and the department just told me I need to move here as soon as possible. They even arranged for people

to pack my stuff for me, can you believe it? They said they needed hands badly, like it was some sort of emergency.”

“Wherever you go, I’ll go with you,” he said, holding her hand. She smiled, slightly distracted.

It was a gorgeous day outside. There was a big, wide blue sky without

clouds, and not far away was a beautiful park where families were having picnics under the Locust trees. A little girl was flying a kite, leaping

65

between the shadows of the leaves. It all looked peaceful and delightful, like any ordinary summer afternoon. But something was off, like a pixel

flashing in this virtual screenshot of happiness. Something was making her very, very uncomfortable.

“Your beef bourguignon looks so good,” her boyfriend said. She frowned, staring blankly into the pot. But I’m vegan, she thought, and he knows.

She wanted to throw up.

The wind was getting stronger, but the little girl was still flying her kite.

It was the old-fashioned type, a peach-red swallow made of paper,

flying higher and higher into the air, becoming a dot. She could hear

the unpleasant sound of the elevator moving up and down. It definitely

needed maintenance, but other people didn’t seem to notice. Di, are you sure you wanna do this?

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asked, “You don’t like your food?”

The elevator sound was getting more jarring and almost unbearable.

There was also a smell of cheap perfume fermented with rotten meat.

“I’m okay.” She could barely hear herself. Suddenly, the little girl’s kite line broke.

That’s when she saw the man. The same man they had killed this

morning, whose blood already dried on the sidewalk, was running in the shadows of the woods, and a red health code was hovering above him

like a curse. She immediately pulled out her gun, ran through the terrified crowd, and followed him on the endless lawn.

She shouted out a warning. The man in the black suit turned around.

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What should have been his face was replaced by a white rabbit mask.

The surface of the mask was very smooth, like it was made of resin or

ceramics. The two red eyes squinted into a twisted smile, mocking her.

Captain fired at the rabbit face without hesitation. One shot after another, the blood kept pouring out, but the surface of the rabbit mask remained smooth and flawless. The man fell, and she rushed up to him to feel his

face very carefully. The mask and the back of his head blended together perfectly, without any gap.

She looked up and turned around. Her boyfriend, the crowd on the street, and the cereal girl on the billboard. Everyone had a rabbit face.

For a few seconds, she was confused. Then it dawned on her, and the epiphany made her laugh hysterically.

“Call another ambulance," she said, still laughing.

'What?" Her boyfriend uttered in shock, his tiny mouth opening and closing in a comical manner.

Just then, a red health code appeared above Captain’s head.

She was insane.

(The second part will be Captain receiving psychotherapy through NeuroGreen in the form of dreams)

67

girl in a museum Amy Qian

68

adolescence Sarah Afaneh

the wilderness of the world you, a mere memory

(“What shall I do?”)

a bowl of mandragoras

a struggle against soft cold sand

d e construct e d

Is He Real?

Sheru,

“Grateful to be alive, [who?]”

sleep soft in dust find the Beginning

goddess, tell the old story for our modern times still framing words

rolling in dust.

69

Recess

Yunyi Wang

70

the back seat

Mostafa Elsaid I am yawning in the back seat and, in a bid to fall asleep, I raise into midair my feet,

prop up my knees & close my eyes,

imagine myself a pink princess kinder surprise, and try to ignore the fact that

I can only sleep cuddling my teddy,

so I fold my arms over my chest tight

until my fingertips touch behind my back and I cuddle myself instead.

71

Auld Lang Syne Jung Ho Han

I remember an old road that followed a creek by our apartment. The plan to fill it in had fallen through, and now it was safeguarded by the moss

and the green. A week before my graduation I resolved to take an evening walk along its meanders.

Gaggles of children and wild grass vied to take over the side paths, but only one side had weaponized hay fevers. I knew enough the parlance of the creek to keep a respectful distance, but I could already hear the children conferring for another expedition.

A vegetable stand sat on the shoulder of the road, enveloped in the

feathery leaves. Ears of corn and bundles of spring onions hung next to

the bushes, nodding lazily at a rising wind. The ground was uneven with pebbles and grass, but the young attendant ignored the racket of the

plastic chairs as they rabbled against the rocks. He said nothing, only nodding from his book as I returned his greeting.

Sometimes a tree would bend over by the creek to gather leaves of grass and paper alike. As I passed, an old woman was taking down a frayed

flyer for a lost dog. We made eye contact, and for a moment we held each other in our gaze.

A scent of rain convinced me to take refuge in a small udon shop. A cook and a busker regaled each other with tales and circumstances. I settled

in a corner, dozing off to distant conversations and the sound of an onset storm. There was yet much to walk, but I could wait. In this life, and the next, the road will be there.

72

An Abandoned Blur

`

Fatima Rija Nadeem

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for shame, or sorry Karno Dasgupta unbouldered much has been made of this veiny part in the forest long uprooted humbly, I lay this once-river bed to rest

bone dry, pocked peel, long past saving sorry, creek,

creaky herniated disk of gaia avulsed

gone numb, heat-flushed, on degenerate knees,

beaten into shatterings hope, he rhetoricked, imperious the once and future

current will heal all sulfurous sores for shame

slivers under coal tar

and six meters of sea snot don’t soothe, they seethe

the end of days is a week from tomorrow had it marked in 1492

you’ll be dead

your rope ending where it began tight

around

our neck

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to be unsalvageable

to have known only (in) belation inherit

the creek they killed

keen, kiss, bury the bones

no innocents in modernity

we

moribund

morgue-monde accessory

75

Floating Orange Ilya Akimov

76

Solarisian

Zhiyu Lindy Luo I cannot tell you beautiful things.

I can only talk about them, and in my broken words, I wish I could do them justice.

I saw a giant baby head today. Bloody and new-born. Eyes closed.

Transparent eyeballs behind the translucent lids.

I saw it in the sky above the city. Amnion. Alien mothership. The umbilical cord.

Are we all made of flesh and bones?

Welcome to the machine.

I think that’s how we all get born into this world: Huge and undefinable,

And then all our lives, we try to search For the space we used to occupy.

I dreamt of the baby

And she dreamt me back.

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What Dreams Are Made Of Al Reem Al Nuaimi i invented silence

in the moments you taught me grief,

quiet sobs and even softer screams, nightmares

are made of what used to be dreams.

78

past and now

`

Amy Qian

79

Summer in Italy Bruna Barreto

Danielle turns off the car and takes a deep breath. “Shall we?”

James slams the Chevy’s door, looks around, and leaves. They walk

across a vast green field in silence. They stop near a lavender plantation, but this time, Danielle looks around, and gives a single nod.

“Dani, what the fuck do we tell his mom?”

“That he’s staying in Piedmont.”

“Well, you’re not lying ...”

“That’s the point. I’m not lying.”

“She calls him, and he doesn’t pick up. Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

James starts sweating.

“Drink some of my water,” Danielle says. “You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t think I can feel better. In fact, I shouldn’t feel fucking better.”

“But that’s why we’re here, right? To relax, watch the sunset, and

appreciate the gift of being alive. Not everyone can do that, you know?

Just chill out a little, dude.”

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“Dani, get a hold of yourself! You think your sarcasm is gonna solve shit?”

James raises his voice while shaking his hands frantically near her face.

There is blood underneath his nails.

Danielle closes her eyes, and takes another deep breath. The sun penetrates her skin. The scent of lavender rushes up her nostrils.

“Maybe it’s a good idea to bring some of these lavenders with us so … you know. So we can smell better.”

“Sure, Dani. You’re out of your fucking mind to think this is our biggest problem right now.”

They waited until the sun had set.

“We should go back to the car,” Dani says. “To get the stuff and be done once for all. One hell of a summer, huh?”

“A hell of a summer.”

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still raw kin

Karno Dasgupta a semi-annual, semi-automatic litany for my melanate kin scraped at the shin

land-scrapped-skin

notes on coalition

coruscating still

do not fall for easy analogy

a semi-annual, semi-automatic

the harmed harm harmed

litany for my melanate skin

victim

oppressor

mēla natal pigmented filiate mine

by fissure, and triste

these marred t(r)opics synth

natal mēla

carnivale

gather, friend

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mise en abymic

proximals

in some miseries not others

to be

the decolonial melanate has work to do

let us tend early

and to each other,

you in?

a secret, in tongues

we are still raw kin just listen

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Calla Lillies

Jung Ho Han You won’t feel much at first. Your mind is just built that way. It blinds itself, conducting an orchestra with no music, stretching every second of the opening act. Until it can’t.

It’s the questions. Where were you? What were they like? How close were you to them?

And then the questions. Why weren’t you there? How could you not have noticed? How close were you to them, really?

Everyone will try to comfort you, of course, but no one’s there to stay.

Some days, you’ll feel like your intestines are being torn out. Others,

you’ll want your intestines to be torn out. Whether you like it or not, each passing day you’ll grow older, dragging memories behind like a broken limb, losing small details every time you wake up.

In time, you’ll feel all right. Never free, but afloat, just enough above the surface to breathe. Sometimes you need to anesthetize the horror that

you can’t remember their laughter anymore, but even remembering to be horrified becomes harder each time.

And one day, you’ll visit them. You’ll tell them how you’ve managed to

get by, but things really aren’t the same without. You’ll tell them you miss

them. You’ll tell them you love them. Then, you’ll put down the bouquet of calla lilies and walk down that familiar path from the cemetery for the last time.

And that’s that.

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Xianda (Grandpa)

`

Rayna Li

85

Unbroken

Sophie Helena Biervert Standing at the very edge, My heart in my hands, At the very border.

Maybe once I would have clung on to it, Clutched it.

Tried to hammer it back into my chest,

Begged my ribs to cave the beating thing in, Prayed that they keep it safe and hidden.

Maybe once I stood at this edge, Blood dripping,

The thing in pieces,

My face split and broken

In the reflection of its light.

Maybe once I peered down at the ground, From the tower where I was standing,

The thing blue and bruised, like a baby, cupped in my hands, My tears soaking it in a river of sorrow Maybe I would have thrown it away.

Now I find myself at this same edge.

This cliff,

This height.

And I have it in my hands,

I’m not blind; but I’m not harsh, nor cruel.

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I see the cracks,

I see the bruises,

I see the stitches .

But for the first time,

I can see its light, shining in brilliant red.

I breathe her in, feel her beat, strong, and steady, I can see her love and the life she brings,

And for once I feel I can give this back to her.

This life, and this love.

87

`

Lady by The Window Ilya Akimov

88

Matricide

Jung Ho Han Noah feels like his eyes are blistering. He knows that no matter how much he stares into it, the arc will never change. He had worn his keyboard out checking the math, had long since lost track of the time trying to break the calculus, but the graph would always plunge deeper, the numbers

getting angrier. Now his only confidantes were the buzzing office lights and empty chairs sitting silently beside him.

"You should go home, dear." The clatter of a mop startles him awake.

A familiar plastic jacket tells him it's Mary, the cleaning lady who would sneak him leftover sandwiches from the executive lounge. Her initial

scolding wrinkles dissolve into worried ones. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing." Noah replies instinctively.

"Don't you give me that, young man. I've been in this company since you were a babe." Mary gives a half-smile that Noah doesn't return.

"Really. Nothing."

"Nothing?"

The words strangle him by the throat. This isn't something she - he -

anyone could outrun. Those graphs had heralded a god-wave, ordained by the invisible hand above, and it had already crashed. All that was left for them was to wake up to lungs of seawater.

"Nothing."

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The old lady shakes her head and lets the air hang. “Take care of

yourself!” She calls back from the elevator, and she is gone. Noah sits

staring at the elevator door as the floor number sinks. With a weak flick,

Noah turns off the monitor, then sits by the window as the city streetlights turn off one by one.

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20-Minute Hike

`

Yoon Hee Kim

91

Advice

Joseph Hong Never say “I love you” on a first date, unless you really mean it.

Actually, no, just don’t say a word, even when things seem green-lit.

When the night intoxicates your mind and love is on your lips,

dunk your head in a bowl of ice and for

goodness’ sake avoid those tempting quips.

You know—the ones about how you and she have to be a perfect match, the ones that sink into all cliches,

as onto her pretty eyes you latch.

Stop watching those swaying hips of hers and think about the future,

will she really be there to the end or be just another wound to suture?

Love isn’t the same as “like” or “desire”— it doesn’t end at feeling,

love goes deeper than that, down to the soul, it’s about finding mutual healing.

Of the mind, the body, the spirit

within all of these things you’ll see,

once you’ve been together, torn apart, approached asymptotic, maybe.

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It’s one of those things you learn with time and many a broken heart,

so though “the one” she may not be to finding her she’ll be a part.

But of course at your age, of all these word only three of them come through:

the moment you pull her aside and smile, uttering, “I love you.”

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Table for Two

Yoon Hee Kim

94

mismatch

Al Reem Al Nuaimi we’re not going to be in love,

but i would love it if you remembered how much sadness i can hold in the evenings or why tulips remind me of heavy rain on days that feel like Adam suffocating Eve. we’re not going to be in love,

we’re always going to be naked, our legs intertwined

and our knees bruised, purple and blue because we forgot how to pray

on fridays and learned how to find pleasure in worshipping each other’s feet.

we’re not going to be in love,

not even close, not even enough to stop you

from tugging at the stitches of our newest wounds

that we hide from our friends because it would kill them if they knew that my sorrows dance with the angels of your speech. we’re not going to be in love,

going to be thirty-three, looking back

at the honey-covered lies and the mornings spent stealing each other’s warmth because we were too selfish to learn how to live with the cold breeze. we’re not going to be in love,

to try is to ask the sky to turn green or the ground

to start growing the missing parts of our bodies that you and i refuse to share after the clock strikes four on the nights that you make me weep. we’re not going to be in love,

be harsh with me, tell me that this is not forever,

that we are fooling each other with our hands in each other’s pants and our hearts too stubborn to fall from those grieving trees.

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we’re not going to be in love,

in this universe there’s only you

and me and the fear of being alone

that we share on a silver platter every time the world gets too cruel or too bitter to let us breathe. we’re not going to be in love,

love is for those of us who know

what spring is like, for those of us who love their moms and never forget to call home,

for those of us who know sacrifice builds bridges of stone

and that tragedy is not as devastating as Shakespeare made it to be. we’re not going to be in love,

but i would love it if you remembered that i will always draw stars on your back with my fingers and kiss your cheeks until we’re both drunk on tenderness and glee. we’re not going to be in love,

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but i would love it if we’d be.

Adjectives Sihyunhada

`

Yoon Hee Kim

97

Nothing to Fear Peter Mahhov

You are invited to a protest. Don't get caught by the State!

A text adventure where playing dress-up makes Big Brother look the other way. Do you have what it takes to go out on a leisurely stroll and come back in one piece?

URL: https://pmahhov.github.io/Nothing-to-Fear/

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Outside Looking In (I) Yoon Hee Kim

99

The Moon

Aman Assali

100

Cheers Manuel López Ramírez I’ve been seeing the moon lately.

In black foreign sheets, In hair and grease.

I’m known for my prodigious talent for manhood and self-destruction, for superfluous eruptions, for fake-love production.

Your sighs spring up from the grooves of the AC and spin and dance circles around the body next to me.

Cranberry vodka on the stoop, Pools of puke.

In the shower, pouring water.

The smoke of your cigars, I’m back in your car.

Stars into bars.

Cakes and tar.

In the mirror, the thunder-look on my face, bleeds out blue for days.

I move and sparkles shoot out, fade out.

Cheers/Tears!

101

`

Free

Roudhah Al Mazrouei

Oil on canvas, 120x90 cm

102

Blue Inca

Zhiyu Lindy Luo We climbed to the rooftop to see the dying sun, walking on the edge of

time. And beyond, the great beyond, the desert and the sea eroded our eyes—so much so that when we returned, our sockets were no longer

filled with flesh but electric globes. And we cried and cried. We are the

diamond-eyed revolution, the living skeletons, atoned for our lust for life.

The sky was painted blue, with Yves Klein’s brushes of living, breathing,

human souls. And we smeared the dye onto our faces like a lost Inca clan in the middle of the Pacific.

103

`

Aayat after Hector McDonnell’s “Temple of the Winds”

Aayat Azim

Oil on canvas, 40x28 in

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Journey of Exploration Aisha Al Hammadi

I want to stay at the time that I accompanied in my quarry, But is this really what I want?

Am I going to make solitude pat on my pain or;

am I hallucinating that it is a way to reach psychological salvation?

They say: leave sharing your sufferings, for neither the stranger nor the relative care about other’s sufferings.

But these are mere miserable attempts to reach a crossroad.

I went through the trouble of trying just to prove them wrong.

But in the end, I benefited from communicating like never before.

From the stories, I have found souls like me that share the same suffering; It relieves me of a mad current that has deteriorated me; Now I tell them: I have found my destination.

‫رحلة االستكشاف‬ ‫عائشة الحمادي‬ ٍ ‫أريد المكوثَ في‬ ‫وقت ال َز ْمت ُه في َم ْحجري‬ ‫لكن هل هذا حقا ما أريد؟‬ ‫هل سأجعل ال ُع ْزلة تُطَبْ ِطب على َو َجعي أم‬ ‫أنني أت َو ّه ُمها سبيالً للنجا ِة النفسي؟‬ َ ‫ د ْع َك من مشارك ِة‬:‫يقولون‬ ُ‫القريب لغي ْر ِه يَكْترث‬ ‫الغريب وال‬ ‫آالمك فليس‬ ُ ُ ٍ ‫محاوالت بائِسة للوصول إلى ُمفت َرقِ طُ ُرق‬ ‫لك ّنها َم ْح ُض‬ ‫ت َكبّدْتُ عنا َء التجربة فقط لِكَي‬ ‫أُبَر ِه َن لهم عكس ما يقولون‬ ‫ولكني في النهاية ْاستَ َزدْت من التواصل مالَم استزِد به قَبْال‬ ‫من ال َحكايا قد َوجدْتُ أرواحاً تشبهني في معاناتي‬ ‫عصبي أَ ْودى ِب َنفسي‬ ‫ت ُري ُحني من تيّا ٍر‬ ٍّ ‫ لقد وجدتُ ِو ْج َهتي‬:‫اآلن أقول لهم‬

105

That Fire Petaled Within

Aayat Azim

106

The Wide Fit

Jianna Jackson What was happening to me?

“Miss Nelson are you okay?”

I stopped in mid-stride, the words I was stringing together froze on my tongue, my fingers twitched, first at once. Then violently.

“I—” Needed to take off my heels. They were 130mm torture devices, I couldn’t see, think, when my feet were being suffocated by their width. My mother told me to purchase the wide-fit pair when we’d gone shopping, she

always does. She would say “Donna, your feet aren’t dainty like those white women who they made the shoes for. Size up or buy the bigger ones.”

She’d say that about every article of clothing, that’s true. I’d never listen.

But the shoes; they needed to go. I whipped them off my feet and stood bare on the porcelain tiles.

The deed was done. The stupefied eyes of my colleagues, who took a

slice of my days insisting to engage in business promenade with me, were trained on me and then on my shoes. What had we been talking about?

“Where was I, Rodney?” Was it performance appraisal or strategic investment?

“Gentlemen, my eyes are up here.” I quipped after a completely

107

inappropriate minute or so of flabbergast. And then their heads snapped upwards; had they never seen shoes off a woman? I knew my toes

weren’t hideous; they were pedicured weekly, painted a perpetual, ultrapure white, soft and wrinkle-free.

“Ehem, uh performance appraisal, Miss Nelson.” Dave chimed as he recovered first.

“Ah yes, the performance recognition management is having problems with the batch of P.E.R. of the subordinate employees in the technical

department.” I kept walking, they towered over and around me now, my heels no longer providing me with a height superiority. But the ground

was ice-cold under my soles, a nice reprieve from the warmth seeping into every other pore in my skin.

“Efficacy will go up by 37.81% if the reports are moved from the hackable and unprotected interface that we’ve employed and—”, the constriction became unbearable again. The jacket I wore? It was thirty freaking degrees? What was I thinking donning a pants suit this morning?

“Rodney could you hold these shoes for me?” And I shoved them into his hands and began unbuttoning whatever I could. “Essentially, what

I’m saying gentlemen, is that more rumination can go into finding a more suitable system to assign...”

The jacket was off, I was left in my camisole and wide-legged pant. Was I wearing a bra today? Why was the office that hot? Who set the bloody

thermostats today and how could I get them fired for their incompetence?

“Miss Nelson,” Rodney cleared his throat from a fit of phlegm and all the

other gentlemen with him, Dave, Michael and Lewis, cherry-red cheeked

108

and visibly nervous, cast their gazes to everything else that was not me. I suppose now I knew for sure that I was not wearing a bra.

“Would you like for me to escort you to the nurse’s station? You are not your usual self; something seems amiss.”

His gaze was accusing and physically hot. The pity singed my face and

burnt through to the back of my skull. How dare he look at me like that?

I ought to slap him. Slap him…clean across the face. Give him a reason to have red cheeks! Take the shoes from him and use the heeled sole

to puncture his chest and claw at the rupture! I should attack his groin,

debilitate his genitalia and render him infertile, break his back by crushing the heel of my feet into his sacrum!

“I—” What was happening to me?

I felt an onslaught of the need to commit rabid violence, the force of

which took back-breaking effort to tamper down. I gripped the chair in

front of me and keeled over to shut my eyes and curb the bloodlust. I was aware of the flesh and bone in the room, aware of the softness between breasts and the beating artefact that lied waiting, aware of lifeform

rushing through annals built for their transport: its redness, its watery composition, its metallic tang, its rust-like effluvium when it hits the

oxygen so mildly above the thin membrane unqualified, unrehearsed and unprepared with the task of separating the two…

I knew I was not myself.

“Get out!” I barked. “All of you, now!” Rodney flinched. Dave, Lewis and Michael couldn’t be relieved of my presence fast enough and hightailed it through the lobby of my office through mumbles of departure and

109

farewells. But Rodney remained, my shoes in his hands and concern for me in his eyes.

“Miss Nelson, I do think you should see a nurse. I insist it.”

The heat of vehemence clawed at my skin, insulated my arms against the air, blurred my vision and prickled gooseflesh along my back. Pressure welled in my chest, swelled in my lungs and I couldn’t breathe without tasting blood; without needing to taste blood.

“Rodney I’m not going to tell you again to GET OUT!” I scratched at my

chest until my camisole was nothing but tatters. My chest was free, cool air was supposed to sate my bosom, soften the pressure, dampen the heat; but I was still tortured.

“Donna!” Rodney dropped my heels in shock, stood stock still for a

second and practically ran out of the office. I picked up a shoe and hurled it at his retreating form.

“GET OUT!” I shrieked in a voice that was not my own and then I retched and retched until my nose bled.

The world went black. For an hour I saw nothing, heard nothing, felt

nothing. Only the smell of blood remained. And then, finally, the heat

subsided; my vision faded back into focus and I began to reorient myself, the smell of bile rushed in, I heard heavy breathing, was it mine? My

fingers were slick, I lifted my hands; expecting blood, but seeing spit.

Guilt twisted my gut, and confusion.

What happened to me?

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I was in my office. Right where I last remembered myself to be. Right?

Did I leave? Did I hurt someone? Myself? I became acutely aware of my virtual nakedness at that moment and the blood on my thighs. Was it mine?

I prayed it was, but there were no perforations in my skin, no heaviness on my pulses. No evidence of life or death, around me. I needed to see a priest. And call my lawyer… in that order. The guilt rose to my throat,

the urge to vomit again was cancelled out from the fact that I physically exhausted the capacity to.

I needed to leave.

My coat, strewn across the floor alongside my right shoe, was crumpled,

I could hear my mother’s disdain. “Donna don’t even think about wearing an unpressed jacket.”

Like usual I ignored her, an unwelcome intrusion inside my head, and pulled my arms through the sleeves, fitted the eyelets around their

respective knobs and smoothed down the material across my chest. I

pushed my foot into one heel, trekked across the room for the other and sat to fit that shoe as well.

It would be fine, I would go to the chapel, get some much-needed prayer.

Check myself into the hospital, get my lawyer on top of this. Everything would be fine.

Then. The heat began again.

Inspired by Tananarive Due’s short story “Migration”

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10/08 María Emilia Baca Mixed media

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feet on the streets Karno Dasgupta I see so many

feet on the streets

They’re asking for their rights They’re hollerin’

They’re picketin’

They’re askin’ for a fight!

Delusional fools

Lost their sense of place Go back to your dead-end job

and try to get a raise!

Haven’t got a job?

What a big surprise No wonder you’re tryna rob

Billionaires’ pies!

Unemployed with distinction!

Millennial trash

No cash

No stash

Door Dash

Yes crash Tax slash

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Cash!

Credit Credit Credit

Crash!

Cash!

Crash!

Cash!

In the house Take your score Where it’s due

What’s due?

Who’s due?

Pay due?

Paid me?

Paid you?

(Noooo)

Paid themhe hershe NANANANANA

$15 an hour, that’s absurd!

Stop readin’ about gender Stop readin’ about race No learnin’ about Marx

Or growing fascist states!

Why get an education

When you can learn to hate!

Why grow a decent conscience When everything’s so great!

Empathy

Gobbledy

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Crash!

Hooey

Phooey

Nonsense!

Empathy

Gobbledy

Things are gettin’ kinda tense!

I see so many

feet on the streets

They’re asking for their rights They’re hollerin’

They’re picketin’

They’re askin’ for a fight!

Delusional fools

Lost their sense of place Stop pointin’ out our problems Exposin’ our disgrace!

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My Father’s Job

Rayna Li

Mixed Media

116

The Universe within the Black Woman Zelalem Waritu

I was disillusioned to think I was ever seen as a human being in vivo, in vitro

Peeling, stripping my skin He fixes his gaze on me

I am an object among other objects

Just a vessel, a warm body: two breasts and a pussy The real world never thought I deserved or had a right to have a share His blade cut through me Hard and fast

He tore through me

Gutted and exploded Now you see me, now you don’t I was a nervous wreck

Shaking at the slightest alert

It burned my skin, it burned me from within How could I ever let myself be taken?

Deep within me

I could feel his white seed swirl

Within the dark depths of my black womb

I prayed the white seed did not make itself at home

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All I wanted was to be anonymous To be forgotten Silently

It tormented me in my mind

pursued me in my dark dreams

exasperated me as I tried to move My body was never my own to begin with It slipped my mind I had not bled

Until my breasts began to swell And my body felt like lead I knew I was not mistaken

My body became home to another Closing my eyes I opened myself

And felt my essence amongst all things

The earth beneath my feet Singing white, white

Made water well in my eyes And then I heard it

The pulse from the womb of the world The universe

A golden string tied me to infinity

And deep within me came a cosmic message

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I had rediscovered the primordial One And their cosmic message Only women decipher

Its meaning, its impact As we convey it

Hosting a cosmos marriage Bringing order from chaos Creating life within us

I found myself and opened my eyes to reality I owned myself

This babe I was bringing into this world Like a heavy anchor, reality sunk in

The weight of my ancestors on my back

Their chains, their voyage, their enslavement

All my own and soon the burden of my unborn child My heart broke

But my soul could not forget the bond Between the universe and me They held my hand

and led me through the cotton fields Carried me through the shadows

Eased the pain of my back with the light of stars

Whispered that my ancestors were in the sea of constellations Watching over me silently

I had to listen to what cannot be heard But silence was everywhere

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Till a beat of a drum came from within Another heart

Began to beat in time with mine Kicking turned into banging My time had come

To perform the act of the universe Breathing in, breathing out Over and over again Faster and faster

An excruciating rhythm

Turned primordial, pure

Breathing in, breathing out

Bringing life into the universe

Bringing a shining light into my black night The little one’s voice rang out Sharp and clear

And the realization set in I brought life into this world A world that rejected me Exploited me

Because of my color My sex

Its haunting laws

Under no condition should there be

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any intimacy between the races

There shall be no joy of living for the negro for sin is black as virtue is white

The ink was dry before we were born We arrive into the world

Never given a second chance A second glance

We have to cry out and demand to be heard Shake the foundations of the world

Having to be tough to be able to live No longer completely black And not yet white

I had damned my child But maybe Just maybe I could let myself believe

The fruit of my womb could be the spark

The start to a world we could build together Blurring the structures and colors in place

And I could be there with them every step of the way

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The Gazelle

Al Reem Al Nuaimi my last name holds

the soft whisper of midnight encounters

and my first a river of musk and burnt oud from last night’s hunt on the outskirts of

‫ * ابوظبي‬when you told me

that what the stars comment on in the grip of secrets

is a blue lagoon of misery and i told you the only misery i know is his grip on my wrists that grey day in ‫الشارقة‬.** i think men grow up with plants

and with visions of palm trees, oak, and a brown weeping willow, you said

and i told you that i watched her weep in ‫*** عجمان‬

and listened to her empty her sorrow when she asked me to turn your youthful day into a poor night

and now here we are in the middle of nowhere, miserable.

__________ *

**

Abu Dhabi Sharjah

*** Ajman

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In Aankhon Ki Masti Insiya Motiwala

Graphite on paper

123

finding nostalgia Yesmine Abida

124

A Love Story Joseph Hong

Do you remember back in the day,

when all we’d do was meet up and play

inside the forest? After school, we’d run

straight to the field out back, and I’d pick out the finest of my stick stash, then give you the second-best of these, and we’d dive

deep into the green embrace of the woods.

Being with you was what I looked forward to, glances of glee almost impossible to miss, but nothing beat the feeling of us being inside the forest.

Climbing trunks of ancient, wrinkled oaks, wondering if they’d hold us, occasionally falling to the ground,

discovering that they couldn’t; the trees would laugh with us as we made fools of ourselves.

Ducking beneath low-hanging branches, twigs crackling beneath us, we’d talk for hours, navigating the foliage with swords

made of wood. We’d watch deer stalk

through the brush, chase after rabbits startled by our footsteps, and feel the rays of sunlight

streaming through the cracks of the canopy above.

Spring led to summer, then came fall. The leaves lost their lively green, giving way to a lifeless brown. The

chill of winter crept through the oaks we scaled, and

before we realized it the snow was upon us. The flakes

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were soft and light at first, but soon grew heavy,

muffling our voices until we could not see or hear and grew further and further apart, lost.

Eight years later and I haven’t heard a word from you. Have we grown old, become wrinkled oaks, in the years we’ve

been apart? Would I break under the weight of you within my arms? A word unsaid, a letter unfinished, and a home left

behind. If only I’d kept your hand tightly wrapped in mine, if only I had made us promise

that one day, no matter what, we’d meet up and play inside the forest.

126

Bamboo Shadow Yunyi Wang

127

Stuck with Words Mahrukh Riaz

the anatomy of her want spilled down from her skin and bones

into sharp rhythms and stuttering synths

her claustrophobic bleeding breaths cascaded into a loud cacophony of sighs. ink seeped through the pages of feelings old and blurred and into a mess of black from when her thoughts

staggered and halted and

throat clogged with musings unable to go outside.

and under the darkness of her four walls

below the warm shades of the fluorescent lamp her mouth gaped open

dripping words onto pages for no one to read for now

it was just her unshed fat, ugly tears

and alabaster wings too large to carry

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Lady of Soonra Yoon Hee Kim

129

The Underneath

Sophie Helena Biervert Underneath that scorching fire, Underneath that armor,

Hidden behind that fiery frame, Lies a tenderness.

A sweetness,

A space so gentle, that swims in a well of tears.

A pit of emotion,

Birthing a heart that wants to open and awaken to the world, Love

And wanting to be loved, A true giver.

A delicate, precious thing, Hurt-but strong.

Willing to love, And love, And love.

But what you see is her strut, The thunder of her voice,

That blinding, flashing smile, The careless laugh,

Overbold persona— But if you just took time to listen,

Or maybe, if you tried to really see,

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You could look into her eyes and silence their glimmer.

Maybe even catch a glimpse of that gentle spot that spends her time hiding,

So timid,

Playful and scared,

Desperately trying to reach out,

not screaming and dancing and confident like her lashes— Never as bold.

If you look closely, you will find a hand Small, loving and shy,

.

Ready to be opened, Ready to be held.

Maybe if you truly heard her, And picked apart,

The music of her voice, And listened to it,

The call of her heart:

The plea to be seen, to be forgiven, to be freed from the hurt, saved from her own iron clasp.

Maybe then, you would understand her better.

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`

Minmal Plant Bayan Assali

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Journal Entry #27 Al Reem Al Nuaimi

moved my bed to the corner of my room when I realized you’d soon be

gone. It was 2am and it took me forty-five minutes to push and position it on my own; it probably took you half that time to decide to let go.

It’s not easy to see the light when the moon refuses to glow because it

does not want to greet the sun anymore. It’s not easy to say “I love you”

after someone tells you that their love for you has always been conditional on what it takes to make you stay.

Your cat can’t speak but you convince yourself that it will scream your name every time it needs your help.

I don’t have suicidal thoughts anymore but I am often reminded that I once wanted nothing more than to be dead.

I am sick of always feeling like I’m being taken for granted.

I wish your voice could be in my ears forever.

You break my heart at least once a week but you’ll never know.

I make no sounds while I let you; to be loved should be good enough of a virtue.

I will never be who she is to you.

I am sick of crying.

Your ghost still follows me everywhere I go, and I let it.

How can someone be so cold-hearted?

I just want to talk to you the way we used to before, nothing more.

Let me touch your skin and only then will I let you kiss my lips.

Saying goodbye isn’t even the hardest part.

I don’t know how to say hello again.

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what we’ve all been waiting for Yoon Hee Kim

134

To those who do not linger Karno Dasgupta

I was walking home and I saw a man asking for change and I did not stop and I saw another man breakdancing in the middle of third and twenty-

third before a monstrous fire truck holding its lights at bay as traffic began to flow I rushed across and looked, looked once more, as Fred had

said. The man twirled on his hands, his legs two chopper-blades, then

he slowed, ended his bit, and stared—a moment, then he reclaimed the assignment: his pedestrianism The engine churned and I began to cry

because I was moving again grieving a dream smothered in the unceasing

flow this norm of kinetic incessance of breaks that unpause propulsive the unstoppable and therefore constantly passing present he and me and it

the truck that whizzed once more unmemoratic we made no sense there we were and gone the unrequitables the modern

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Half-Past Twelve, Musée d’Orsay Yoon Hee Kim

136

Acceleration Jung Ho Han

There’s a moment before the sun rises,

The anticipation before the circus horns,

When I can feel signals from numbing skin, A red alert, the shot rings out,

The starting gun of an unstoppable race, Peanut crunching crowds cheer,

The acceleration of a kaleidoscope, The grinding down or a piling up,

Dizzying recursion, an avalanche of eyes

Digital conductors, the spasm of phones, It’s a blur, a blast,

Run faster, aim higher,

There’s words to write, to write to breathe, An asthma attack of alarms, And then,

An exhalation,

Precious seconds, before a continuation, A finger-worn keyboard taps away, Under clouds of chloroform gray.

137

Outside Looking In (II) Yoon Hee Kim