Mamdouh Sakr
I’m Mamdouh Sakr, an Architect, obsessed by traditional and Islamic architecture; I did my MA in Islamic Art and Architecture, and applying for a PhD program. I’m not confident with my writing style, and wanted to improve my writing skills. After the first class, I was really skeptical about the relevance of this course to my studies, yet it turned to be one of the most enjoyable things that I did. Now I’m working on a novel, hope not to postpone it or be discouraged.
In my other life……….
I’m sorry, I was a loser in all my other lives, I did not continue any of them. Once I was a traveler moving from city to the other watching people, keeping a distance and enjoying being a stranger. In another life a pious young man attached to mosques, waiting for prayers and longing to meet God in Paradise. Yet in another life, I was celebrating all the sins, as if that why I was created. OK. I must admit, I’m living all these lives and it’s tiring, thanks god it’s only one short life.
One Egyptian Pound
I’m becoming the one Egyptian Pound note. I was born shiny smooth and clean, the magnificent temple of Abu Simbel is adorning one of my faces, while the Complex of Qaitbey is artistically rendered on the other. These great monuments are surrounded by Ancient Egyptian and Islamic motifs and patterns, not as mere space fillers but as reminders of Egypt’s great pasts and glories. Artistic Arabic and English Calligraphy indicate my identity, nationality and even my value. All these patterns and images are laid on a sandy colour, the colour of the great monuments of Egypt but also the colour of its vast deserts, a colour that evokes feelings of pride and depression at the same time.
What is happening to me, I feel as if I’m dwarfing, I’m no longer the one that can fulfill dreams; people are mocking my value and doubting my existence. But am I really weakening? Am I getting useless? Wasn’t I a goal and even a pride for Egyptians for decades? Haven’t I been competing furiously with other European currencies? Why am I now being diminished by newly born currencies of recently created oil states?
There are no answers and no answer can satisfy my frustration or heal my grief. I’m getting tired; I’m wrinkling, my cuts are stretching and my skin is getting fragile everyday. Thousands of people are abusing me; snatching me rudely from hand to hand and then dipping me carelessly in their sweaty pockets, or throwing me on their dusty desks, with their rough impatient fingers. Teenagers keep doodling on my faces, some writing poetry, sending regards and some just leave their silly nicknames.
Frankly I’m witnessing the decline of my country, the vulgarity of the people and I am unable to bear all this ugliness. Now every day seems to be a lifetime while waiting to be executed. I’m being used till the last drop of colour on my aging skin and then people burn me happily as for them I’m an unhygienic piece of paper. Anyway I’m hearing that I’m gradually being replaced by a coin, it’s sturdier and more colourful than me but when you look closer you find a lonely sad pharaoh surrounded by a kitsch circular border. OK maybe this coin is more suitable for Egyptians now, may be it suits their rough fingers and bad taste.
The Soundtrack of my Life
Shsh shsh shsh my father’s shout, another faint shsh will always follow. Trrrnn Trrrnn and my name is called to pick the phone. Ding Ding Ding and I’m asked to open the door. Gggesh Gggesh and I wake up suddenly to shut the TV. The Eisha Adhan, Ooops I forgot to pray Maghreb again. Beep Beep Beep, Vooo, Vooo, the crazy streets of Cairo_______________________ The scary silence of Oxford, no shouting, no laughing, no Beep Beep and of course no Adhan. Beep Beep Beep, back to Cairo after only five weeks. Bla Bla Bla the endless questions of nosey people and fake friends. Beep Beep Beep, the crazy streets of Cairo________________________ The threatening silence in a living room. Tuck Tuck Truckk familiar sounds coming from the kitchen. The endless crying of babies. Beep Beep Beep, the crazy streets of Cairo, the Adhan again and again. Bla Bla Bla the lies of colleagues at work.___________________________ The expected silence of death.
Yusuf
Laila was panicking, as it was almost 12 pm, she has a very important meeting at 12:30, what took her mother that long? She is waiting for her in the American Embassy foyer, is it their 5th or 6th visit this year. Laila’s eye are fixed on the large clock infront of her, the hall is filled with hope, she doesn’t care, she is only worried about her meeting and the terrible traffic from Garden city to Mohandessin. She is stressed and mad. 12:15 her mother comes out of the office weeping, she hurries to hold her without any sympathy, her mother does not stop whining and complaining in a shameful way. 12:35, the meeting is gone, her mother gets in her car, cries loudly, and Laila fails to hold her frustrated tears. She is risking her career just to please her mother in her ridiculous never ending requests. Yesterday she begged her two sisters to accompany their mother to the embassy, but Salma was explicit, she won’t participate in this cheap soap opera, she will never agree with her mother’s abnormal and sick love for Yusuf. Sara, said that she had participated for her mother on such errands, listened to her complaints, wrote 1000s of emails and now she feels that she must proceed with her life. “Laila, Laila, I’m talking to you”, ha, yes,… what? I’ll die before I see Yusuf, my son, my boy... Laila felt that they’ll die from her attitude, she is remembering everything now, how Yusuf the middle son was treated as a king, No one understood the logic, her mother did not suffer from a tragic childhood, was happily married, and her education should have rescued her from such a state. She ruined the lives of her four children; Yusuf was the real victim, a spoilt boy, shaken and unable to take a single decision alone. After struggling with drugs for years and a decade of failure, he just realized that his mother was suffocating him; he had to leave before hating her, before killing her to save his life.
They got home, her mother was leaning on her shoulder, Oh, she loves to look weak in front of everyone, the porter and our maid, and all the neighbors. What happened? Where is her self-respect and dignity? Laila pitied Yusuf, she was never jealous, unlike her two sisters who could not separate between the victim and the killer. Salma’s reaction was to leave, she left quite early, her friends, phone calls and outings were her world. She did not care about her mother’s tragedy, and her mother did not care about her attitude. Sara could not forget the pain, she was the youngest and was expected to be treated differently, but her best years were wasted as her mother was devastated by her brother’s addiction. She was disturbed, and married a jerk just to get our attention, that poor girl - she should have realized that at that time our mother was busy, trying to fix the relation between Yusuf and his new girlfriend.
Her mother was cursing and crying, this is the routine, she will call all her friends and relatives and complain about the visa procedures, how she can not visit Yusuf, and that she will die before seeing him for the last time. Laila took a painkiller, texted a message to her boss lying about a sudden death in the family, and she was ready for her mother’s usual request. 'Yes, Mama, I’ll send him an email'.
LU JADDU
He kept preaching, promising and inspiring them, he saw the light, believed in freedom, dignity and pride. Moving around them, throwing the seeds of a different tomorrow among the desperate souls. Touching their hearts and awakening their old buried dreams.
They leaned on his courage and strength, considered him their hero; they gave him a divine flair. Each day they add to him more, whatever they lack he will have by default. For them, now he is the hero, the one who can defeat for them, all the evils of the universe. The one who will change their lives, destinies and despair. But the hero was aware, he was one of them; an ordinary man. Not a hero, and not a miracle but just someone who dares. One who longed for freedom, a man who felt the injustice and could not bear.
His mother was silent, yet she knew how people could push their hero to death and then cry. How many gods were created and then killed by the cowardness of man? Her fears increased with their gossips and complaints; as the voices were heard in every lane. He shouted 'Tomorrow is done by your own hands, freedom is only what you need'. The oppressed did not understand, they wanted bread, they wanted gold, they wanted someone to promise, and convince them just to wait.
His enemies were quick and ready; they knew how weak his fellows were. His friends started to divide the kingdom, the one he drew in air. The hero, felt the danger, but now it was too late. His mother cried and tried to save him from this fate.
They killed the hero, the one that they had made. Did they betray him? Was he too pure to be among them? Do they really deserve dignity, freedom and all his other dreams?
Some people mourned him, but the majority at that time did not really care. The lanes became empty and silent; the oppressed missed his words, his hope and his dreams. The years had passed, and as the oppressed gave birth to oppressed, the land was still in chains. But people are still waiting for him; it is always easier to wait.
I heard this story in Toledo and Granada and now I see it in Palestine!
Yalla ya bet
Ramses Square, 1956
“Yalla ya bet” Fatma’s uncle pulled her suddenly to get out of the train station; she opened her sleepy eyes to see the huge Ramses statue filling the sky. She stumbled while trying to follow her uncle’s quick steps, and absorb the new scenes and sounds of Masr. Her first minutes in Cairo were strange, she could not understand how people live in these high buildings, how the streets are wide and clean, where is the dust and dirt that invade her villages alleys. How can women move with such short dresses and no scarves? Her mother won’t have believed this, but her mother died last week and as her father wanted to please his new young bride, Fatma had to leave.
The old Nubian butler was always nervous; he believed that I was stupid, lazy and good for nothing. He kept shouting and cursing, but the more news about foreigners leaving the country, the more nervous he became. After few months, our Italian masters left, as Oum el Donia was turning her back to the whole world. I did not know that I’d miss the piano, their parties and the young lady’s colorful short dresses that much.
From a house to a house, and from a lady to the other, there was always the same, “Yalla ya bet” , even when she became older her husband made sure to repeat it as much as he could. It seems that all the people of Cairo don’t have time or don’t care to remember her name. Fatma forgot her village and her life there, it seems that her life started when she first stumbled in front of Ramses. Cairo became familiar, and became home, that poor peasant made her own roots, but she doesn’t know who won.
Ramses Square, 1981
“Yalla ya bet” Fatma followed her mother in the crowded streets of Ramses Square. They had to take two microbuses to reach the square and then walk for a while. She looked at the crumbling moulds of the buildings; the entrances, the grand staircase, the stained glass windows and the intricate handrails; these were faint reminders of Cairo’s Belle Epoque, yet she did not understand. The littered corridors, flashy colors and blocked balconies did not bother her. All of this was too good compared to the slum where she lives, an instant concentration of peasants who wanted to be part of Cairo.
She was squeezed by the crowds and noise, in a narrow room filled with smoke, half filled tea glasses, flies and endless piles of papers. Her wedding ceremony will start, but who mentioned a wedding or a ceremony, she should be grateful that she would get a paper. Her father was clever enough to find her a dying Saudi husband, who also wanted to take a part of Cairo, and for him Fatma was white and tender and will be a fresh addition to his collection of wives. At that time Fatma was not there, as if she was only watching, she kept gazing at the part she can see of the Ramses statue from the small window. Fatma did not resist, she was sure that it’s only a nightmare. Only in nightmares parents sell their daughters, only in nightmares men import young girls and call this marriage, only in nightmares one’s life can be ended by a single piece of paper, so she only has to wake up.
Four years later Fatma returned to the same office, the smoke, the half filled tea glasses, the flies and the endless piles of paper were all the same, but the place seemed dirtier and uglier. This time her parents did not come, only a young girl on her shoulder, this time Fatma is not watching, she is dying to get another piece of paper to prove that this girl had a father. After several humiliating hours she had to leave and without noticing she was whispering, “ Yalla ya bet”.
Ramses Square, 2010
“Yalla ya bet” Fatma was shocked, this was the first time to be called a “bet”, but suddenly she realized where she is, a dirty clinic hidden in one of the alleys near Ramses Square. The rough woman kept shouting “ Yalla, yalla”, it was Fatma’s turn, she pushed her fear and followed that woman, the butcher had a sick smile, he tried to comfort her, while the woman was pulling her cloths. His eyes and hands were eating her body; he believed that he has all the right to taste a bite before burring the problem. The humiliation was too much for her; his fingers were creating new scares, and opening the fresh wounds. The disgust and shock were greater than her fear, she started trembling and shouting, bringing the rough woman to the scene and ending the butcher’s invasion.
The anesthetic’s strong smell and the cold tools touching her skin took her back to Mustafa’s first touches. The first and only man to love, the one who tried to change her character, the way she talks, the way she dresses and even her feelings. In fact he succeeded only in changing her body. Fatma gave him everything, the more she gave the more he asked for more.
Dizzy and tired, she put on her clothes slowly, unable to walk; she had to stay for a while in the crowded reception. The monotonous soundtrack of the women’s gossips was as painful as the surgery, was she punishing herself. Was it her fault to love? Or the real fault was that she loved Mustafa. Suffocated by the thick air of the room and the women’s stares, she dragged her legs and left. Accompanied by her bitter memories and Mustafa’s words, she walked slowly. Like a sandy storm, his words were hitting her, “ I won’t marry a girl who’s not a virgin”, she smiled as she reached the main square, for the first time she realizes that large mounds of rubbish and some street kids were replacing the grand statue of Ramses.
Writing 1
Maha El Marraghi
I am a performance artist, contemporary dance choreographer and actress. I have a B.A. in Political Science (The American University in Cairo), an M.A. in Literary / Cultural Studies (McGill University, Montreal, Canada). I am a writer, editor, freelance translator specializing in fiction (English and French to Arabic). I taught Arabic Language/literature for years between Canada and the USA. Recently I taught English Writing at Al Ahram Canadian University.
In my other life
I lived a life so long,
Way too long to tell,
More years than I can remember,
Can remember,
Remember,
Oh my love, spare my life to tell.
My ransom tales to tell,
To wade into your awesome fear.
My tales have bruised me alive,
May you live to nurse my wounds,
Amidst the sails of your tales,
I shall remember,
Shall remember,
Remember.
Ithaca on Ice
In the forest where none may pass but you a sea is heaving in the heart of darkness. The Sirens of old are lurking in the lunar waves of its randomly folding and unfolding ice trees. Their luminous breathtaking faces - sculpted with his bare virile fingers into the icy flesh of your forest by none less than the heartbroken Pygmalion in the image of his handmaiden Galatea who abandoned him - crown the sunny rainbow lining the interlaced spirals of their wings which flutter in accompaniment to their soaring incantations of ecstasy. Orpheus is no longer there to lure your ears away from their spell with his lyre, for he himself has long ago been fettered by their blissful hymns. No wax to seal your ears. No companion sailor to lash you to the dancing mast. Mesmerized, you tear the cords of your throat beseeching Penelope to weave a muzzle of wool for your hollowing ears. “Stop unweaving in your lonely nights what you weave by day, my love”, you roar, stretching your gaze in search of your Ithaca beyond reach. Your trembling mast breaks. Panting in dread, you leap into the forest where none may pass but you; into the ice- fleshy palpitating body of trees sinuously branching through the labyrinthine veins of its womb; the nightly sea. You bump into the bulky ice trees, your blood gushes through your skin like a racing fountain, you trip on the slippery iced ground, you frantically stuff balls of snow into your heavily pulsing ears and you run, you run, with all your might you run, aghast, your entrails ripping themselves apart. You fall and fall, incessantly you fall, one last breath and your heart beats no more. Penelope opens her wings as you sink from the rooftop of your terror into the soothing pulse of her heart, while her sisters the Sirens of old hover over you, rhapsodizing the inaudible lullaby streaming through your heart aching for Ithaca , your forest where none may pass but you, where a sea is heaving in the heart of darkness.
Mona Daoud
Mona Daoud is a 28 year old human who has abandoned a career as a managing editor because it was too desk based and administrative for her liking. She became a freelance writer and moves around with her miniature pink notebook. She is zooming in on specializing in creative writing and so when she saw an ad for this course she was thrilled. She needed to learn the tools that help extract stories from an overworked brain and placing them neatly on paper. That is why she enjoyed the course very much. It has given her creative tools to work with; to organize thoughts, to build sentences that flow with a literary force. The course has helped her escape the foul stench of the stagnant waters in which she helplessly stood and granted her entrance to a lively blooming field with endless playful possibilities and an exciting path that will take her through dark forests, and well lit roads alike. She is looking forward to implementing the tools further and exploring different styles of writing. She must have a lot to write about. Although she has convinced colleagues that she takes cabs back home, no one has actually seen her in one, and who knows where she goes when she disappears off into the darkness of Old Cairo in the night.
Storm Vampont is a 34 year old undercover agent. She works to help countries locate and exterminate dark forces. Her efficiency and exceptional aptitude has led those with whom she worked to turn a blind eye to rumors of her questionable lineage and her association with the ancient Vampont family, who were said to be vampires. Vampont goes around by the more human name ‘Mona Daoud’ and came to Egypt to locate ancient books in the Bibliotheca Alexandrina that were associated with dark magic. Her stay extended longer than planned and she is now working on a highly secretive project. When she saw the ad for the creative writing course, she saw an opportunity to achieve several goals at once. The first was to relieve the stress that comes with alienation and having too many secrets, and the second was to learn how to write more creatively in order to produce better reports on her work, and last but not least, she finally saw a door through which she could release herself and tell the world her long daunting and shocking story. Vampont enjoyed the course very much because it gave her a chance to work on her cover as Mona Daoud, as well as on her own self. For years she has been unable to express herself, and now she has found a way to do it. It is best to try and not think about what she does when she mysteriously slips into the dark corners of Old Cairo.
“No listen to me Kash, this will be the hit of the season! We’re going to get an inflated condom shaped character and it will stand next to a frying pan and just start…you know…stir-frying…and the slogan will be…. ‘Durex…the safe way to cook up the heat!’ ”
Kashmir stared at Jack exasperatedly.
“So what do you think?” Asked Jack “The whole nation will be talking about it! It will be an icon! An unforgettable logo! An international phenomenon!” His hands were raised above him and he looked up as if he walked into a circle of light that just opened up in a cloudy sky. He inhaled deeply to deliver his dramatic punch line. “The whole nation will be talking about… the Stir-Frying Condom!”
Kashmir’s face was expressionless.
“So? What do you think Kash?”
“I think it’s bullshit” Said Kashmir quietly.
“You’re just saying that because you think it won’t be accepted in a conservative Middle Eastern country!” Said Jack slamming down his storyboard, feeling victimized.
Writing 2
Writing 2
You make me wish I were a gay man
I would have to fan the fish away
You’ve made It clear you will not sway on over
So I shall make my long and winding way to you
I hope you wait for me… for the three years of surgeries
Writing 3
At first, the soul was complete. Humans roamed the earth with the power of content individuals who never resorted to Dr. Phil or Oprah. There was no such thing as searching for one’s other half, for the other half was there. They had four arms, four legs and two faces.
So when Zeus had enough of human arrogance, he snuck into ODNAL (Olympia DNA Laboratories) and split the quadruple helixes stored in the massive state of the art genetic filing system using his 8,000,0000 mega watt bolt of lightning which he reserved for special events in history like Imperialism, Slavery, WWI, the birth of Hitler, and the inevitable indirect consequence known as 9/11.
A storm of global proportions took over the earth. The humans did not feel the excruciating pain of the severance for they were knocked out cold by the anesthetized bolts.
They woke up in a hangover like grogginess , very much aware of the searing pain that ran through their bodies and souls; A pain that they knew no Whisky shots would heal, no endless drags from endless joints of various drugs would soothe; They felt an emptiness that no abuse of any substance or binge eating would ever fill.
Panic ensued. They would spend the rest of their existence searching, partnering up in despair with humans they believe to be their other halves in a series of one night stands, and dysfunctional relationships that they will try to fix by reading a disaster that goes by the name Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. Others will try to fill the void by reading Bridget Jones.
Humans will fail so drastically at finding their other halves and will even sabotage their own efforts by inventing various forms of discrimination that will result in alienating two thirds of the human race by tabooing same sex relations for centuries. Ironically, they will sometimes kill their own other halves in battlefields and terrorist acts.
Zeus will smile down, pleased with the disaster he has created. In one corner of the world one man waits for his microwave dinner to pass an uneventful night in front an episode of Lost, while his other half, countries away pops a Xanax pill before heading out to a dead-end mind numbing job.
May Nabil
My name is May Nabil but I prefer to use ‘Perfumadelarosa or Italian Rose’ when I sign my writings, my first nickname invented for the cyber world. I regularly document my random diaries ever since I was 12. It all grew with me, this passion of pushing all my nude feelings over papers. I used to be a very active writer on couple of internet groups. I was vivid, bold but I have to admit I was naïve as I believed I can pass safely with my excessive blunt pieces I posted. Readers always found my writings very controversial, even few believed that I am mentally twisted coz I used to play with strong language back in early 2000 where majority were still considering publishing the word “sex” is still a taboo in Egypt.
I then decided to create my own blog in May 2005 where I practice a true freedom of speech on all levels. I had few loyal readers and although I didn’t care to know who thinks what of what I post, I seriously studied the option of publishing a book.
My writings declined as of 2009 as I lived a long season of dry inspiration. I felt am in prison for not being able to spell words that matches thoughts inside me this is when I joined Linda’s classes. I was seeking emotional release through learning new techniques to pour out my ideas.
On the other hand, being a writer was never among my “Things I wanna be” list. I wanted to be a hairdresser, a journalist and a fashion designer. I ended up becoming a full time employee and a freelance Makeup Artist. However, I still wanna publish my book one day, might also wanna be the Egyptian Samantha of ‘Sex & the City’.
In my other life.. Hello, my name is Caramel, and I am a Choreographer. Dancing has been the only thing I breathe since my birth. I moved recently to my private studio “Pulse” where I conduct my weekly classes. I love the fact that I bring style into my students’ life. Saturday’s are my favorite where the group engages into improvised routines. In 2 months, we shall compete against 20 troupes in the ‘National Dance Floor’ Festival.
The Graceful Lust
Every time I go nude, I wonder, how do you think of my body, how do you perceive my curves and skin type. But I don't keep wondering far as once I dig myself in your arms, my soul melt in your sphere. The thought make me shiver and go with a goose skin. I notice in your eyes more desire in possessing my flesh, in merging with me through your touches. I deliberate and show more skin. I sometime see you as a runaway boy who wishes to be lost in a heavenly garden where he can feel secure. I mostly use my exposures as a way of communication when my language fails me to express how I feel. And before I drift in my mind obstacles, I quickly surrender my tongue to yours as a sort of alliation in forces.
How can lovers become one in this most intimate action without losing their identity? How can they get rid of all their integral complexes just by holding hands? How can a passionate kiss wash away all fears? even tears becomes sweet and all irrational attitude make all sense.
How can lovers become one in this most intimate action without losing their identity? How can they get rid of all their integral complexes just by holding hands? How can a passionate kiss wash away all fears? even tears becomes sweet and all irrational attitude make all sense.
It's mysterious and this is the pleasure out of it. No hows or why all questions are as if don't need more answers.
In this most mask off emotional battle, lust becomes the only legible weapon.
Hysteria
I don't know why I'm writing all this while I can simply pick up the phone and call one friend instead of exposing myself in public like what I'm doing right now.
Exposing myself? It needs a lot of courage with spices of guts and rudeness. I am not ashamed to spread my sheet full of dirt. I am not embarrassed telling the stories of my sins coz I cannot read my Cosmopolitan in toilet while others masturbate in public then come play Saints over my seat.
Yesterday, I ploughed and I didn't say all the truth, not because I couldn't but simply I felt like lying and Oh Gosh, it felt so good, maybe better than the orgasm I faked last week.
Hysterias are true and sometimes fulfill someone's fantasies. That's why I keep posting them over, who hates to be a Hero?
If someone think it's oddly daring to write the above, think again coz you cannot buy affection. Instead, you can write a smash hit piece and get appreciation.
I must be losing the last sane cube of my corrupted brain.
-Hey Rosa, what's up with you?
-I'll tell you what's up with me: last night I discovered what seems to be a native understanding for any kid. The hard core of my daily energy abuse, the restlessness of this soul and the solution for my entire maze. I figured out that I want to love, no, I need to love.
I hear you out there..., it's not like what you think. I need to love and not to be loved which make all the difference in the world.
I know, I'm adorable, I'm a darling, who can ever resist me? Who can ever stop him/herself from loving me? I'm a sugar, I'm everyone's fantasy, and I am the pain and the ecstasy.
But finally, I wore my white flag and I won't take it off coz I cannot bare living with this truth anymore. I want to love, no, I need to love.
From Maria's diaries*: "When I had nothing to lose, I had everything. When I stopped being who I am, I found myself".
....It's cruel but it's true...
*Maria was the main character in Paulo Coelho’s famous book ‘Eleven minutes’.
Carla Love Frank (Black & White)
Behind the steel bars Carla smokes her last cigarette, looking back with a cynical laugh at her past life. There is no present and no more future. This is the end of the plot.
She remembers when she first met with Frank at his office on the 10th floor. That day, her destiny was determined. She walked in wearing her white Chanel ensemble, black heels and a hat. She never forgets her red lips at home. She enters then knocks the door. Behind a cloud of smokes, Frank appears, speaking on the phone with a wrinkled frown. He gives her a signal to come in and sit down. It’s humid outside but the vintage ventilator eased the air and pushes away documents from the desk. “Oops” Carla murmured, with a grimace she moves to rescue the papers. She slightly kneels to pick them up. Frank notices her posture and smile. Carla is the brunette Marlin Dietrich but as sweet as Rita Hayworth. Frank is a mix of Humphrey Bogart in a Frank Sinatra’s spirit. He hangs up and takes a long breath. “Hello” he start, “How can I help you ma am?” Carla hesitates then speaks “I am about to be killed detective”, “Then you came to the right place sweet lady” Frank giggle. They fade with the scene while a Dean Martin swing tune comes from the 11th floor.
At “Zaphir” club, Carla is the lead singer 4 nights a week. The place delivers first class services for it’s cliental. Show rehearsals are always conducted early mornings and changed twice a month to keep the atmosphere vivid. The stage is centralized between the round black leathered lounges. The walls painted in shimmering white screams jazz. On the opening day of her new show, Frank checks audiences from behind the beaded curtains. Carla finishes her song on stage with steering storm of applauses; she’s everyman’s fantasy and every woman’s jealousy. Her voice hypnotized Frank that he didn’t care enough why he is at this club in the first place. He fell for Carla’s irresistible charm. Does he know she fell for him after their few meetings at his office? No, he doesn’t.
Days go by; Frank and Carla are madly in love. They meet daily at her apartment late at night and sometimes she drop by his office early afternoon when she’s not performing. They drink, smoke and make love. Carla’s obsession with him grows. She is possessive. She’s not immune to his gaze or his husky tone. The scar near his left eye is like a magnet that pulls her whenever she wants to escape him. In bed, she sometimes calls him ‘Raoul’. He used to laugh then he hated it when she do that. Did he know that Raoul was the love of her life? Did he know that Raoul once existed? He was the love of her life and yet she murdered him. Why? Coz he left her and broke her heart apart. What about Frank? Would he face the same destiny?
Carla becomes more and more agitated when she senses Frank’s distance. Would she cover her hands with more blood? She wants revenge as she cannot accept being rejected. She considers giving away her heart to someone a sacred act and she always expect rewards. The detective disappeared like a phantom. He never returned back to the club. He never goes to his building. A massive mystery embarks on the stage of the femme fatale. Suspected for a crime of love, Carla gets arrested. No more silk, no more lace, she is facing her destiny within the grey walls behind those bars of steel. She puffs her last cigarette with her challenging eyes and her red lips that she never forgets at home.
Mariam Shaalan
I'm Mariam Shaalan, born on May 7th, 1987. With a B.A. in Mass Communication, I am now taking a course in teaching and in art. I love nature and I mostly get in touch with its creations, and that is where I get my story ideas, which deal with the problems of society, detachment of humanity, and animal cruelty. I’m also interested in human psychology and write it down as black humor. I love people; I love how they could have many choices to make, unlike any other being on earth that I think only lives for one purpose alone. I also like filmmaking and music.
In my other life, I am a rescuer. I rescue people from natural disasters, criminals, and even apocalypses. I am loyal, receptive and strong. I always know what there is to be done and do it. I’m also a traveler and communicator. I travel through other dimensions, and meet my friends and family there, and they talk to me, guiding me to help me on my quest to seek truth.
In my other life, I am a rescuer. I rescue people from natural disasters, criminals, and even apocalypses. I am loyal, receptive and strong. I always know what there is to be done and do it. I’m also a traveler and communicator. I travel through other dimensions, and meet my friends and family there, and they talk to me, guiding me to help me on my quest to seek truth.
The Little Mermaid Contemporized
I hated that fish. Silent. Its story began when my Dad’s recording company was finally going to record my singing. That was Daddy’s deal, until each of us completed her last year in middle school.Mine was the most beautiful voice of all voices Daddy had recorded. But then my sister and I were fooling around in his control room before the big day, and she raised the wire of her microphone, causing me to smash against a cornered sheet of glass. When we went to the doctor, he told me I couldn’t use my voice for one whole month, or I would lose it forever.
The next day she entered my room with a silent fish. If anything, it depressed me more. A life without singing was no life at all. She took me out to lunch with her friends. There I sat listening to a guy, who was so fascinated by fish; of course, I couldn’t tell him how much I hated them, and when he promised to take me on a snorkeling trip, I just nodded my head politely. By the end of the day, a singing competition was mentioned and the whole purpose of that outing got defeated.
Angry because of that, I went on the snorkeling trip with him. I didn’t expect that one week later, I would be on a stage singing to have him listen. During that trip he reflected other sides in me my sisters and father had never seen, because I never showed them before, thinking I was only made for singing and didn’t think other things in life existed. But even if it meant I would lose that eclipsing voice forever, I had to let it go. For he taught me the voice of the ocean. And now I have enough heart to listen to it.
“I am becoming”
I am becoming my first finished novel. Words are emitted on the computer screen, but they make no sense to the world, though I feel them in me. And they make no sense to me when I try to make sense out of them, so I dissolve my mind into words, breaking up my brain cells, which diminish into letters and then separate between huge gaps of nothingness till they disappear. I use my eyes and see another pair staring at me, one of my characters. I reach a hand out and slap her hard and the hard ground she hits, sending out a great thundering sound that flicks the ears of my skin into a far-off place, where I hear nothing. Sound has no meaning in this world I’m entering now. My finished novel has no sound. I smell the density of pages clasped together, and I feel this is home. My arms rattle and become scripts, sounds of characters whining, moaning, screaming, singing manifest themselves on my arms now, and my ears return, becoming those characters’ voices. My eyes cry, without me intending them to. I feel no emotion even, except for the urgency of trying to stop them because that would be trouble for me. I try to stop them, but they cry as though they’re being used by someone else. Someone else who is sad, and who doesn’t know the danger they’re forcing onto me, as my eyes are melted away by and with their tears. My heart beats, and beats, and the theme comes out, touching every other element, creating a glaze around them. My bones speak, relating the plot, and my blood runs into the hearts of other characters. I could feel my fingertips now, and raise them, automatically, to where my eyes used to be. They’re the ones who didn’t betray me, who stayed by me. The ones who once touched a former lover, and his hints still live in them. I scream his name, but only hear the opening of my novel being read.
The Truth Demon
The comedian disappeared. No one knew where he went, but most people were happy he'd gone. They thought his truth talks were too much to handle, because they came from an egotistically righteous moron, who thought everything he said was right, and judged others for not doing what he thought was right. Now he’s gone, and that’s where I step in, from the other side of the spectrum, giving them what they want to hear, telling them it’s okay to live their lives they way they’re doing. Who would hate on me now? They love me. However, unlike him I wear a costume. I paint my face. Maybe someday I’ll reveal my real face. It’s not that I don’t want them to see it, it’s that who I am really only shows in my costume. It’s a matter of when they’re ready to see my face, not when I’m ready to show it.
Now they want to see me again. So I arranged a live show that would start tonight. The curtains are brown; it’s a stuffy place. High ceilings, but narrow. The walls are brown, or is that the dust? The stage itself is brown, and the chairs where the audience will be seated had their color faded into brown. Let’s set the light here and there, and that’s it. My face would talk on its own, no one needs to see its expression. It’s one big scream already. Bright red, dark blue and black make-up. Navy overalls, and long hair to my neck. Now I’m ready to speak.
They’ve waited for me, well, not for long, for I wouldn’t keep them waiting. I thought of that idea for a live show, before they even thought of it, watching my videos worldwide online. That show is going to be shown live online for the rest of the haters to see it. First, I’m going to replay a video of that hated comedian in my dressing room and see where he makes serious videos to the world, asking.
“I want everyone to leave me now!” I bellow in my gruff voice. I was ready already. I came in from home in full costume. So I needed those moments to watch.
There he is, speaking so proudly and genuinely. That’s why they hated him. I’m genuine, too, but in a costume. What does that say about his moron haters who love me? Anyway, I wouldn’t want to disappoint them, or me. He was a constructive helper, I’m a destructive force, telling people they could live whatever way they choose and they won’t be judged, they won’t be told otherwise. I don’t ask them to stop the madness. I set inanimate objects on fire before a camera, and I’ll do that now before their eyes. I beat things fanatically with my bare arms into shreds. I gave them alternative ideas for doing boring, everyday tasks. What did he do? Tries to be hysterically funny, and then give people a forthright speech that nothing is going to be okay, yet, everyone knew why they hated him, and that wasn’t the reason. The same truth lay in all of his speeches. And they hated hearing the words of it.
“I didn’t call you by name and say hateful things about you, by name. Just for being against something you’re doing, you hate on me and throw those hurtful comments at me. You can try to shut me down, but I will not change. I will never withdraw, or discontinue,” he would say. I give the screen a big snorting laughter.
“You withdrew now, you stupid moron,” I say and shut the screen. I get up and walk through the backstage. I peer out of the curtains and see my belongings all spread there. I say in my deep, gruff voice, “Let’s do this.”
The crowd didn’t get a chance to welcome my appearance on stage, because it’s a surprise appearance. They flinch backwards in shock rather than turn to the stage and clap their hands to fucking dough. They hesitate once I start the show, wanting to laugh from the shock they’re in, their mouths only twitch. Now they know for sure that they don’t know what to expect. His haters are smart, or rather cautious towards what they do. For of course, they don’t want to be a hypocrite. They are not. He is. They love me because I’m not a hypocrite. I rashly play with fire, right? I break things, right? I love to laugh all the time and don’t give a crap about other people’s feelings. I’m not a hypocrite. He’s everything I’m not. They hate him, and love me.
Here comes the second act of my show. Now they’re pining for more things that prove they are right and he’s wrong. I’m very good at this. I feed them more of what they want to hear and I am what they want. I don’t have to act in a different way than who I am for them to love me. That’s why I can say I’m proudly genuine, or genuinely proud.
There comes the last part of the show, the finale. I scared them, and bring them to the edge of their seats. Once again, their lips tremble and their breathing voices do, they don’t know whether to laugh or to be afraid. But now, the hesitation is consumed with bloated bodies of previously extracted laughter, screams and whatever hollering I could think of producing out of them. Now I speak in a voice that becomes louder and louder. They didn’t know it could be so loud. They’re already scared, not knowing to await a big joke or a big fright. I say something. I say my truth. All of a sudden, there was no hesitation, no awaiting, they opened their mouths all of a sudden and screamed with whatever force they could reach in themselves and shouted, “Yes.”
Silence gets in my ears as I hear them yelling out their agreement, saying I have reached truly reached their views now. I have given them what they believed in and wanted to be shown themselves. I keep holding that lit lighter over my face, feeling it melt my make-up, then while they are screaming, I release the lighter and lower my hand to my hip. The lights above me and above them turn on brightly and I produce a damp towel from my pocket, while they all stare back in quiet. I wipe my face. I wipe it again. Then I wipe away the last melted wet smudge off the side of its saddened expression.
The truth was being said, it is only one truth. They agreed through the language of one, as they attacked the other. The comedian speaks now. “Now if you reject me, you will be the hypocrites.” He tosses the towel, the lighter on top of it and jumps off the stage, walking sideways towards the front door of the theatre.
Nadia El Hageen
My name is Nadia but everyone calls me Noudi. I’ve lived in Egypt all my life. I'd love to live somewhere else, but I'm too attached to my fellow Egyptians. Stuck in a life I'd like to change, yet grateful for every bit of it. Slow-motioned yet always on the move. Extremely scared of change, but always looking for it.
In my other life, I am a bright, petite and delicate French girl. Always wearing flowery skirts and white tops. I walk everyday through “les Jardin de tuilleri”, sit near a fountain and read a book enjoying the sound of the water splashing on the fountain's mosaic. But under this soft look and romantic accent, I hide a bold daring heart, walking around Paris looking for something to provoke me, to test my will.
In my other life, I am a bright, petite and delicate French girl. Always wearing flowery skirts and white tops. I walk everyday through “les Jardin de tuilleri”, sit near a fountain and read a book enjoying the sound of the water splashing on the fountain's mosaic. But under this soft look and romantic accent, I hide a bold daring heart, walking around Paris looking for something to provoke me, to test my will.
Carla Loves Frank
Carla loves Frank, that’s the title of the book. This catchy title with its romantic insinuation was totally contrary to its content.
You see the title was supposed to be Carla loves Frank, and Frank loves Carla. But that would’ve been too long, well anyway, they both did in fact love each other. They had their happy ending (that was another previous book). They promised to live happily ever after till death do them part…bla bla bla. The book was filled with drawings and colors, since it was after all a children's book. In the first book Carla was a simple plain girl from nowhere in the city and Frank was the prince of this city. And amongst all pretty girls around him, he chose her to be his wife. And they had the most luxurious wedding a book can describe.
Now Carla is still the simple plain girl from nowhere in the city. But Frank turned out to be one as well, a simple plain guy from somewhere in the same city. Don’t get me wrong, the love they had for each other still exists. It is here somewhere probably lying helplessly under a bunch of dirty clothes. Carla has been searching for it for a while, but Frank was not really helping. He would tell her that it’s standing right here between them, that she was not focusing. While in fact He was actually too tired to look for it.
Even when the thought crossed his mind, he just pushed it away since he realized that if he admits that love is actually missing it would mean he would actually have to leave his favorite place on the couch and start helping Carla looking for it. So denial was indeed the best strategy. Carla however, simple as she has always been, was sure that love was not dead but merely hiding somewhere, maybe behind the dishwasher or between the remote and a pack of Frank’s cigaretes. So she kept looking and looking, never stopping, rarely giving up. She would go back and forth, and move around the room, even standing in front of the TV yelling at Frank. And although it would usually drive him crazy, seeing her agitated like that, those would be the only times when Frank didn’t actually yell back. As deep down inside he was damn glad she was still looking, he was admiring her efforts for the search. He felt grateful that at least one of them was trying for both of them.
Where None May Pass But You
You live in this place where none may pass but you. The rest of us live and die around its borders. We eat, sleep and work hard for our undoubtful life. We keep our distance for fear we might face the ugly reality of our long lost land. We live here-generation after generation- in the neglected alleys of this earth, unadmitting the diminishing life we have settled for; the forgotten truth hidden in our history.
The cruelty with which the land was taken, the blunt truth thrown in our faces day after day have left most of us numbed, relieved to admit amongst each other that we’re released from the responsibility of having to fight for it. Yet sometimes, when the morning is still in its creation, and life hasn’t swept us away by daily nonsenses, we could feel our souls longing for the old home. Our hearts would beat a little bit harder; our breath would stop for the fear that we would never have the guts one day to get back our land, our home.
The Blue City
The blue color that filled the city gave it an air of serenity. All parts of this city blend together in a tuneful way. The earth and sky formed one unit, joined together calmly. People moved in what seemed like slow motion but were actually in no hurry for anything. They felt no hunger for objects, no greed for possessing. When two of them crossed, they would actualy slow down even more to give a soft smile or a nod to the other. Piece of mind filled them. The buildings, the shops, the cars all seemed more like floating rather than fixed on the earth. Nothing was stubborn, nothing was annoyed. And athough the city was filled with movement, everything was done in quietness, everything was done in harmony. This was a peaceful city.
Visit to Mokhtar Ibrahim Museum
I walked around the place looking for an impressive item. I moved from one room to the other till I stumbled over them, a statue of a Sheikh a Falaha. They both looked at me at once. I saw a look of distress in their eyes. They were investigating me, the way I walked, my clothes, what I was holding in my hands. And as if unaccepted, they ignored my presence and went on with their life.
But i just stood there, watching them walking gracefully, talking slowly to each other. A sense of envious pride overwhelmed me. I longed to a past I was never part of. I wished I could erase the past 100 years of nonsense. I wished I walked with my head high with steady steps to a clear definite future. I saw myself in black flowery clothes. I would smell like the wisdom of morning dew drops. That would be my real me, not imitating nor copying. My truth. My mind will hold millions of ideas, but my identity will be solid like the ground and I wouldnt change it for the world. Radiance of confidence will glow out of my golden Kerdans and earrings. East and West will come from far away to my house to hear my husband’s widsoms, the Sheikh’s wisdom. He would gladly talk for hours with no hesitations. He would sit in the middle of the room and everyone would gather around him. His large turban will hide his forehead. His tall composed appearance along with his certain warm voice will keep everyone’s uninterupted attention drawn to him.
Someone walks into the room, and I snap out of my dream. Looking down at myself, I realize I’m still in my jeans and sneakers, disapointed I continue my journey for inspiration, hoping one day I will be ME.
Nawara, or in another sense Noon, Struggling to get me out of the box and into a life that I haven't experienced yet. I write for the sake of voicing myself...how life can be huge and captured in a single sentence makes one hell of a MAGINFIQUE experience. As much as I have that feeling about a lot of things I have a love hate relationship with Cairo, still it's only in Cairo that I feel a lot like myself.
Smoke
I'm losing myself to him. I am losing the essence of my being, I feel like a turbulence has taken over me and there is nowhere to go..no place to call home or even a refuge. He is so Manchu he can eat me up and leave the pieces to lay on the side of the road for everyone to see my remaining and what I once was. It's like I m fading away. I no longer AM. Maybe a creature of the underworld with no substance, with no entity and I have to break free, I need to escape his presence for what I am becoming…Smoke. Grey and wavering. I m not filthy, believe me I am pure and as they say there s no smoke without fire. Now I m not lost, I sneak around and maneuver my way. I feel whole again because there is no vacuum that can sustain me. Now I can experience a lot and say a lot and be a lot. I feel free and out of the mundane reality that everyone seems to be so stuck on. I preferably am a cigarette smoke. Every time someone puffs from his cigarette I circulate around her creating an aura of livelihood and a new kind of existence so vicious, so surreal and yet so true, you can try to touch me and yet I escape u to a present in another medium of another time. I was thinking about myself lately and I feel I m hot all the time; but the best thing about me is that I m not sticky. I am a lala rhythm especially from a cigarette where you can find a moral. I am created by someone who has a mood so intense he probably needs to get me out of his system. I reveal a different layer of truth and lies. I m created by a self destructive decision, yet so appealingly relaxing and independently stunning. I am the star of the show, never un-needed, never un-appreciated and usually set free to roam around the world without any idea of being belittled or smudged. I hate being smudged. And even when it turns dusty I AM again. I feel so original and worthy. From ashes to ashes and dust to dust. I am the ESSENCE. OH Gee, I am a masterpiece.
From Nowhere With Love
When I leave you will have no one to talk to. You know you will miss me; that’s what you will have to bear as a burden for denouncing me - rejecting my love, my need, my closeness, the heat of my heart, and, the gentleness of my existence. I am you and you will be left here to suffer… a BEAST. You will miss me, you know you will; in the land of nowhere you will need my company, you wondrous beast. Who will tame you, give you a shoulder to cry on, when your savageness eats you inside out. When time stands still yet you hear the clock - tick tock, tick tock. When your heart aches and your soul is tortured, and you wander aimlessly, looking for me to hold you tight and whisper words of solitude in your ears. Without me, you will be unwhole, a half creature with unrecognizable features.
Who will set you free, you pragmatic, knowledgeable creature? Who will unleash the secret, desperate needs of yours? Who will humble himself to please and serve you? Who will be defer to you and allow you to trod upon this land, treating you like a master of wonders in this land of nowhere; and where will you go. You want guarantees; I don't have them. I don't have a home, but I can offer myself as a home. I offer a dream, nights of endless fairy tales, nights of love and passion, nights being your slave beneath your feet. But bear no grudge; I am here to be pleased as much as to please. I cannot deny my need for you only because I now how much you are hung up on me. I too, am weak for you, and you will become my queen, no more than that - a goddess, my love.
What do you offer! Your weakness tortures me; it gives me alien desires and leaves me in despair. When I am with you and I am strong; I lose all sense of the world. Even my feet that you so sweetly suck the devil out of would not be able to walk on any surface other than the sacred water of virgin blood. You say you are weak, but here I am, addicted to you., You make me a goddess, but with a god so vicious that he tears my heart apart. You are not a slave; you are the devil in disguise. Sometimes your words are like arrows in my chest, and other times I wish to kidnap you and wrap you up in a golden bowl and keep you for myself, and yet I know that even then, you will not be faithful to me. You always want more, you will become bored easily, always seeking, and never surrendering to the attention of one. Guarantees? I do not want guarantees - I want to own the body you offer to me, but only if you promise fidelity to me, promise that there will be no other to take your thoughts away from me. Your soul makes my body shivers so strongly that I fear paralysis, and yet I would so eagerly submit to paralysis if that would keep me in your company. Even my mind abandons me and sabotages every fact that I have ever learned. You know - remember facts and how people live up to them, and by them and in them, and yet you leave me here to question my entire life - what has been, and what will be, and leave me to believe only in the moment that I am with you. I am you and you are me. You break me down and I love your poison I would kill myself for more.
And what is it that you think you know better? That I will hurt you, isn’t that what you fear? Abuse you or manipulate you? Maybe I will do that ;perhaps you won’t be able to look at yourself - but in what? There are no mirrors, and the sea is merely a reflection of what I want you to see. Confess the truth and it will set you free - you love the pain I inflict upon you, and you know that I love the pain you torment me with. You are like a drug that makes a person lose control. So tell me, what is it that you think you know better? I may be the beast you say I am, but what a wonderful beast I am! The kind you would die for, if you really knew. If you knew that I need you to be a god in this land of nowhere. You never talk about the land, but you should; you should understand that we need each other to survive. We need unity and you cannot deny the effect this land has on us. I am older here, and this is how it should be a place where rules don’t remain constant simply for your safety and for the remembrance of times past, and times to come. Is this why you can only live in the present.
I am a child that fears I might lose my youth in your arms, you forbidden dream. I am a child that has grown up wild, but not free. I am imprisoned in the dungeon of your existence. I miss some things. The voice I used to have – the one I have now is different; not bad, but different and I m not used to it. I have a self so tormented that it aches, sweetly, but still it aches. So sweetly that I enjoy every pain I feel crushing my bones.I hurt myself more than you do, but you have a power above my ability to endure.It is magical, surreal, yet so mundane - so like me, so like you, so like animals feeding their appetite.. But when we talk, it’s a spell, you too are aware of it sometimes but you spoil it. It is only when you lose yourself into me that you become angelic and as pure as a child. Surrender, surrender, surrender to me, because I will not. how long will I keep fighting, having expectations. So low! So high! So mediocre! Damn you for erecting my butterflies. Damn you, you dark angel, I would kill myself for more. Or kill myself for real. You used to consider me colourful, but now I am dangerously stained with the mud of your weight. I long to hold your breath between my palms and melt in you, but only if you promise me to be mine alone. This land was once pure, I remember; it was once fair and dark, was once full of contradictions, it would only wish you would hang on to the present knowing that it would stay for ever only if you let it. But you don't let it you don't accept how fragile you were and how you were not weak as you say but natural and in touch with the heavenly rain flowing inside your veins.
You stupid angel of love! I can't promise you monogamy; I can only promise you suffering from jealousy and polygamy - and that is the nature of the land of nowhere. Don't you dare talk to me about the nature of the land; it is not you who suffered, it is not you who feared, and it is definitely not you who was held prisoner in his own mind fearing insanity and ambiguity until you came - until the whole of you came. So hear me now my love, I can promise you this: When I am with you, I will call you sweetheart and pronounce your name so sweetly that your entire body will be numb. I cannot promise you safety from paralysis because you are right, I shake your whole being. I will promise you that I will allow you to torture me, but I know that you too will ache so beautifully. I can promise myself to you, but not to own, nor turn me into a land of sterility. I am a wild beast and I will not let you tame me.
You think I will suffer for you, that I will allow you to besiege me? I will run, I will leave, and, I will be free of you....of your abuse, of your mind changing all the time, telling me to let go to the eternal hell of being your queen and then...just a second later, you do not want me, you want something I am not, something fearful and ugly. You think you know me, you think you do, I am a queen, you are right, but a queen of myself, my life, my dreams of sunshine will come true, my dreams of this land being fertile will come true....I am a silly young girl who speaks words of wisdom and cherishes her silence. from early in time I wished I would walk on the clouds and touch tears of heaven; from beyond recollection I knew how life can be held in a dream, so now you hear me: I will not surrender, I will not let go, I will not turn wild, I will not love you I will leave. I would rather be stoned in a cave than be burnt by your fire. I will carve your name upon my chest, but promise myself chastity until you return to me - only me.- I would rather be stoned in cave than watch you blithely go wild and free without me, only to hunt and win a game of life so unfair and full of false glory. I will capture the moon and make a wish upon its lucky star, one wish which I will jeopardise my life upon, till it comes true...that you will come to me, you will come to me, my love.
I Am A Sexual Creature
Around three years ago, i was almost dying...i had to have a surgery and i was 40 kilos unable to move or talk or even sleep without having my back straight up.
A couple of weeks after i finished my senior year at college i was hospitalized...one of the worst experiences i have ever had is that i had to stay on solutions injected into my intravenous and because i used to have so many shots eventually they had to inject me in my central line in my neck...i stayed in the hospital for a couple of weeks and then i had my surgery and after that i stayed at home for another couple of weeks in bed again i didnt eat or move and i had to steal cigerattes and bottom line it was a nightmare ... but truth is that i was alive and thankfull I WAS ALIVE.. nobody i know appreciates this simple fact until something major happens to them or someone they love.
Maybe thats not relevent to some towhat i m about to talk about but it definitely is relevent to me...six months before that i had just broken up with my boy friend because i had a severe depression and he could nt handle it... six months later again i met another guy whom i told him to his face that he s more likely a sex addict so for a whole year i was lamenting guys. A year later i was overweight, gaining and gaining weight because i have an eating disorder...that made my love life a huge problem...
i wanted so much to fall in love, date, have a stable relationship, kiss and stuff and eventually get married..
yet i had troubles with my sexuality...but i m not an asexual creature.. i had troubles identifying my needs, i had troubles thinking why i needed a man in my life... was it pure pleasure, the need to belong to someone, or just because that s the course of nature.
I had troubles thinking about what a man should be like with me...or what i should be like with him... should i be agressive, should i be sentimentale, i m very careing by nature more of a motherly figure, so i had troubles especially after gaining so much weight to identify my role in a relationship... can i have desires, can i be sexy...can i be wanted.
In the last couple of weeks i have been out of Egypt...Kenya and Canada. I have started to feel alive, I have started to feel as a female I have started to be a sexual creature...specially that i have a special friend, someone who treats me as a girl, someone who needs me and welcome my needs, someone alive, sexy in flesh and blood.
I have lived through a lot and much more and i am ALIVE... again after three years when i faced my death i feel alive... i am a girl , a woman , a needy clinging bitch , doubting as he says, will not stop until i get what i want... i am a sexual creature.
Nawara Magdy Belal
Nawara, or in another sense Noon, Struggling to get me out of the box and into a life that I haven't experienced yet. I write for the sake of voicing myself...how life can be huge and captured in a single sentence makes one hell of a MAGINFIQUE experience. As much as I have that feeling about a lot of things I have a love hate relationship with Cairo, still it's only in Cairo that I feel a lot like myself.
In my other Life I am a student during the 1960's Student Revolution in Paris. I am affectionate, strong and stubborn. I ran away from my family's house during a stormy night to join my lover in organizing a rally and we were caught hand in hand fighting against the law and then ran away and hid in a cottage in the countryside. I am a wandering creature looking for a home.
Smoke
I'm losing myself to him. I am losing the essence of my being, I feel like a turbulence has taken over me and there is nowhere to go..no place to call home or even a refuge. He is so Manchu he can eat me up and leave the pieces to lay on the side of the road for everyone to see my remaining and what I once was. It's like I m fading away. I no longer AM. Maybe a creature of the underworld with no substance, with no entity and I have to break free, I need to escape his presence for what I am becoming…Smoke. Grey and wavering. I m not filthy, believe me I am pure and as they say there s no smoke without fire. Now I m not lost, I sneak around and maneuver my way. I feel whole again because there is no vacuum that can sustain me. Now I can experience a lot and say a lot and be a lot. I feel free and out of the mundane reality that everyone seems to be so stuck on. I preferably am a cigarette smoke. Every time someone puffs from his cigarette I circulate around her creating an aura of livelihood and a new kind of existence so vicious, so surreal and yet so true, you can try to touch me and yet I escape u to a present in another medium of another time. I was thinking about myself lately and I feel I m hot all the time; but the best thing about me is that I m not sticky. I am a lala rhythm especially from a cigarette where you can find a moral. I am created by someone who has a mood so intense he probably needs to get me out of his system. I reveal a different layer of truth and lies. I m created by a self destructive decision, yet so appealingly relaxing and independently stunning. I am the star of the show, never un-needed, never un-appreciated and usually set free to roam around the world without any idea of being belittled or smudged. I hate being smudged. And even when it turns dusty I AM again. I feel so original and worthy. From ashes to ashes and dust to dust. I am the ESSENCE. OH Gee, I am a masterpiece.
From Nowhere With Love
When I leave you will have no one to talk to. You know you will miss me; that’s what you will have to bear as a burden for denouncing me - rejecting my love, my need, my closeness, the heat of my heart, and, the gentleness of my existence. I am you and you will be left here to suffer… a BEAST. You will miss me, you know you will; in the land of nowhere you will need my company, you wondrous beast. Who will tame you, give you a shoulder to cry on, when your savageness eats you inside out. When time stands still yet you hear the clock - tick tock, tick tock. When your heart aches and your soul is tortured, and you wander aimlessly, looking for me to hold you tight and whisper words of solitude in your ears. Without me, you will be unwhole, a half creature with unrecognizable features.
Who will set you free, you pragmatic, knowledgeable creature? Who will unleash the secret, desperate needs of yours? Who will humble himself to please and serve you? Who will be defer to you and allow you to trod upon this land, treating you like a master of wonders in this land of nowhere; and where will you go. You want guarantees; I don't have them. I don't have a home, but I can offer myself as a home. I offer a dream, nights of endless fairy tales, nights of love and passion, nights being your slave beneath your feet. But bear no grudge; I am here to be pleased as much as to please. I cannot deny my need for you only because I now how much you are hung up on me. I too, am weak for you, and you will become my queen, no more than that - a goddess, my love.
What do you offer! Your weakness tortures me; it gives me alien desires and leaves me in despair. When I am with you and I am strong; I lose all sense of the world. Even my feet that you so sweetly suck the devil out of would not be able to walk on any surface other than the sacred water of virgin blood. You say you are weak, but here I am, addicted to you., You make me a goddess, but with a god so vicious that he tears my heart apart. You are not a slave; you are the devil in disguise. Sometimes your words are like arrows in my chest, and other times I wish to kidnap you and wrap you up in a golden bowl and keep you for myself, and yet I know that even then, you will not be faithful to me. You always want more, you will become bored easily, always seeking, and never surrendering to the attention of one. Guarantees? I do not want guarantees - I want to own the body you offer to me, but only if you promise fidelity to me, promise that there will be no other to take your thoughts away from me. Your soul makes my body shivers so strongly that I fear paralysis, and yet I would so eagerly submit to paralysis if that would keep me in your company. Even my mind abandons me and sabotages every fact that I have ever learned. You know - remember facts and how people live up to them, and by them and in them, and yet you leave me here to question my entire life - what has been, and what will be, and leave me to believe only in the moment that I am with you. I am you and you are me. You break me down and I love your poison I would kill myself for more.
And what is it that you think you know better? That I will hurt you, isn’t that what you fear? Abuse you or manipulate you? Maybe I will do that ;perhaps you won’t be able to look at yourself - but in what? There are no mirrors, and the sea is merely a reflection of what I want you to see. Confess the truth and it will set you free - you love the pain I inflict upon you, and you know that I love the pain you torment me with. You are like a drug that makes a person lose control. So tell me, what is it that you think you know better? I may be the beast you say I am, but what a wonderful beast I am! The kind you would die for, if you really knew. If you knew that I need you to be a god in this land of nowhere. You never talk about the land, but you should; you should understand that we need each other to survive. We need unity and you cannot deny the effect this land has on us. I am older here, and this is how it should be a place where rules don’t remain constant simply for your safety and for the remembrance of times past, and times to come. Is this why you can only live in the present.
I am a child that fears I might lose my youth in your arms, you forbidden dream. I am a child that has grown up wild, but not free. I am imprisoned in the dungeon of your existence. I miss some things. The voice I used to have – the one I have now is different; not bad, but different and I m not used to it. I have a self so tormented that it aches, sweetly, but still it aches. So sweetly that I enjoy every pain I feel crushing my bones.I hurt myself more than you do, but you have a power above my ability to endure.It is magical, surreal, yet so mundane - so like me, so like you, so like animals feeding their appetite.. But when we talk, it’s a spell, you too are aware of it sometimes but you spoil it. It is only when you lose yourself into me that you become angelic and as pure as a child. Surrender, surrender, surrender to me, because I will not. how long will I keep fighting, having expectations. So low! So high! So mediocre! Damn you for erecting my butterflies. Damn you, you dark angel, I would kill myself for more. Or kill myself for real. You used to consider me colourful, but now I am dangerously stained with the mud of your weight. I long to hold your breath between my palms and melt in you, but only if you promise me to be mine alone. This land was once pure, I remember; it was once fair and dark, was once full of contradictions, it would only wish you would hang on to the present knowing that it would stay for ever only if you let it. But you don't let it you don't accept how fragile you were and how you were not weak as you say but natural and in touch with the heavenly rain flowing inside your veins.
You stupid angel of love! I can't promise you monogamy; I can only promise you suffering from jealousy and polygamy - and that is the nature of the land of nowhere. Don't you dare talk to me about the nature of the land; it is not you who suffered, it is not you who feared, and it is definitely not you who was held prisoner in his own mind fearing insanity and ambiguity until you came - until the whole of you came. So hear me now my love, I can promise you this: When I am with you, I will call you sweetheart and pronounce your name so sweetly that your entire body will be numb. I cannot promise you safety from paralysis because you are right, I shake your whole being. I will promise you that I will allow you to torture me, but I know that you too will ache so beautifully. I can promise myself to you, but not to own, nor turn me into a land of sterility. I am a wild beast and I will not let you tame me.
You think I will suffer for you, that I will allow you to besiege me? I will run, I will leave, and, I will be free of you....of your abuse, of your mind changing all the time, telling me to let go to the eternal hell of being your queen and then...just a second later, you do not want me, you want something I am not, something fearful and ugly. You think you know me, you think you do, I am a queen, you are right, but a queen of myself, my life, my dreams of sunshine will come true, my dreams of this land being fertile will come true....I am a silly young girl who speaks words of wisdom and cherishes her silence. from early in time I wished I would walk on the clouds and touch tears of heaven; from beyond recollection I knew how life can be held in a dream, so now you hear me: I will not surrender, I will not let go, I will not turn wild, I will not love you I will leave. I would rather be stoned in a cave than be burnt by your fire. I will carve your name upon my chest, but promise myself chastity until you return to me - only me.- I would rather be stoned in cave than watch you blithely go wild and free without me, only to hunt and win a game of life so unfair and full of false glory. I will capture the moon and make a wish upon its lucky star, one wish which I will jeopardise my life upon, till it comes true...that you will come to me, you will come to me, my love.
I Am A Sexual Creature
Around three years ago, i was almost dying...i had to have a surgery and i was 40 kilos unable to move or talk or even sleep without having my back straight up.
A couple of weeks after i finished my senior year at college i was hospitalized...one of the worst experiences i have ever had is that i had to stay on solutions injected into my intravenous and because i used to have so many shots eventually they had to inject me in my central line in my neck...i stayed in the hospital for a couple of weeks and then i had my surgery and after that i stayed at home for another couple of weeks in bed again i didnt eat or move and i had to steal cigerattes and bottom line it was a nightmare ... but truth is that i was alive and thankfull I WAS ALIVE.. nobody i know appreciates this simple fact until something major happens to them or someone they love.
Maybe thats not relevent to some towhat i m about to talk about but it definitely is relevent to me...six months before that i had just broken up with my boy friend because i had a severe depression and he could nt handle it... six months later again i met another guy whom i told him to his face that he s more likely a sex addict so for a whole year i was lamenting guys. A year later i was overweight, gaining and gaining weight because i have an eating disorder...that made my love life a huge problem...
i wanted so much to fall in love, date, have a stable relationship, kiss and stuff and eventually get married..
yet i had troubles with my sexuality...but i m not an asexual creature.. i had troubles identifying my needs, i had troubles thinking why i needed a man in my life... was it pure pleasure, the need to belong to someone, or just because that s the course of nature.
I had troubles thinking about what a man should be like with me...or what i should be like with him... should i be agressive, should i be sentimentale, i m very careing by nature more of a motherly figure, so i had troubles especially after gaining so much weight to identify my role in a relationship... can i have desires, can i be sexy...can i be wanted.
In the last couple of weeks i have been out of Egypt...Kenya and Canada. I have started to feel alive, I have started to feel as a female I have started to be a sexual creature...specially that i have a special friend, someone who treats me as a girl, someone who needs me and welcome my needs, someone alive, sexy in flesh and blood.
I have lived through a lot and much more and i am ALIVE... again after three years when i faced my death i feel alive... i am a girl , a woman , a needy clinging bitch , doubting as he says, will not stop until i get what i want... i am a sexual creature.
The One That Resides In Me
“NO Lucy…well I m not sure, maybe”. “Nadia we can never be on the same track”. That might have been the last utterance between me and Lucy a couple of days ago. But now she is sleeping with me. She said, I said, but for some time nobody took a serious action, not even a mild one. Songs were traced in the train of thought between us – that is because we are a lot alike- I m not going to act out of cliché and say stuff like Om Kalthoum…or even Sinatra – those being the favorite of my father- the figure of pride and jealousy between Lucy and myself. Assem, the man of every girls dream, music notes come on mind now as I try to express how I – us- feel about him. Tee rara rara ra …. I was from Egypt while Lucy was from Spain; now we are from the clay of Assem. Our father, the renounced translator cheated on the both of us and our mothers. Now Lucy and I live alone in a very green place, but sometimes when he comes to haunt us back it turns caramel like the color of his skin. Although when I saw him bathing naked he was white as the peas of a guava, his skin was always soft by olive oil, the same color of his eyes. BUT he was an Ostrich. Now Lucy and I feel like we can never belong. We now have no place and no home but the arms of ourselves since we are cast out of him.
“I love you Lucy”…silence, the same time we talked a couple of days ago. But I feel ambivalent about how she feels about me. We shout, we scream. AHHHHHHHH…” now I got it out of my system” said Lucy, “now I can love you back Nadia”. Why does it have to be this way? We asked and we answered because regardless of our loneliness we are a camouflage. “But of what???” She answered “God damn it Nadia…how many times do I need to tell u… of him of the man who said he loved us”, kiss me Lucy; kiss me like he never kissed us before. And we cuddled, and then came peace.
Music notes, always music notes, and then a performance. She acted to me that other night, she danced and danced and sang and then drank all the wine. The wine in the fountain, I say in the fountain and not from the fountain because she goes into the fountain and drinks and come out crimson, and then I cry and she cries and we dance ballet. Modern of course and not classic because we don’t like classic. Everything classic reminds us of him. The one and only man. How many times did he come to us and held our hands and walked with us and the land becomes velvet on the music of his violin. Oh yes he was a man of great talents and so were we. We were of every color and every texture. Now we have no one to brag on but ourselves. That’s why we fight a lot but then and again we love ourselves I mean each other… but we both cry at night in the darkness of the hollow space that is between us and yet we don’t listen, we crave. and long and yearn and we are tired. We are exhausted.
“You know what Nadia; I think he loved me more. He always gazed at me in this needy way, like he really wants me with him”; “then why did he leave you here with me”; “because you stupid he didn’t want you to suffer”. She looked at me in anguish and as if she concurred herself, something which ultimately annoys me, “because he loved you too, but me more”. I hate her when she says so, which made me say what I always resent myself for mentioning; “Lucy, you know that u came by mistake, accept it, it was always ME”. Quarrels, firm grips, then soft gestures and then finger nails gently touching each other causing a shiver. We then make love. That is not wrong in our land. We are one, try to understand Assem. We can never be totally yours, you left us and the land has rules. We have to love each other. We have to bond. We are not like you, we don’t cheat and we are desperate and tight. Very very tight. But we do we hurt each other; when we are made of the same clay Why when we feel so right together? We don’t know actually, we might never do.
Then what, what happens to us when we grow old, when our bodies yearn for warmth and our souls long for tenderness.
We fell in love with him and then with each other. Time difference is long, I remember times when he used to sleep between us. Me one leg over his belly and Lucy has an arm around his neck. We used to fight over his very being; who would hold the more of him; who would feel his breath. But he left us. He took us on a journey, the last time we had a chance to look in his eyes and smuggle his beauty into our memory. Then we became so one with each other. We maneuvered around each other. Who would sleep under the shed and who would watch out for the beasts? We became so slim, though we were fat before. That is because daddy loved his girls chubby. He loved us full and round. We thought we betrayed him when we changed so much, when we became fairly beautiful and all the more attractive. When I used to cry for such betrayal Lucy used to comfort me saying that at least there is no one around; that the beauty is held between us. And that’s when we start kissing. Full rounded lips full rounded arms and legs all in one entity; all together. But I tell her no and she says yes. Other times I say yes and she says no. We never settle for the same thing. The first time we had our period the whole place turned red. The ocean turned gloomy. It whispered his words; you are no longer my young girls. Now I want you. We got very scared. We got used to the female scent and voice and touch. But the blood was so strong. We bled we bled and we bled. We needed medication and no one turned to help us. We were threatened but we did not surrender. We decided to tell our own story. We dressed in white. We walked, and then ran then we stopped to breath; then again and again and again. Our clothes got torn. Our hair was cut by the branches of the huge tree where we first landed. We took it as a bad sign. But then we flew. As our path got longer so did our arms and legs. We were wingless, yet we flew. We touched the sky and we then landed on the top of the mountain. We entered from top to bottom. It was all that contradictions could ever bear; cold and hot as a furnace; intimate and distant as a cloud. But we were met with one wonder that almost knocked the hell out of us. There were portrayals of the two of us in every crack of the deep mountain. There we were smiling and dancing and swimming all, all of our memories together. It was… bitter sweet. We were looking at us from afar from images of the past from mellow rhythm of a loving past. Oh how much did we want it to last. Then again we heard the wild ocean whispers his words, “if troy surrendered to me would not you!!! My dearest and most loving creations. I am your Achilles, the one and only” Out of the blues we directed our long arms and legs that stretched to itch at the cravings on the mountain and reached the bottom of it.
There it was miraculously and insanely beautiful; a piece of the greenest heaven ever to be crafted by the hands of the mighty being. I must be stuttering to the magic of the smile. My God!!! Is that really you, here with us? Our legs and arms shrank at the sight of the mighty HIM. We rolled ourselves in each other’s arms and crawled at his feet. We closed our eyes and whispered a prayer with confidence that nothing would harm us.
Dear lord, may we never separate from the loving company of each other. Please keep us close to the eyes of the sun and the shadow of your moon. We dare ask you to fill our hearts with comfort and satisfaction. I love me because she resides there with you. May I sleep in an eternal dream of ever gentleness of her touch and never let go.
We slept like newly born babies and never were to wake to the whispers of the one and only man, our dearest father.
Omnia Ayman Hassan
In my other life, I am running beside my house that is surrounded by a green field full of different kinds of flowers. I am laughing and feeling free, the sun is shining and the weather is wonderful. I am playing with my two children and we are all happy. I am so wise and energetic. And I have no fear of tomorrow or what life hides from me.
Speak for Yourself
I began to lose confidence in my self, every time I try to do something, everyone around me says that it is worthless, or I can not achieve it. I can not accomplish a little thing without hearing negative words from others; they transfer every valuable thing into nothing. I have really given up trying to convince them that if a person wants something very much and really believes in it, they must try to have it.
I made a decision that I will not care about any other opinion that will make me surrender or give up something I really believe in. But that meant that I will be alone, without my family or friends, that really can not be named them friends because they do not do one tiny thing that friends do. I was lost in the dark without a little spark of light or hope, I felt so weak and as if I had numerous stones on my chest so that I could not breath and without anyone to talk to to feel relief. It felt hard. That decision that I made it meant that I had to make more effort to proove that I am right and all of them are wrong, but what if they are right and I am wrong.
Maybe I am the one who is dreaming in a world that you do not suppose to be dreaming at all, maybe I am like a child who believes in the tooth fairy and refuses anyone who convinces him that tooth fairies do not exist in the real world. I must reconsider my decision, I am not strong enough to face the real world and prove to them that because we can not see tooth fairies or touch a rainbow that means that they are not part of what made us who we are now, you have to believe in something in order to be true.
Beautiful Flower
Here I am standing between all of those flowers, some of them look like me and others differ. Maybe I am more beautiful than them or perhaps I see myself like that with all the green surrounding me. I differ from the sunflower that moves towards the sun .I am just an ordinary flower full of beautiful colors. You will love to look at me, I will let you feel free as I do, moving as I feel. With a whisper I will call your name and you will recognize me, I might be a drawing on a little girl dress, or a painting on an old woman's wall.
The Smell of Cancer
I hated that smell at first, that smell of sickness, lying down in the bed; helpless wondering what brought him to this edge. I am not used to see him like that, he was a strong man full of ambition, and always looking forward to the future, he loved too, and he was planning to publish a book. Before when he got hurt he would say to himself, I am invincible I cannot be feelingthat pain in my arm caused by being hit by a bus. He is looking at himself now, suffering from cancer, and he can not do anything to help himself.
“NO Lucy…well I m not sure, maybe”. “Nadia we can never be on the same track”. That might have been the last utterance between me and Lucy a couple of days ago. But now she is sleeping with me. She said, I said, but for some time nobody took a serious action, not even a mild one. Songs were traced in the train of thought between us – that is because we are a lot alike- I m not going to act out of cliché and say stuff like Om Kalthoum…or even Sinatra – those being the favorite of my father- the figure of pride and jealousy between Lucy and myself. Assem, the man of every girls dream, music notes come on mind now as I try to express how I – us- feel about him. Tee rara rara ra …. I was from Egypt while Lucy was from Spain; now we are from the clay of Assem. Our father, the renounced translator cheated on the both of us and our mothers. Now Lucy and I live alone in a very green place, but sometimes when he comes to haunt us back it turns caramel like the color of his skin. Although when I saw him bathing naked he was white as the peas of a guava, his skin was always soft by olive oil, the same color of his eyes. BUT he was an Ostrich. Now Lucy and I feel like we can never belong. We now have no place and no home but the arms of ourselves since we are cast out of him.
“I love you Lucy”…silence, the same time we talked a couple of days ago. But I feel ambivalent about how she feels about me. We shout, we scream. AHHHHHHHH…” now I got it out of my system” said Lucy, “now I can love you back Nadia”. Why does it have to be this way? We asked and we answered because regardless of our loneliness we are a camouflage. “But of what???” She answered “God damn it Nadia…how many times do I need to tell u… of him of the man who said he loved us”, kiss me Lucy; kiss me like he never kissed us before. And we cuddled, and then came peace.
Music notes, always music notes, and then a performance. She acted to me that other night, she danced and danced and sang and then drank all the wine. The wine in the fountain, I say in the fountain and not from the fountain because she goes into the fountain and drinks and come out crimson, and then I cry and she cries and we dance ballet. Modern of course and not classic because we don’t like classic. Everything classic reminds us of him. The one and only man. How many times did he come to us and held our hands and walked with us and the land becomes velvet on the music of his violin. Oh yes he was a man of great talents and so were we. We were of every color and every texture. Now we have no one to brag on but ourselves. That’s why we fight a lot but then and again we love ourselves I mean each other… but we both cry at night in the darkness of the hollow space that is between us and yet we don’t listen, we crave. and long and yearn and we are tired. We are exhausted.
“You know what Nadia; I think he loved me more. He always gazed at me in this needy way, like he really wants me with him”; “then why did he leave you here with me”; “because you stupid he didn’t want you to suffer”. She looked at me in anguish and as if she concurred herself, something which ultimately annoys me, “because he loved you too, but me more”. I hate her when she says so, which made me say what I always resent myself for mentioning; “Lucy, you know that u came by mistake, accept it, it was always ME”. Quarrels, firm grips, then soft gestures and then finger nails gently touching each other causing a shiver. We then make love. That is not wrong in our land. We are one, try to understand Assem. We can never be totally yours, you left us and the land has rules. We have to love each other. We have to bond. We are not like you, we don’t cheat and we are desperate and tight. Very very tight. But we do we hurt each other; when we are made of the same clay Why when we feel so right together? We don’t know actually, we might never do.
Then what, what happens to us when we grow old, when our bodies yearn for warmth and our souls long for tenderness.
We fell in love with him and then with each other. Time difference is long, I remember times when he used to sleep between us. Me one leg over his belly and Lucy has an arm around his neck. We used to fight over his very being; who would hold the more of him; who would feel his breath. But he left us. He took us on a journey, the last time we had a chance to look in his eyes and smuggle his beauty into our memory. Then we became so one with each other. We maneuvered around each other. Who would sleep under the shed and who would watch out for the beasts? We became so slim, though we were fat before. That is because daddy loved his girls chubby. He loved us full and round. We thought we betrayed him when we changed so much, when we became fairly beautiful and all the more attractive. When I used to cry for such betrayal Lucy used to comfort me saying that at least there is no one around; that the beauty is held between us. And that’s when we start kissing. Full rounded lips full rounded arms and legs all in one entity; all together. But I tell her no and she says yes. Other times I say yes and she says no. We never settle for the same thing. The first time we had our period the whole place turned red. The ocean turned gloomy. It whispered his words; you are no longer my young girls. Now I want you. We got very scared. We got used to the female scent and voice and touch. But the blood was so strong. We bled we bled and we bled. We needed medication and no one turned to help us. We were threatened but we did not surrender. We decided to tell our own story. We dressed in white. We walked, and then ran then we stopped to breath; then again and again and again. Our clothes got torn. Our hair was cut by the branches of the huge tree where we first landed. We took it as a bad sign. But then we flew. As our path got longer so did our arms and legs. We were wingless, yet we flew. We touched the sky and we then landed on the top of the mountain. We entered from top to bottom. It was all that contradictions could ever bear; cold and hot as a furnace; intimate and distant as a cloud. But we were met with one wonder that almost knocked the hell out of us. There were portrayals of the two of us in every crack of the deep mountain. There we were smiling and dancing and swimming all, all of our memories together. It was… bitter sweet. We were looking at us from afar from images of the past from mellow rhythm of a loving past. Oh how much did we want it to last. Then again we heard the wild ocean whispers his words, “if troy surrendered to me would not you!!! My dearest and most loving creations. I am your Achilles, the one and only” Out of the blues we directed our long arms and legs that stretched to itch at the cravings on the mountain and reached the bottom of it.
There it was miraculously and insanely beautiful; a piece of the greenest heaven ever to be crafted by the hands of the mighty being. I must be stuttering to the magic of the smile. My God!!! Is that really you, here with us? Our legs and arms shrank at the sight of the mighty HIM. We rolled ourselves in each other’s arms and crawled at his feet. We closed our eyes and whispered a prayer with confidence that nothing would harm us.
Dear lord, may we never separate from the loving company of each other. Please keep us close to the eyes of the sun and the shadow of your moon. We dare ask you to fill our hearts with comfort and satisfaction. I love me because she resides there with you. May I sleep in an eternal dream of ever gentleness of her touch and never let go.
We slept like newly born babies and never were to wake to the whispers of the one and only man, our dearest father.
My name is Omnia Ayman Hassan, I am a translator. My dream job is to work in a newspaper where I can write and translate. I dreamed about many things that I would accomplish by this age but these dreams and imaginations did not come true, I am only 22 years old but I feel that life has left her scars on me so that I feel that I am 122 years. I like to spend my time reading; I feel the character’s suffering and joy and I live everyday of their lives. I usually write when inspired or have this big energy of expressing words that I cannot contain anymore. I started to write when I was six years old, I remember that day when I sat on my small desk and wrote short stories about animals talking to each other. Inspiration usually comes to me, I know it because I feel it, I feel inspired when the fresh air gently passes on my skin, and with the view of the pure sea; my emotions move like its waves and that can change my mood entirely, and when I see children playing happily and running I see their freedom in their eyes.
I began to lose confidence in my self, every time I try to do something, everyone around me says that it is worthless, or I can not achieve it. I can not accomplish a little thing without hearing negative words from others; they transfer every valuable thing into nothing. I have really given up trying to convince them that if a person wants something very much and really believes in it, they must try to have it.
I made a decision that I will not care about any other opinion that will make me surrender or give up something I really believe in. But that meant that I will be alone, without my family or friends, that really can not be named them friends because they do not do one tiny thing that friends do. I was lost in the dark without a little spark of light or hope, I felt so weak and as if I had numerous stones on my chest so that I could not breath and without anyone to talk to to feel relief. It felt hard. That decision that I made it meant that I had to make more effort to proove that I am right and all of them are wrong, but what if they are right and I am wrong.
Maybe I am the one who is dreaming in a world that you do not suppose to be dreaming at all, maybe I am like a child who believes in the tooth fairy and refuses anyone who convinces him that tooth fairies do not exist in the real world. I must reconsider my decision, I am not strong enough to face the real world and prove to them that because we can not see tooth fairies or touch a rainbow that means that they are not part of what made us who we are now, you have to believe in something in order to be true.
Beautiful Flower
Here I am standing between all of those flowers, some of them look like me and others differ. Maybe I am more beautiful than them or perhaps I see myself like that with all the green surrounding me. I differ from the sunflower that moves towards the sun .I am just an ordinary flower full of beautiful colors. You will love to look at me, I will let you feel free as I do, moving as I feel. With a whisper I will call your name and you will recognize me, I might be a drawing on a little girl dress, or a painting on an old woman's wall.
The Smell of Cancer
I hated that smell at first, that smell of sickness, lying down in the bed; helpless wondering what brought him to this edge. I am not used to see him like that, he was a strong man full of ambition, and always looking forward to the future, he loved too, and he was planning to publish a book. Before when he got hurt he would say to himself, I am invincible I cannot be feelingthat pain in my arm caused by being hit by a bus. He is looking at himself now, suffering from cancer, and he can not do anything to help himself.
Sorrow Days
She woke up to the sound of her pink alarm that she'd had since she was five, it had been her birthday present, on the night before her first day at school. This and her brown bear are the only two things that still remind her that she was a small, innocent girl one day.
She dressed and prepared her bag and went to the door, opened it and said goodbye to her mother and did not wait for a reply. Her mother heard her, but did not give much attention; she went to the kitchen to prepare the milk for her baby; soon he would wake up and need to be fed. She washed the feeding bottle carefully, and went to the baby’s room.
The telephone rang, she said to herself, now it will stop, but it continued ringing, she still did not want to answer it, especially now when the baby started to cry, she became nervous from the two sounds shouting at her. The telephone raised its voice as if it was requesting help. She found herself answering it, a small tear slowly came out from her eyes continuing its way, by passing down her cheek. She raised her voice "My daughter is so sick , I DID NOT KNOW THAT, and I am the one who is staying with her in the same house and I am the one who supposed to protect her”.
The baby was going to fall and she dropped the phone to run to catch him. She held him in her arms and said to him that everything was going to be alright, as if she was saying it to herself. She kept walking in different directions without knowing what to do or how to respond. The baby fell asleep, maybe from her random walking, she put him in his bed and felt a little relieved.
She sat on the new sofa that she had just bought, she didn't feel comfortable and said to herself “I know that my daughter wanted to buy a piano with the sofa’s money but I insisted to buy this sofa, how selfish I am”. She stood up and went to see the baby, she found him still sleeping, she looked at her daughter’s room and decided to enter it.
She entered the room as if was the first time, she noticed that every corner had been redecorated and changed; just as her daughter herself. She had lost connection with her for a year now. They both lived in the same house but did not actually speak with each other. She found an old notebook on the desk, she opened it on a random page and read the first line “Today my little turtle died, my mother told me that my turtle went to a place where all turtles live happily with each other.” She remembers that day, her daughter kept crying until she fell asleep. She opened another page and was surprised to find that she had written things about her, “I think my mother does not want to talk to me anymore, everytime I go to speak with her she says “I am busy” or “I cannot talk right now”. Since she gave birth to my little brother, she could not come with me to my piano lessons, and we did not run with each other as we used to and we stopped going to our favorite places”.
The mother could not stand to read further. She said loudly “I am sorry that I made you feel that way my dear daughter.” She opened the last page and found the date was only yesterday “From this moment she began her sorrow days; she could not turn back from that road”. The mother said to her self I must change that ending of the note book , before it becomes the ending of our life.
