AF Admin

Begging Language

Lend me a hand,

lend me a word,

a might.

Arm me with it,

so I can face TV

and democracy.

Let me have

your venom,

your pointy letters,

a sword, a word, a spear..

Hell…

A set of

long vowels and

a few consonants.

Shape it like a shoe

and let me have it

at the ready for

a certain Antony.

The silver headed foreigner

that appears on the screen

in my living room that

smiles and says,

“They have a right

to self-defense;

Our democratic brothers.

They have a right.”

I’m begging you,

this is not the time

for you and me to play

hide and seek.

I need you to halt

this project of madness

working me, because

I’ve heard it all.

I heard

death, unjustified,

terror, justified.

I even imagined

a voice on TV

crooning:

“My skin is white,

My eyes are blue

This should be enough,

To bombard you.”

I’m begging you…

It’s eerie out there,

heads under the rubble

bleeding, tight.

It’s eerie out here,

my head under the pillow

cracking…craving

a fight.

I beg of you, offer me

new words,

or wash the ones

I’ve been using.

Save me…

Given the current

state of things,

existing words

decline my work offers.

So,

I am still begging you.

Reinvent

My vocabulary.

Rearrange the alphabet

in ways

that can twist this

reality

better than

world leaders.

Doha Eluahabi

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by AF Admin

An Excerpt from “Colour Red”

It was on a Friday afternoon that my eyes first met his. November 3rd, or was it the 2nd? I did not see how the date would matter, for I was not gone for the purpose of staying. I was basically dragged out of my house, almost forcefully, by Nadia, my best friend. Yes! I might be one dark soul, but like many, I do have this one person with whom I share enough to call her a best friend. She solely decided that I needed a fresh day out after several weeks spent in what she called “utter” darkness—typical Nadia. Little did I resist at first, for I knew my dear old Nadia would not let me be at peace unless I agreed to go with her, so to avoid the annoyance, I went.

It was to a café owned by her uncle that we went—as we habitually do—after having spent an hour shopping and another chilling. And it was there that I first laid eyes on him. Right after we took seats and Nadia started jokingly eyeing up each and every guy that came in, which was embarrassing and funny at once, he walked in—a tall, very white guy he was, blonde, approximately 21 years old. He was dressed almost all in black: his long, sleeveless vest, his hat, and his Converse shoes. His denim shorts were dark blue. As soon as he entered, he took off his sunglasses, revealing the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Eyes where blue married green and merged with grey. A mixture that gave them a glare was rarely if ever, seen. As much as I hate it and would never admit it, it is true. Even I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Now, hey! Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t really that attracted; I was just intrigued.

He did not take a seat right away. He had to go to the loo first. God knows he wouldn’t have found a place to sit in anyway—the café was crowded. Perhaps he knew that from the start, which might have been why he went to the restroom in the first place. Oddly enough, I found myself in need of being there as well. Thankfully, I did what I needed to do quickly and ran back to my seat, only to find the one next to it empty. Oh yes! By the time I got there, my best friend, Nadia, was gone. All I found was a note saying:

“Sorry, babe! I need to go. Enjoy your time AND YOUR DATE!! Tell me all about it later! Love, Nadia x”

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by AF Admin

The Burning Candle

He was sitting in the corner of his room, pressed against the wall. He stared at the burning candle, hoping it would ignite something deep within him. Ramy had always been a wallflower. Something about walls and sidelines made him feel safe and protected. His walls allowed him to observe the world without being noticed. Yet, little did he know that the walls he had built did not guard him; they confined him. He raised his head and looked out of the window. That night, the stars were cloaked by the foggy clouds. The sky was dark purple, and the burning candle crimson. The two colors of passion, lust, and love revivified an old memory in his mind.

Two years ago, Ramy was at a pub drinking Red Label Scotch Whisky. His eyes fell on a girl in a black leather dress entering the pub. He watched her walk towards a table where three people sat not so far from him. He studied her, from the way she talked to the way she held her cigarettes. Her laughter was louder than Amy Winehouse’s song Stronger than Me that was playing in the background. In fact, the sound of her laughter was music itself. He overheard one of her friends call her Leila. “A perfectly fitting name for a lady in black,” he thought.

His first instinct was to go and talk to her, but he immediately started overthinking, “What if she rejects me? What if I stutter while talking? She is out of my league! It is better not to humiliate myself.” Ramy had always been a prisoner to his thoughts. He was a sharp-witted young man, and maybe that was his curse. As he indulged in self-doubt and self-pity, These lyrics penetrated his ears: “You should be stronger than me; You have been here seven years longer than me, Don’t you know you supposed to be the man.”

“Yes, Amy. I am a man! But, what if…? No, no! I like her! I should at least try,” he thought. Just as he moved his chair to stand up, a man embraced Leila from behind and drew a peck on her lips. Regrettably, another opportunity slipped from right under his nose. Leila, Aya, the job offer, moving out of the country, and many other things he had missed out on because he was not quick enough to decide, or shall I say: ACT.

Sitting alone at night comforted him; but because of the nyctophobia he had developed in childhood, Ramy always lit candles in his room. The memory of Leila dragged him deep down memory lane. He became dissociated from his surroundings with a flash of all the “could haves” and “what ifs,” unaware of the candlelight fading and the wax evaporating.

A sudden pricking and numbness on his skin alerted him to open his eyes. He stood up and saw the flimsy flame fighting for its last fire. He was stunned. Tears fell on his cheeks. He talked to himself out loud: “Ramy, do something, fetch another candle, do something! Don’t just stand there, at any rate, please do something.” Alas, Ramy had never been a doer. His blood ran cold, and his hands could not stop shaking. He was now the eight-year-old kid with nyctophobia. His feeble body collapsed on the floor. “Mama, mama,” he cried. No one could hear him with all the solid walls he had built around him. He tried reaching for the candle with his sweaty hand, yet the flame died in front of his teary, petrified eyes.

Author: Chaimae El Ajjani

Editor: Hakima Choukri

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by AF Admin