خلخال

A Step Closer to God March If you ask, you will never lose the way. I take after my mother in this, the constant questioning about one's whereabouts in the different cities – even in one's own. We moved calmly, enjoying the warmth that had finally come. The sun made the city glare back. It's one thing to ask about a place you know and a completely different thing to ask about a place to which you have no name. We asked and laughed and followed other tourists. That climb. 1000 steps. The slopes. The steps. Slopes. Steps. We'd take breaks, Sherin and I and take a picture, or just laugh. As we rose above the city, we could see it better. From all around as we rose in that spiral of steps and stones and slopes amongst the green. The turquoise squares, rectangles and circles which turned out to be swimming pools on roof tops.   Right before that last part, with all the steps, we stopped. With this woman whose bed I have shared my bed

Why do I write? I remember the first story I wrote; it was called Butterfly and it was so dramatic – I was a drama queen from an early age. The story that followed it was also dramatic. Conclusion: I am a drama queen par excellence – or however you say. I enjoy telling stories. I love it. It is my favorite part of a social gathering: telling this story and animating it and doing all the voices. These were probably early signs of my love for acting. I just only recently realized that my passion is theater. But before that, writing took up my world. It still does, but in different manners. I'm talking about this because I'm trying to understand why I write. I enjoy telling stories. However, it is not only that. After all my energy has been thrown all over the place, after I've laughed, cried, loved, and done everything in a period of 48 hours, I retreat to myself. I realize that I have to sit with me. I don't really like doing that. Me i

Space Sweet rough sweat; the windows are shut and the glass panes are cold to the touch, a small stubborn sliver of a breeze passes through it to bring in a smell of everything in the street that smells like nothing at all, like air clean of anger, a smell that dissolves quickly in the scent hidden in the details of the warm skin feeling like a delicate rug and sitting so comfortably in a perfume so intimate that has escaped pores and rested in the coarse cracks in  the wood of the table and the delicate planes of the floor as cool shy feet with the smallest hint of dried skin at the heels crawl up to the quilt clumped with heat smelling of laundry and damp with the left over taste of sweet sour grape drops that fell accidently, like the taste in the lukewarm morning breath brushing up against hair that scratches and tickles, damp with the wine at the tips and smelling of autumn and tobacco, that- along with the tips of a chiffon curtain flowing with the tiny breeze and tasting

                             Q. What to expect when you're not expecting?                 A. A mad desire to pull the brakes on time and change things. Tick Tock Tick Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone What will follow is the maddening rush of thoughts and memories – like you can't stop the tap from running: what I should’ve done, what I didn't do. I don't know how the hours passed – I can almost hear the clock over the TV going berserk in agony, and you pleading, no let this be 20 years from now, let it never come. Give me some time. The telephone was off. Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone.  Does Yoshi know? Did he lose weight because the visits stopped? I wonder sometimes if he had barked at the sudden restlessness beneath him, whether anyone heard him moan. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Always at dawn. It always comes. Sometimes a little after dawn, a few times during the middle of t

The air conditioned office was shaking at a two seconds interval every time the old brown York air conditioner burped some cool air. Mubarak's picture was on the wall behind the desk. He looked like a teenager compared to the figure sitting in the dark chocolate brown leather armchair. The whole room was dressed in this shade which grotesquely matched the old York dripping water through an orange hose into a lime green bucket. Ghali lit a cigarette – Gauloises – and leaned forward while staring into the face hovering in midair between cap and collar. He opened his thin lips to say something but then changed his mind. No, he thought, asking for whisky is not a very smart move. He'd already said he didn’t want anything to drink. "Well, Mr. Ghali…" "Please General Fangary, there's no need for these formalities. You can call me Mr. Waguih." "Mr. Waguih" "I'm all ears General." "You do know why you're here" &q

"وانص أبون أيه تايم...ذير واز سري براذرز..." قاطعتها للمرة الثالثة و هي لازالت في البداية. بتقول يا هادي. قالت بصوتها الرفيع الناعم "ثير وير ثري براثرز." ثم "و لا إيه؟" نظرت إليها و هي تريد أن تقتلها و حاولت الإبقاء على الهدوء الذي لا وجود له. "أمال أنا قلت إيه؟ يا   حبيبتي؟؟؟" "أعتقد إنتِ قريتها غلط و قلتي "واز " بدل "وير". مش متأكدة". لكنها هي كانت متأكدة من شيء واحد و هي أنها لو أستطاعت لطبقت في مزمار رقبتها الناعمة البيضاء. نورا البيضاء الملساء. بدأت من جديد. "وانص أبون أي تايم. ذير وير سري براذرز. ذي سري أوف ذيم وير برينسيز, سونز أوف زي كينج أو ذي  لاند..." "معلش أنا أسفة بس إنتِ متأكده إنهم أولاد الملك؟ دي أنهي حدوتة فيهم؟ أصل أنا قرياهم كلهم و مفيش واحدة كده. إتأكدي بس و النبي" تملكت نفسها من أن تقذف عليها الكتاب الصغير و تطفشها للأبد. "أيوه متأكده. أمال هقلف؟؟؟؟ لو سمحتي كفاية مقاطعة!!" سكتت نورا و أكملت هي في القراءة تتلعثم عند كلمة صعبة و نورا تصححها و هي تهمس لمن

Once upon a time there was water It filled everything. Spaces. Places in between toes. It came to her in plenty. Placentas filled with blue. Bellies filled with too much – water after a meal that leaves her hungry but nauseas. There is no room for air. It begins with dreams. Not crowded. Hugged. A miniature of the Twins. Not facing outwards but facing each other. Swimming in blueness. Blue she has only thought of – starry starry blue. Swirling blue. Sleeping blue. Both hugged in blue, hugging the other in the softness of a wall-less womb. Between them, their curls awoke, reaching for other stray strands to braid with. Braiding and curling silk and rope. Keeping them steady in blue. In the blues. He sank. Lower and Lower. Deeper into where should could not swim. It was too shallow. She tripped over the waves. He fell into the pillow of nightfall, she was of dawn. As he sank, he tugged and tore. Her hair flew sprawled around her not used to having no shape. Her curls straightened