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HomePosts Tagged "posts-issue11" (Page 2)

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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat "How did your father's work ethic impact yours?" This prompt came out of the Therapy Game, a card game from The School of Life.  It opened a stream of thought that I had never considered. How did my father's work ethic impact mine? I can't tell. I mainly remember my father as unemployed. How can I comment on his work ethic when I can't even remember him working? My father was sick, idle, and shrinking in his final years, the years I remember him most. He collapsed and

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Essay, Non-Fiction
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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat It's only a faint whisper of a breeze, sneaking its way in through the slightly ajar window, but it's enough to start pulling loose the edges of a worn out old poster. Somehow, the distressed age and nature of the poster, the slightly washed-off color, make the stereotypical Hawaiian scenery even more beautiful. Just as the poster is about to come loose, a young boy runs into the room and shuts the window. He reattaches the poster with great care and looks at it for a

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Fiction, Short Story
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Untitled | From the Series MMXX | By Paul Gorra حين ظهر رقمي على الشاشة الرئيسية في البهو الخاص لمركز التوظيف والدعم الوظيفي، خطوت إلى الباب الذي يحمل رقم 7. حاولت أن أتفاءل خيراً بالرقم. كانت الآنسة أولاف ترتدي جيليهاً خاصاً بِعيد الميلاد والذي يقع على بُعد أسبوعين من اليوم، مذكّراً بولادة مخلّص العالم ومعلناً استكمالي السنة الأولى في الحصول على دعم مالي من الدولة بعدما تمّ قبول طلبي في الحماية الإنسانية. كان من المفروض أن أبدأ تعلّم اللغة والبحث عن عمل، لكن إيجاد منزل مستقل في المدينة قد أخذ مني أكثر من نصف السنة تقريباً، وبقي

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قصة
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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat You ask me what life is like here now and I don't know what to tell you except that       today I taught my son how to make za'atar toast, not as some sweet                      passing down of the sacred - I'm just sick of doing it for him. I wonder when       I can stop doing all of this holding. Crates of soil and tenderness  and there is only before and after. On the metro, I sat elbow-to-elbow with new       wanting. She

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Poetry
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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat As a child of four, I found myself burdened by the adult problems of life and death, right and wrong. I, as a dreamer, living on the bare subsistence provided by a UN blue ration card, in a crowded room, on a side street in Soor, stand as a witness to Zionist inhumanity. I charge the world for its acquiescence in my destruction. - Leila Khaled before becoming the first known woman to hijack an airplane 1969     I hear the rhythmic pin-drop of muffled revenge from tunnels being dug twenty

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Fiction, Novel Excerpt
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My mom gnaws at her bottom lip, as though that might satiate her hunger.  The prices have increased again.  Standing in front of the open fridge in the supermarket, we scanned our options, which became more and more limited, as the prices flashed before us.  I couldn't feel the chill escaping the open door. I wondered exactly when numbness had made a home out of my bones. "We still have some canned beans left," my mom said. At some point, she bit down on her lip hard enough to draw a dollop of blood-just resting on her bottom lip before

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Essay, Non-Fiction
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Untitled, T12 | From the series: Home is where Teta was | By Mayssa Khoury This square room once consumed my days with you, on its other side shoving messages, slipping notes and references under invisible doors. We barter rumors, scoff at pond-dwellers, and praise ourselves in this place we name: The Spread, vast and full and poised. Set up and blame. Figure out later after estrangement, and break windows that block the actual view outside. Unlock doors, and wander into other rooms. I see no pond nor puddles, and we're not vast and full and poised. This is the land of breath and work, consumed with giving and taking and dressing up, putting on applause from

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Poetry
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Untitled, T13 | From the series: Home is where Teta was | By Mayssa Khoury 1. Simon appears in my headlights he is standing in the rain on the side of the road with his thumb out he shivers uncontrollably in the passenger seat the whole way to the bar where I drop him off for his final bender halfway through his thirtieth year he hasn't seen his crew in weeks     he can't speak to his father his girlfriend won't let him in     his truck has been repossessed his driver's license revoked     his tools in hock in three days the blood will seep into

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Poetry
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Untitled, T10 | From the series: Home is where Teta was | By Mayssa Khoury everyday choosing not to tell the coworker she was in your dream; picking up almond milk & cosmic brownies from the drug store; organizing the silverware into their silent rows; renewing the labels on the spice rack; drying the clean sheets, folding corner to corner to corner; coaxing the cat into her carrier for the vet; everyday choosing not to tell the coworker about your dreams at all; unraveling fractions on the worksheet; picking up coffee filters & AA batteries from the drug store; throwing out the old rice in the fridge; rinsing grains

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Poetry
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Untitled, T2 | From the series: Home is where Teta was | By Mayssa Khoury believing it an act of providence, those first few weeks we fucked through noon, played movies on the projector. i am concerned for my safety and will be taking time off. i wrote this naked, concerned for nothing, in love enough to leave the sheets salt-stiff. the bills in their envelopes. i was emboldened, blasphemous. would say, "your thighs are my N95" & while she laughed, i lifted her legs & wore her over my mouth. nothing was funny on the news, each morning marking a new high score. i was so profoundly sad, sad

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Poetry
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About Us
Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal was founded in the English Department of the American University of Beirut in 2012 with the intention of creating a space for both emerging and established writers who have a connection to Lebanon.
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