Today is Monday October 9.
Today misses Spencer goed up to the front of the class and sayd to us Class one two three one two three drop your pencil eyes on me and then she smiled at us and we laffed becaz her smile its so pretty. Then misses spencer sayd Friends we are going to have a new adition to our class he is a new studint Everyone say hello to our new friend ! then we all said HELLO NEW FRIEND but he didnt say hi back he just standed in the front of the class and he looked down on the flor and haved his arms crosed and a mad face and then Misses Spencer sayd to the new boy Why dont you tell us your name? …
Read the full graphic version here: Force, by Yousef Alqamoussi
Sometimes I wish that certain people were dead
And others would live forever,
That I could torture my childhood bullies
And redo lost fights with past lovers.
Sometimes I hate strangers on sight
And sometimes I love them.
Sometimes I talk to myself,
Sing in the shower,
Cry for no reason,
Skip washing my hands,
Squash bugs and smile,
And ogle sexy cartoon characters.
I wonder what dogs and birds are thinking,
Why mosquitoes bite,
Why I snot,
And why “goose” are “geese” but “moose” aren’t “meese”.
Sometimes I’m terrified but I smile
And I’m happy but I hate it.
Most times I fear or worship myself.
But craziest of all is not that I know I’m crazy,
But that you think you’re not.
I miss dangerous Detroit
I miss dark Detroit
I miss angry Detroit
I miss empty Detroit
I miss scary Detroit
I miss ugly Detroit
because this Detroit that’s coming back
is uglier, scarier, emptier, angrier, darker,
and more dangerous than ever.
When she opened the door that morning, there they were again as they’d always been: two men standing on the porch. Black coats. Black pants. White shirts. Neckties. All smiles.
“G’mornin’, ma’am!” said the first one. The second one never said anything. Continue reading “Porch: a short story”
Something about perfection
“Bro, this queer’s fleeked out or some shit.”
Ameer had understood only two words from that sentence: “this” and “or”.
The others must have been in a vernacular unfamiliar to him. After all, he was aware that American English varied by region. When he had heard the sentence in class, whispered schemingly from one classmate to another, he had scrambled to write it down. He only hoped that he had spelled it out correctly: “brow this kweerz flekout or semshet”. He had hoped to look the words up later. Continue reading “Jalsa: a short story”
I used to think
that writing is written to be read;
Writing is written
to be written.