Force: a story story

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

CRAZY

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.

Jalsa: a short story

“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”

HOST: a short story

I was stirred awake by sounds before unheard. Gonging flinching rhythmic pounding aching switching soothing—all in one, one in all—is the only way I can describe them. Individually, they were distinct as could be—polar, in fact, related in no way—but they came together and melded into one liquid fluid flowing floating form that roused me from the depths of sleep to unprecedented tranquility. If I could find one relative word to describe this euphoric orum, I’d call it “music”. But how far it was from what we call “music”!

Continue reading “HOST: a short story”