BETWEENTHELINES PEACE AND THE WRITING EXPERIENCE 2022
BT
Cover Image Painting by Ole Universityhttps://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Drip_Hedeagerpainting_Light_my_fire.jpgAdditionalcoverdesignbyGeorgieFehringerPrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmericaByUniversityofIowaPrintingFirstPrinting,2022ofIowa’sInternationalWritingProgram-BetweentheLines:PeaceandtheWritingExperiencehttps://iwp.uiowa.edu/programs/between-the-lines
ETWEEN
L HE 2022 INESANTHOLOGY
TheArmourUnderwater Dilemma Under the Pergola 24 26 AnelleandreaUntitledЯЛЮБЛЮ ТЕБЯ, ПАПА! i refuse to give this piece a title.
Send the Knights in
4 4 5 CONTENTSForeword12 14 16 18 20 22 AcknowledgmentsAdeleAceAbdulrahmanAarush
By Alisa Weinstein & Caitlin Plathe Rusted Dragonrotted
Ghida 46 48 50 52 54 56 HooriaHelenHannahHamzaHamid58 60 Ekato The Unfinished Painting Islamic Regulations: Between Myth and Realities My First Walk 8th Avenue, Brooklyn Abandoned Mandir A Poem Where the Word Mind is Replaced by City an Afghan girl Angela28 30 32 34 36 38 DimiDanielleDanaBtlAtoullokhonAshParticipant40 42 44 Divansshi One Last Heartbeat Forgetten Heroine Unread Thoughts The WhatTrashtoCall ‘‘An Appropriate Poem’’ The Void Love Languages Orb 62 Ifsat NONE to call my own Dominika Little Girl Denis 8 Days
Jaylen 64 66 68 70 72 74 MiralMaritaKateJuliaJessica76 78 80 Nina The Forbidden Door Excerpt from ‘‘ Ghost Sister’’ An Expert of Old Swedish Life Off ThereBullyingLeavingKanagawaHomeinSchoolIsNoWayback Ramzi82 84 86 88 90 92 SovaSofieSashaSaraReem 94 96 After Mitski The Song of Sundown & The Queen of Rides Search for Freedom Dance of the Dead Black and White Death is All but the End of Freedom 98 Iryna What a Loss ! Omar The Cliff and the Clef TJ Dragons and Fairies Tsovinar It Was Raining Vasilisa Formula
Untitled Instructors &YasminaStaff I Spent Fifty Days Observing the Sun
Zuyena
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CKNOWLEDGMENTS
We also give our thanks to BTL’s visiting writers and teaching artists: Melody Moezzi; IWP residents: Shehan Karunatilaka, Tariro Ndoro, Edwige Dro, Jidanun Lueangpiansamut, and Kateryna Babkina; BTL alumni Danju Zoe Liu (BTL ‘20) Libby Riggs (BTL ’20), and Nina Ballerstedt (BTL ’21); Justin Rogers, LaShaun phoenix Moore, and Shawntai Brown of InsideOut Literary Arts in Detroit; Dr. Camea Davis, Urban Word Youth Poet Laureate Network Director and Shanelle Gabriel, Urban Word Executive Director; Alyssa Gaines (Indianapolis - National Youth Poet Laureate 2022); Elizabeth Shvarts (NYC Regional Youth Poet Laureate 2022); Jessica Kim (Los Angeles Youth Poet Laureate 2022); Isabella Ramirez (South Florida Youth Poet Laureate 2022); Jan Weissmiller and Kathleen Johnson of Prairie Lights Bookstore in Iowa City; and finally, to all the participants of Between the Lines for making this program extraordinary.
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A
Each year, since its inception in 2008, Between the Lines (BTL) has pursued innovation and growth. This year’s program is again made possible by the generous support from the Cultural Programs Division of the U.S. Department of State, and the dedication of individuals and organizations that support the program’s mission:
Christopher Merrill, International Writing Program (IWP) director; and all the staff of the IWP at the University of Iowa; Jill Staggs, Chris Miner, and Nancy Szalwinski, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs of the U.S. Department of State; Hannah Pell and Hiju Kim, Cultural Programs Division interns; BTL instructors: Mary Hickman, Rumena Bužarovska, Rochelle Potkar, and Vladimir Poleganov; BTL teaching assistants and seminar panelists: Sean Zhuraw, Delaney Nolan, Gyasi Hall, and alea adigweme; BTL summer assistant and seminar panelist: Mason Hamberlin; BTL anthology designer Georgie Fehringer; IWP editor Nataša Ďurovičová; BTL program assistant Caitlin Plathe; BTL program coordinator Alisa Weinstein.
In week 2, hailing from InsideOut Literary Arts in Detroit, Justin Rogers, LaShaun phoenix Moore, and Shawntai Brown performed and inspired us to write and speak out about home, memory, and our own redefinitions of self. Kateryna Babkina (IWP ‘18, Ukraine) and Rumena Bužarovska guided us to take notice of our own unique reactions to the same influences and offered nine key ways to set up our lives to get more inspiration. Shanelle Gabriel, Urban Word Executive Director, welcomed the 2022 National Youth Poet Laureate (NYPL) Alyssa Gaines (Indianapolis), and the 2022 competition finalists Elizabeth Shvarts (BTL ’20, NYC Regional Youth Poet Laureate 2022); Jessica Kim (Los Angeles Youth Poet Laureate 2022); and Isabella Ramirez (South Florida Youth Poet Laureate 2022). The poets shared their work and answered questions about revision process, writing about trauma and marginalization, and their experiences in the spotlight. BTL ‘20 and ’21 U.S. alumni and follow-on microgrant recipients Libby Riggs, Danju Zoe Liu, and Nina Ballerstedt returned to highlight their own outstanding collaborative literary projects over the the past few years in a discussion facilitated by IWP staff.
Midway through was marked by two special events. Young writers had the opportunity to perform their new works in an Open Mic Event, livestreamed on Facebook, and enjoyed a livestreamed BTL Faculty Reading, hosted by Iowa City’s iconic bookstore, Prairie Lights.
Alisa Weinstein, IWP Youth Programs Coordinator Caitlin Plathe, Between the Lines Program Assistant
OREWORD
the public and cultural affairs officers at U.S. Embassies/Consulates for nominating their top candidates, enabling IWP to select an amazing cohort of BTL 2022 participants from Afghanistan, Armenia, Bangladesh, Egypt, Georgia, Iraqi Kurdistan, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Lebanon, Pakistan, the Russian Federation, Sri Lanka, Tajikistan, Ukraine and the U.S.
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With the support of the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs (ECA) of the U.S. Department of State, this 14th year of BTL: Peace and the Writing Experience enacted IWP’s core-mission of global cultural outreach—combining creative writing and cultural exchange, connecting youth to their peers and mentors around the world. We are grateful to
-Nita Prose, The Maid
BTLers participated in seven special seminars facilitated by visiting artists who opened the doors of our perception on a range of topics and themes. In week one, Iowa MFA writers and BTL staff Sean Zhuraw, Gyasi Hall, Delaney Nolan, alea adigweme, and Mason Hamberlin talked us through imposter syndrome, community, messiness, and the negative outside voices that creep into our inner monologues. We heard Muslim American author Melody Moezzi discuss writing for and about mental health, the importance of sleep! and writing the stories only you can write. During public readings of their work, ideas about writing and culture bounced among the students and guesting IWP residents, Shehan Karunatilaka (IWP ‘21, Sri Lanka), Tariro Ndoro (IWP ‘22, Zimbabwe), Edwige Dro (IWP ‘21, Côte d’Ivoire), Jidanun Lueangpiansamut (IWP ‘22, Thailand).
This was infinitely proved through our daily virtual gatherings as the BTL cohort radiated with appreciation and empathy. BTL is more than screens filled with first names and countries. It is zoom boxes turning yellow. It is smiles and head nods. It is leaping phrases and unmuted sentences, and silent snaps, and typed arrows pointing up in the chat. Understanding comes through a feeling that no one wants to hold back. That telling and listening to one another’s stories, choosing to be present no matter our time of day, coordinates, and national boundaries is important. We spent two weeks experiencing the ways our sameness can sit with our variances and celebrating what each participant offered through personal and cultural lenses.
With this anthology, we bring together our 2022 participants’ powerful work and words, amplifying their kindness, courage, and hope. We thank them for existing.
This summer fictionist, poet, and screenwriter Rochelle Potkar (IWP Fall Resident ’15, Summer Institute Mentor ’19, India) joined expert faculty from BTL ’20 and ‘21: fiction writer and literary translator Rumena Bužarovska (IWP Fall Resident ’18, North Macedonia); writer, translator, and screenwriter Vladimir Poleganov (IWP Fall Resident ’16, Bulgaria); and poet and assistant professor Mary Hickman (BTL Faculty ’15, ’16, ’17, ’20, ’21, U.S.). In seven writing workshops and four literature seminars these instructors skillfully guided our participants in exploring many forms of creative writing such haiku, haibun, villanelle, free-verse, short story, flash fiction, magic realism, and taking trips into the strange and fantastic. We also explored elements of craft by writing dialogue, writing about conflict, writing about stereotypes, playing with imagery and emotion and with revision as re-seeing, and engaging with the natural world through observation, metaphor and analogy to capture both wonder and anxiety.
Through all of this, the brutalities of war and displacement, not to mention the challenges of unstable internet, electrical outages, COVID-19, and bouts of Zoom fatigue didn’t stop these participants from writing and exploring each others’ days and nights. Our BTLers began the two weeks sharing bedtime stories and nervous introductions, followed by sleepy or lively daily meetings, reading their work aloud for the first time, and finding inspiration. We finish our program together as a constellation of talented humans from all over the world.
Although Between the Lines: Peace and the Writing Experience 2022 “met” on Zoom for the first time at Orientation on July 15th, the journey into each other’s lives and stories began in a group WhatsApp chat in early May. I must admit that within days, I had to mute my phone. It pinged at all hours of the day and night with 45 young writers from 15 countries joining forces to exchange thousands of messages per week! Scrolling the chat, I would marvel at the personalities shining through. They discovered each other’s preferences in books and pop cultures. They asked for opinions, recommendations, and received sage advice. They even sent writing and offered up support all on their own. Whenever I saw that I missed 257 new messages, I would find: “What are your pronouns?” “Are you safe?” “How were your exams?” “What languages do you speak?” and the answers would go on in between. I had no doubt this group could fulfill the BTL mission through their care and words!
“We are all the same in different ways.”
We condemn dragon for eyes for gold, greed for gluttony, it consumes our tribute, loyal steed for wrath, it burns our town the color of ravens for lust, why does it need to eat young maidens for vainglory, damn serpent coil off our looming rock for sloth, wyrm asleep, dormant round the clock for envy, drake sees our treasure, not ours anymore
There aren’t as many articles in this poem as we’d like, because the dragon ate them.
A land was oppressed by a scaly tyrant so they Overthrew it! And replaced it with human kings of fey And the land felt so grateful when it was humanity Who, surely not in wrath, greed, vainglory, envy burned it from tree to tree
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The dragon’s dead, the dragon’s gone The dragon sickness lingers The greed, the wrath, the sloth, the vainglory, the envy, the gluttony, the lust Feel the dead winged serpent control your fingers
USA
The warriors, work for feudal, for lords for money The king, tax until the coffers are bleeding runny The soldiers, pillage the enemy, maul them all The maidens raised to be wives, told to be good hauls The knight on golden horse, slay the beast if you would The lords who languish, the ones who do nothing but could The people, killed the dragon, take all the treasure (but some of it wasn’t theirs)
by Aarush
So send the knights in shining armor
One day a boy came to the grave of the dragon, but as much as he searched, he could not find the bones.
And so happy it was that it wasn’t any smoking lizard Who was gorging themselves on the fruits of the earth Who was ignoring the fires to stare at the hearth
SEND THE KNIGHTS IN RUSTED DRAGONROTTED ARMOR
Washington
and why should I write about love, death, and all of these grand things why should i fetishize sadness when writing about this steaming cup of coffee with enough eloquence can send me to the cocoa fields and sunny skies of brazil? sometimes, you need to let your words carry you not the opposite.
i don’t wanna sound like some mighty old greek philosopher searching for the meaning of life. poetry and paragraphs don’t always have to send me on some grandiose, brain-racking journey of pondering. i, and i’m sure you too, have been told to appreciate the small things in life, and i wanna do the same without overthinking it. classic writing is nice and can result in beautiful, inspiring work, but taking a break from all its density can be like a whiff of much needed fresh air.
18 19 KurdistanIraqi 18
by Abdulrahman
i refuse to give this piece a title.
here i am, fingers on my keyboard, not having the slightest idea what to write about. i’ve been racking my brain for inspiration, but it doesn’t seem like any would be falling from the sky anytime soon. the blank, white screen is staring at me with absolute insolence, mocking my lack of creativity. do my lines have to rhyme? do they have to follow strict classic shakespearean rules? does it even have to be poetry?
to exist both below and above, the creature rose higher to the typically more populated upper sea. Except this time it was less full of life. Way too many merfolk move to land. Perhaps hunger will force it to blend in with the humans too, and understand the things it looks down upon now. Maybe it, too, will live in a world where everyone does useless things and no one cares if they’re from the deep or not. Maybe it, too, will lose itself to humanity.
The darkness of the deep sea was clear as day for the tailed figure swimming through it. The fins and scales on its body would’ve shone like metal under the sun, but their color faded in the pitch black waters. Opaque blank eyes, sharp teeth, gills, slim figure, webbed fingers — the features of the merfolk matched those of partly humanized cannibal fish. Searching for prey while being careful of the bigger predators, it ascended into the bright upper waters.
As well as that, way more merfolk are choosing to take a human form and live on the surface. Despite never having seen them, the lower water natives hate humans for spreading their corruption where it doesn’t belong. They begin to hate their fellow merfolk from above, who accept that interference with open
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by Ace
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Beingarms.able
All while the higher waters are soaked in sunlight. Between the two parts of the sea, there are many differences that those on land don’t care to notice. The upper sea population tries to mimic the surface and deems the deep to be barbaric, while the latter thinks the higher sea is sucking up to the land dwellers. The previously land-exclusive concepts like money (useless metal chunks to give for needed things), clothes (uncomfortable rags that serve no purpose), homes (traps for one’s self), and many more are not understood in the deep sea, but embraced and gradually migrated into the higher sea’s culture.
The deep sea is at large like the void, where light is perhaps the last thing one wants to see. If anything emits light, it’s definitely after you. Therefore it’s not something comforting to the deep’s natives.
Russia
THE UNDERWATER DILEMMA
Under the pergola, I watch as the heat peels open the rosebuds, jamming its thumbs into the pale green and watching as sticky water trickles out. The vines cling to the perfect circles of black metal, celestial spheres stagnant around us as your fingers waltz on the page of your notebook. I must be in a clock, seeing as I’m a tool for measuring entropy and right now I feel at home. When the forest wrapped its hands over a fallen heron, I thought of standing in the lashing golden winds that slid up the Oregon Coast. Will I die like a seraph, or will my wings be peeled away from my bare feet, ripe for the fungi to riddle?
Washington
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I don’t mean to be so morbid. The fly that knows the bird’s flesh as its birthplace now sprinkles pollen between the blackberry blossoms. Those same feet, unshrouded by feather, danced to Abba on the algae-slick rocks a meter below the tepid surface of the Fremont Canal, the crossroads of sunlight warping into a map on my skin. On the far bank, a great gray heron waits and watches for a fish to spear. I don’t see until I’m long gone, of course. Genesis says we were created in God’s image, an album of divine selfies. To know anything, we must know everything. There are six wings between three flies, all crackling with iridescence in yet another sunset.
UNDER THE PERGOLA
by Adele
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ebony curls rest upon my shoulder, twist and turn along the crevices of me, the recesses of my body. (all at home.) we are two, and we are one, merging together underneath heavy moonlight, breathing in sync. i lean a bit closer. you know i’ve always been selfish. a tender exhale against my lips.
A WISH 25 USA
Andrea a wish
(star light, star bright, the first star i see tonight-)
you breathe life into me. i let my eyes slide shut, pulling you close, shaking, shivering. cherry chapstick. smooth skin. i don’t want to love you, (because i don’t want to lose you), but in this moment, i let myself dream. dream of a life where i am free. dream of a life where i can stay beside you. dream upon the shooting stars this quiet night.
(-i wish i may, i wish i might, stay here with you tonight)
your hand finds home in mine, slender things nestled within my calloused palms. i hold you delicately, like porcelain, like glass, like you will burn away if i hold you too tightly. (you will) comets streak by. alight, aflame, raining our penance from the heavens. we don’t say a word.
“Ior want something from you.”
Я ЛЮБЛЮ
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I long for forgiveness, from him, from myself. From the child that lost, for the woman that shall be. But time heals, and there will be a time When my Father is a parent, the kind of parent I love and aspire to be.
There will be times I am annoyed; or disheartened; or Thereupset.will be times when he does the same.
And there will be a time when either one of us passes. And the world will change. So why waste this precious time, Carrying this ball of hate.
by Anelle
KazakhstanWashington ТЕБЯ, ПАПА!
There were times “I love you” was said sincerely, Hopping into his arms After months apart. I was only 4.
We have always been on and off, And that is not something you say about your relationship with your Father. There were times when daily phone calls, check-ins, over-controlled gestures were a constant. There were times when months went by and only 2 “Hello”s were uttered.
There were times when the distance was only 4 kilometers. And there were times when the distance was 10,805 kilometers. There were times when that didn’t matter. There were times it did.
There were times when I felt mad, like I could never forgive him. There were times I felt shame for my words and actions. There were times I longed for his love and affection, Just being there over dinner without his goddamn phone.
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There were times “I love you” was a calling card: “I’m going to ask you for money.”
Maybe secretly wishing I’d see your smile one last time It’d be enough to keep me living On the last heartbeat of mine.
To know what went wrong with us? Was it me? Or was it life? Destiny?
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How can I be after all that we’ve had? Or was I the only one who fell that bad? Your heart was my home, your smile my other Thingsworld I’ve felt are driving me mad
I pick up your smell in an empty house Imagining you’re passing by when no-one’s there Feeling your touch while singing on my own Trying to put feelings into words
Our heartbeats synced for us to dance Made a show for heavens and earth People called us Romeo and Juliette We just lost ourselves in space
ONE LAST HEARTBEAT
29 Lebanon
But what songs could relate? Angels used to pause and smile When you and I were walking around None would ever dare make a sound
Universe ask about you at night The whole galaxy went dark The Moon thought it was his fault The sun thought she didn’t shine enough
Maybe some faults drove you far Or were you of true love scared? Some secrets are sacred But I loved you the way you are
One hint is all I need And babe you know I rather bleed Than not knowing the answer at all That’s only what I ask for
Got all used to people walking away Never saw that destiny in you But there you go slipping into that way And now I can’t pretend I’m okay
I walk alone down the park We always used to go too late Walking under starry nights wishing you were Tothererecall the small talks we used to mark Our nights with Would you come back? Give me a chance
by Angela
FORGOTTEN HEROINE
“What good a city without folk?” - he smirked. He then spun in a circle, placing his palms atop the fertile soil of the town, sensing it shake. The windows in houses beamed with light, streets filled with chatter, joyful laughter echoed through the dark night
Kyi, Schek and Horyv could feel their destiny nearing, clouding their thoughts and begging to be noticed. What they didn’t know was that Lybid, their sister, would be the one to carry it out.
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Theabove.three brothers left the city as they built it, yet they forgot one thing, and the folk demanded. Their sister, Lybid, was a selfless soul, prone to the people’s never-ending greed. She took her last breath as she merged with the Earth, her gentle hands and slim figure creating a stream of rivers. They flowed through every corner, every hut, every child. The city of Kyiv stood strong, its people healthy, satiated. The world remained oblivious to Lybid’s sacrifice, her name spoken aloud only in reference to her three brothers.
The hill stood green and tall, vast mainlands and meadows surrounding the would-be city. Kyi smiled and got to work. He raised his hands in the air and pulled them into fists, feeling the ground beneath him birth mountains and valleys. Fields grew wheat and sunflowers littered the ground, viburnum bushes striving to free themselves from the soil. The terrain stretched far beyond the horizon, the Earth’s curve hiding the town from view.
Schek looked around, mesmerized, grasping onto his brother’s shoulder. His eyes shone with pride and admiration for his sibling. Schek closed them and released a breath. Small huts and city walls appeared in front of him, his gift of architecture giving the city comfort and protection.
by Ash
Ukraine
Horyv chuckled, creasing a brow at his two brothers.
After busy work, tired of doing the same every day, exhausted of staying at past and present, Blooper looks at things which surround him and he finds only his son as an excuse not to go to future. There was only one cryogen machine at his time, then he builds another one for his son too. He imagines the future, advancing technologies, the way they could make his life easier and joyful. He asks his son to go after him and that they can go to future together. Unfortunately, the cryogen machine that he built breaks and kills his son. This scientist freezes himself in cryogen for 400 years... It’s 2422 years, and he gets out of machine. “What? Where is my son?” he wonders. He opens machine next to his and sees bones located on the heart of the ice. He gets upset, because there is no love left in his existence, neither in his memory, nor in the future. After sobbing moments, he goes to explore that love from other people. He gets outside, and what? He sees people with bolder head. Curious man goes to ask - Received no response. He finds out on the internet about the microchips and microcontrollers, called neuralink. Like phones and other devices, neuralinks can connect to other neuralinks to share thoughts from human brain to another one. Blooper begins to hate this device, because it ended human verbal communication. No one could understand him, he couldn’t understand anyone. So he wanted to return back. Return back when his beloved son was alive. He tried everything possible, no luck. He goes to commit suicide by visiting Bermudian Triangle. He goes there alone and finds absorbing source of energy. He plunges there and circle moving waves take him to the past. He finds his son, finds verbal communicating people. He hugs his son, saying that: “Carpe Diem” - “Catch the moment”. He tells to younger generation: Destiny didn’t choose your existence to be in this time for no reason. It’s because you are the best fitting avatars that belong here.
UNREAD THOUGHTS by Atoullokhon
TajikistanWashington
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I need you to listen to me very carefully. It’s a dangerous task that will test all of your abilities. It’s a task that’s done by the third son of the sixth daughter on the eve of the son’s sixteenth birthday. He needs to take out the trash before the sixth daughter takes away all his presents. Even though in this culture, becoming sixteen means becoming “a man”, “an adult”, they still can’t (are scared of) take out the trash.
“Oh really? If you’re such a man, you wouldn’t be scared of a small bag”
“But I’m a man. We don’t do things like that. We do manly things and this is feminine.”
This one sentence hit the ego of the young man so bad, that he was going to take out the trash. He didn’t want to be helpful or to receive his gifts. If he needed the gifts, he could work, like any other manly man to get them.
He took one step forward, stood there for a couple of seconds, disgust in his face, before taking another singular step and repeating the process.
“It’s just a bag. Mom and I do it twice every day”, said his sister.
As he reached the dumpster, he stood in front of it for what felt like hours, when suddenly“Oh for Hell’s sake!” his sister pushed him in.
THE TRASH by BTL Participant
She embraces her legs to her chest helplessly How many more sleepless nights to go? 11-year-old me had caught a depression Depression, for the poor preteen, has been coming and going through years, just like catching flu She tries to fill the hole in her heart with countless miserable lines written aimlessly And calls them poems
Boredom finds its way to her heart
Sheherselfknows
“It’s called 15-year-oldADHD”meacts surprised upon hearing the diagnosis as if she hadn’t anticipated it She takes medication, it adds up though after a few sessions As the psychiatrist prescribes her an anti-depressant, a quite strong one She scoffs. If that’s how it is, how would it have been like before? When it was much worse She pops the pills And calls it a poem
if she surrenders to such cruel thoughts she becomes a marionette She cuts the strings, one after another And calls it a poem
I _16 years old_ find myself a new home In a sentimental rather than physical manner
by Dana
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WHAT TO CALL “AN APPROPRIATE POEM”
EgyptWashington
Even though learning alphabets and memorizing rhymes of pre-school chants were her only occupations 4-year-old me flips her notebook, scribbling at the back, trying to entertain herself She writes “I love spring, and love walking with mother and father during spring” And calls it a poem
“I may not have been able to start a family with a physical bond at such a young age, but Matilda, I had indeed found a family who’ll always show me love“ I write “My friends are my family” I write “How cruel fate can be? Different cities and houses, when the only home is when we’re together” I write I try to recover I try to stop using “She” instead of “I” when talking about my younger self Present ashamed, past denied I try to embrace myself Sometimes literally That’s when I sob And call it a poem
Her eyes roam, analyzing 12-year-old me had developed the habit of seeking self-worth through unconsciously pointing others’ “flaws” to
Void heartshe was crying under the moonlight
A bench at the far end of a park, were people have their walks, a girl waits, seated on it, her hands in the pockets of her dark grey, oversized hoodie, leaning on the bench, her legs extended and her head which had the hoodie cap on, tucked between her shoulders. The bench is wooden, ash-brown in color and look old, there are no lights except the one of a moon which drops it’s faded blue gleam, the smell of lily flowers fills the air, the path is made of reddishbrown bricks, were you can find evidence of people who walked there before. The girl have board looks on her face, she look sick of waiting, but it didn’t seem someone is what she is waiting for, although she is tired, she wait patiently, hoping it would come.
by Danielle
Waiting didn’t appear to have a solution, time is running, but void is everything she could feel, she feel useless and of no worth, she couldn’t help it, she tried, she tried her best, to get up and let it slip, but nothing seems to work, she lost the motive to everything. Emptiness, as if she is locked in a prison, with no light and the key is nowhere to be found. Nothing bad happened today but she want it to finish as soon as possible, she wish she never woke up today, her heart is acing, but not that one of a cholesterol victim, negative thoughts loaded her brain, “ what’s the point of living “, “ am I improving “, “ does anyone like being around me “...this night, a blank space is all she could feel.
Feeling lostthe stars didn’t seem to have the answer
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Lebanon
THE VOID
Soon an Egyptian agent made his way into the camp of the Israeli military. He knew that an Egyptian was being held here and he came to warn him of the imminent advance of the Egyptian army. When the agent found out where Amjad was being held, he handed him a knife, a pistol and two magazines at night. He warned him about tomorrow’s raid on this camp.
Afterarmy.
The next day, the Egyptians attacked the camp of the Israeli army. When a young (Israeli) soldier came to rescue Amjad, he (Amjad) shot him. He did not immediately realize that he had killed the one who helped him when he was almost dead. But he had no time for regrets. He knew there was nothing he could do to help him.
Ukraine
The 1973 Arab–Israeli War (the Yom Kippur War or the October War) started suddenly. Egypt and Syria decided that they can take back their territories (that they lost in the Six-Day War) by force. They were wrong, since the treacherous offensive of the armies of the countries of the Arab coalition turned into an offensive of the Israeli
40 41 8 DAYS
Amjad was put in a pit for prisoners. He had to wait here for the execution, which would happen in 8 days. Despite all his hatred for the enemy (Israeli) side, he could not do anything. One young Israeli soldier, despite the order of his superiors not to help the prisoners in any way, periodically gave him additional food, water, and even somehow got a Koran for him.
Even twenty years after the war, Amjad regretted having shot that young Israeli soldier. He could not continue living like this, so he shot himself. He decided that this would be the best punishment for him. Be attentive. Sometimes people die because of the irresponsibility and inattention of some people.
an unsuccessful offensive attempt, the command of the Egyptian army decided to retreat and fortify in the city of Suez. During the retreat of the Egyptians, the Israeli army disabled one Т-62 tank. All crew members were killed except for one (lieutenant) Amjad al-Rassi. He was taken prisoner by the Israeli army. He was not afraid to die, if it was the will of his God - Allah.
by Denis
“Did you know that water, our universal solvent, regulates the earth’s temperature?”
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What was obvious at first glance was that she knew not a thing about the practices of an average person. Her fascination with water easily slipped into an obsession, and in her company, gauging any sense of reality was a complete and total fantasy.
She was like a magnet I wished to resist, but like a phenomenon, I could not stop myself.
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Obsession was a hard thing for me to handle, and looking back, it was likely my dismal tactical and social skills that amplified the cracks, the ones that spiraled and shattered many mutual relationships.
Her house quickly came to be known as her orb, and it was, unfortunately, the topic of many of our
I had nothing better to do, and kindness wasn’t meant to be a fluke.
continued, I could not ignore her aura, her presence, her voice, anytime she was in the room.
I shook my head.
Back then, I had the guilt-free right to oblige her interests, nonstop. No shame came with answering honestly. We were nearly strangers. It wasn’t my place to entertain my dad’s friend’s daughter. But I did so anyways.
It had finally become apparent that her soul was practically tethered to her orb. They were delicately chained together in a little locket, and tucked deep, deep inside of her, sunk down in the root canals of her toes. It all began with her avoidance of issues.
TheIssues.word itself was chewy, dense and clogging in the very backs of her mouth. She never said it aloud, and whenever anyone else did, she flinched. That word summed up her self-destruction, I think. Her breakdown started as drama, then became more disturbing. The very first Issue began with a very lonely, very cracked plastic cup.
I hope you have had the pleasure of dispersing a water drop. Drops come in many sizes, but they only come in one shape. They defy the very purpose of measurement and define it, all at once.
ORB by Dimi
Asconversations.ourfriendship
Within half a year of our meeting, her impish ways had managed to charm a ring of people into our friend Igroup.would never admit it, but her and I were the core reasons that our group stuck together, at least, for those brief seven -------------------------------------------------------months.
When you squat by the side of the lake, the Mahaveli rives hushes, be free. The blue-water-lilies sing taste the air. Do you hear the echoes of suffering again, again? There is corruption outside us. But so too is there love and songs.
-Sitting together after a long day. We went rambuttan-picking last week but it feels like it happened a decade ago. I am no longer in the kitchen to hear how our daughter’s day went. Sleepy, you still stayed up for me, with dinner prepared. I wish the whole day was spent like this, but I have to return back to the gas station tomorrow. Would you like to meet again at the age of six chasing after the same butterfly?
-Working on the same table.
In this country even the sky is loved and wind is in cared for. Of course there is peace here. Everything is wonderful here. Of course. Of course.
-Calls from gas station.
by Divansshi
I am standing along with my people screaming for justice. I join the queue to get food and a middle aged woman serves, biriyani this time. She smiles at me and my mother shines in her. What’s heaven to a woman’s love anyway?
-Calling home from deployment.
LOVE LANGUAGES
Sri Lanka
The dining table is now my forte. Yours too. Words slide off your mouth as you attend your job interview the laborer cut-down, but your eyes follow me as I scramble around, fixing our bicycle. I’m so in love I feel like a container of strawberries.
44 45
-Food served on plates.
I was holding down the people who are fighting on the right side. My sister is not happy with me. She’d stopped checking up on me. I call to tell her that I might come home tonight. Silence. Don’t, she whispered. I don’t know who sold the homeland but I know who loved it.
In this country, sunset is a thief that devours the sky and reaches for more, always hungry, always eating away at the stars. In this country, even the sky is famished and the wind is rebelling. All of them have stolen crowns. They listen to their fathers who lean over the cradle and say power, power.
My group chat pings: ‘About to Arrive, Petrol 92 6600L’. I take the car and immediately rush to the gas station, 6km away. It’s been 5 hours already. My stomach grumbles. I walk up to the soldier in front of me and give him my number, asking to ring if the petrol finally arrives. He smiles and nods his head. Would you like to be old friends? Would you like to remember me a little?
That’s when my time comes. In one of these “nothings”, I have to return. He takes me away. And yet, I love the moon.
When the moon slowly pours its pale light, it reminds me of how much time is left. To become full. Melt in nothing.
In the middle of the blackness of the deepest night, in the middle of the gradually brightening dimness of the approach of its end.
We talk a lot with her, with the moon. She has a lot to tell. Mostly, about the nights I wasn’t here. She understands. Understands how it is. To be dual.
Don’t i feel the same way, as she says? Don’t I want to deceive myself that she is right? The same. The same. The Unchangeable.same.
then night comes. It always comes.
And I remember. I remember who I am now. Who really am. That little girl is gone. That in my soul is -winter.Doyou know the feeling when your own father is like a stranger? - I asked from the hazy shadows, which were human once, memoryless phantoms of The Asphodel Meadows, the last time I was there. But they were silent again. There was only Him who whispered, who is always whispering: Persephone
by Dominika
Ukraine
46 47
Mom doesn’t see it. Can’t see. Every time I return from there, I am the same girl for her. Spring girl. A girl with blooming of white and light-violet field flowers. After all, don’t I succumb to her when the day?
LITTLE GIRL
by Ekato
Georgia
48 49
And that one woman on the painting, the only person that was facing towards the space that was empty, unfinished, did she look… terrified?
You leave, for whatever reason you came is fulfilled, but on the way home, you realize. The painting didn’t have a speck of dust on it, had it?
You slide your hand over it. The painting looks unfinished. A background of a street with few people passing by, only the far corner of it, the end of the street, is empty like the artist forgot that part of the canvas even existed.
You enter the building and regret it instantly. There is so much dust and spider webs, and you don’t even want to know where some of those stains are from. You are here for a reason, though. Is it a dare? Work? Curiosity? I wouldn’t know.
Stairs creak loudly as you step on them. It feels like every sound you make is a mistake, but there is no one here, no one has been here for a long while, so you calm yourself. The room you find yourself in is completely bare, save for the painting in the middle.
THE UNFINISHED PAINTING
In an abandoned building lies a painting. Half of it is covered by cloth, thrown on hastily as if someone was in hurry.
The painting looks like it’s glowing in the bleak background. You want to see it better, so you come closer. Your heart is beating so fast, you feel afraid and with each step, the feeling gets worse, but you don’t stop, why should you? Your hand is trembling when you manage to tug the cloth and it falls away. You freeze in terror. A second passes, then two and finally, nothing happens. You sigh in relief. It’s just a painting after all.
Lebanon
ISLAMIC BETWEENREGULATIONS:MYTHSANDREALITIES
Western feminism disseminates the notion that Muslim women are oppressed. Their misrepresentation of Arab women’s conditions in their countries from a gender lens isolates gender from its social, political, and historical contexts. Two misconceptions formed by the western generalization of Muslim women’s conditions are: the idea that Muslim women are oppressed and forced to wear the veil and that they have no freedom of choice due to the boundaries set by Qur’an.
Ghida
50 51
Related to Hijab, the Qur’an addresses women’s dress and modesty primarily to protect their privacy and secure them from the evil intentions and actions of others. The Qur’an states: “O Prophet, tell your wives and your daughters and the women believers to lower over them their garments (jalābīb). That is more suitable that they will be known and not be abused/harmed.” (Q. 33:59).Based on this, Hijab is something that Muslim have come to recognize as good through their pragmatic and practical experiences, not as an obligation.
Having no intimate relationship outside of marriage is considered as a way of controlling women’s sexuality to the west. Western feminism doesn’t consider that keeping women purity is a sign of real freedom and integrity in Muslim societies. In Islam, it is not only important for women to avoid sexuality, but men are also expected to keep a respectful distance from unrelated women. “They lived like falcons. The hunters of the wild couldn’t touch them”. Intimate relationship in Islam is a sacred relationship that is governed by regulations in order to protect the rights and duties of each party.
In conclusion, Muslim women’s circumstances have a big number of fallacies, including the notion that they were compelled to wear the veil or that they lacked freedom of choice because of the regulations restricting their sexuality. All movements of feminism call for women’s rights according to women’s specific cultures, religions and regions, so as feminists we should understand what freedom means in each of those cultures.
52 53
MY FIRST
SunSuddenly,isfalling down, helping moon to rise Clouds turned red, giving the sky a spice A scent is smelt, what is it?
So fast that it makes the time slow The flow is smooth and calming The allure, the charm, the warning What if I miss these scenes, Or the comfort that it brings?
The hugging trees, The sudden, slight, soft breeze Blue is covering me, blue is the sky I step out, and hard is the ground Fresh lemon juice pictures on my left Large, cruel pictures of watermelon on my right, WhatWonderingifmiss these scenes? If I do My life is then wasted
Afghanistan
As if I was standing still, and my life Like a movie
Oh I Moisture,see, it is It came to us as a guest, Who might be the host, I wondered? Raindrops whispered, “We are!” I am grateful for the wind It caresses me, Or the heat, burning heat, it warms me Stepping out of the bus, I looked up to the roof, Closed my eyes, I said Thank you, world, thank you! WALK Hamid
by
Standing still, looking at the city The windows are shaded blue, This greenness is affected through the lens of my eyes as they are mesmerized, I am still, but the city is moving, Very fast
Just passing, second by second There is no turning back I told “Eithermyself,liveevery breathe, Or boil in the bowl of regret That you are the chef.”
Pakistan
I walk past contemporary modern houses and cool tube wells, and further out into the verdant green groves. Trees are arranged into rows and columns while oranges hang low, ready to be shucked and devoured. I smell citrus and wood from chopping nearby, the sweet and sour taste of ripe oranges never gets old. The pleasant aroma of the peel reminds me of my Nani, who always makes orange juice for everyone to drink. She adds kala namak, leaves of pudina and chaat masala.
Abandoned mandirThe oranges they left withering in the groves
ABANDONED MANDIR Hamza
I encounter ruins of another time. A house of Hindu divinity. The only component that survives 74 years of negligence is the Mandapa, everything else is levelled with the ground. The tremendous architecture shows its age, close to 400 years old. The design on the walls, squares and circles twist and turn with numerous deities, reflected onto the other side, driven by symmetrical precision – perfection. A place where farmers now house their buffaloes, makeshift roofs and medieval carts as troughs. The former times of puja have departed, and a new age has unravelled.
A people halved along religious lines. Dharma and Deen. Sikhs and Hindus fled modern-day Pakistan, and Muslims fled modern-day India. My mother’s side is from Uttar Pradesh. This village was left evacuated when my mum’s Dada Ji came seeking refuge, which automatically made him the owner of the majority of the lands. Unfortunately, maintaining the mandirs was not one of his priorities.
54 55
by Hannah
56 57
USA
dad says i’m movin’ out soon. August 7th i2022.guess i’ll go home now to Bread Garden, maybe pick a book up from the library. wait everything out at home; spend some time in my city again ill always have a city at least, a city that loves me. its late now and i’m going to pace around my house tonight i think.
my dad saw me with make-up on. i’ve always wondered how much money Jazz Fest spends on fireworks, what that budget could do for the unhoused here. i worry my city wont handle next year sometimes, where would we have PRIDE if not this “Transgender”place?sounds like a swing state governor from my fathers mouth. fireworks, made me sound like a slur all the way back to my city 2004, August 7th. my birthday. gender reveal: its a-thingsunforgiveable.weredifferent back in his day mama says, he didn’t grow up downtown.
i’m momtired.says
A POEM WHERE THE WORD MIND IS REPLACED BY CITY
Hot concrete and corn crops. city of literature my ass, where’s the city? five minutes any direction and its cornfield again we all know that but anyway i pass goosetown cafe, head for benches on the repurposed street i sit. there’s art all over this city i live in-it’s a cute place even if you didn’t make it home so many times. friends ask why i call it home when my actual city is 30 minutes away from where-ever i am. “i just like the Prairie Lights coffee, ya’ know?”.
I must have walked for over a decade, pacing myself across these steps, first tucked inside a red Winnie Wagon cart before I knew how to step backwards Before Baba said: Don’t walk alone, run I think I can somewhat understand why Baba makes every excuse to come here, to be surrounded by webs of people outside to do something like he was. Tea-and-beer laughter exists in order to resist the loneliness of not knowing His Fuzhounese-interlaced-Mandarin tongue still tries to find its way back home. 8th Avenue lives in my eyes, my tongue, my skin, my bones, my bigger feet, and in the most enduring I can love
F_i L__g Food Court claims a busy corner of 8th Avenue the distance is twenty streets, 2 avenues
8TH AVENUE, BROOKLYN
USA
this is a ritual walking trip & I choose to take the path of most resistance —walking the entire stretch: easing into the quieter patches; maneuvering through crowds of chattery/stern/busy faces; past the man hollering the vitality of crabs in Styrofoam and fleshiness of the fish on display; Winnie Wagon carts halt in human traffic; fresh fruits on open display, mothers bent over for a closer look; Boba and milk tea stain the concrete— every everyday, we live like this I am close enough to the voices that it ripples through me the ground is pulsating with stretched out hands, skipping steps pretty soon idle shadows are forming soft steps The other side is lined with rows of flyer-covered windows, see? we are entirely swept in the quotidian but I like–really like–walking here just not at 12-7 am or 3-12 pm or when I cannot walk 2 steps per second or when it makes the news or when it doesn’t because silence means endurance alone
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Helen
60 61
Afghanistan
an Afghan girl by
Having no ardency to write, what should I write about? about interpreting me like a disaster? selling me since the day I was born? sacrificing an innocent, wise girl with hundred dream? About chaining my dreams? locking me up like a bird in cage? closing my mouth with a strong fist? not having a sympathizer in this world? not being allowed to breath freely? always being in whimper? not being allowed to be the real version of myself? about my feathers that they tore it and I can’t fly? my moist eyes? my heart full of pain and its unspoken words? being nothing but a burden on my family’s shoulder? coming in this world as shame for my family? being a slave because I’m girl? having everyone against me with the swords of their tongues? About, is it even important if I write about anything or not because I’m a girl? the words that I want to write, they are the poisons of my life. poison of every Afghan girl’s life! believe me I’m also sweet and want to feel like I’m a Princess or Queen, I also want to fly like free bird in all over the sky, I also want to laugh loudly with no fears. I also want to run all over the street and sing loud I’m a free Afghan girl! I’m not feeble, I’m not a slave, I’m a girl. I’m the anchor of this world, I’m the one who has given birth to your Heroes! I’m not a bird in cage anymore. I’m enough strong to fight for my rights. one day you will believe me, you will believe my thoughts, my courage, my strength and my soul, you will believe that still with all your cruelty how strong I’m! Yes, this is me, an Afghan girl that is fighting for her rights every second, be aware she has changed! Hooria
I hated life and turned to my dream, But it was just a mirage, shining to seem As if it were a blessing, a ray from the sunbeam. Who knew, under the dark clouds, it’d soon dim, And turn up into cruel faces in darkness of sham, And then again I hated life and turned to my dream!
I grew up, a lonely little kid, Never dared to see & touch the sky or the colors amid. Books and papers had been my only feed. Fate sowed its fiendish seed. Beneath innocent smiles, the treachery hid, I’d just grown up a lonely little kid!
BangladeshWashington
I wished to find, face and fight for what I deserve! “Love-Hope-Fear-Faith”... the humane traits evolve, Love grew into hatred, hope shattered into pieces, Fear flared like a whirlwind, sweeping my faith like ashes Friends I thought were a blessing, but instead made my heart grieve, I kept on wishing to find, face and fight for the love I deserve!
I was born at a place with none to call my own My daddy, whom I loved, never took me home, My grandma was so kind throwing me out alone, Hunger & respect tortured my mom for long Amid the deep storms, when I needed her warmth the most I was born at a place with none to call my own!
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And again, I’m withered, with none to call my own People just call me the misfortune dawn, Even the one I believed to be my only boon! But how can I blame someone? Whereas people scrap own bodies to mourn? Although withered, still I’m standing at a place with NONE TO CALL MY OWN!
“Life’s nothing but learning to be alone!” Amid the terrene-chaos, you’ve to find a mind-home! Tears shedding in winter, waiting for spring to bloom, But the heavy howling wind could only doom! I’d rather shrivel than feel the urge to hate the loved one And now I believe, “Life’s nothing but learning to be alone!”
NONE to call my own by Ifsat
64 65
-Come here !
...Through his bedroom window ,Tom saw a strange light in the dark night sky ,full of stars and an absolute silence .After such a sudden awakening ,Tom guessed that that light went from a lantern. He already closed his eyes and was ready to calmly fall asleep again , when he realized that , as he clearly remembered , there have never been any lanterns near his remote house built far apart from the nearest city .Forced by both curiosity and strange worrying feeling , Tom sat on the bed and pulled the translucent curtain aside to look at what was going on . But as he did so , the unexpected light disappeared . It was in summer and everything was seen pretty distinctly by the shine of the full moon on the cloudless vault . Tom opened the window and the fresh , mild air ,which was full of flower scents ,the murmurous sound of a nearly flowing river and songs of cicadas . He froze ,listening to this music of the night ,and , after then returned to bed, leaving the window unlocked. And as soon as Tom lay down,he felt that an incomprehensible light appeared again at the window for no reason at all, and that it was as if someone was watching him very closely. Slowly , trying to pretend as if he was still asleep , Tom turned to the other side of the bed so he could see the window . And then he was frightened . Perhaps the most in his whole life . The strange light turned out to be a bizarrely sparkling creature with the flames of the fire as bright as the sun in the darkness, floating in the air two meters above the ground . It didn’t have legs , nor arms , but big-round red-and-black eyes , which seemed to burn everything with its sight as this creature looked at anything . Scared to death , Tom couldn’t move at all . He stayed still in his bed , having no idea of what to do . So , the unwilling guest decided for Tom , as it found him awake .The monster commanded :
Tom has no option , but just keep looking at the creature ,as his body was still out of his control .The strange light went three circles around Tom’s head and after all loudly hissed, looking at the guy’s eyes with its own closed :
-What a mistake ! You are not him !
by Iryna
Ukraine
WHAT A LOSS !
In a flash ,Tom flew out of the window ,closing his eyes in fright . When he burst his eyes again ,Tom found himself standing in complete darkness with this object in front of him ,which now loudly clicked with sharp fangs.
I collapse on the floor in a weeping pile, banging my fist on the ground. It feels strange.
I’m about to open the door.
I look around twice, to make sure no one’s spying on this forbidden act I’m about to embark on.
The feeling stops and I peek an eye open before the other. Nothing’s here but white and silence. This is... strange. Where am I? Am I dead?!??
I sit up and hit it again and watch the ground ripple, the floor slightly becoming transparent. I need to keep banging. It may be my only hope.
There’s a forbidden door in our house. Nobody knows what was put in it before us. The neighbors instructed us to never open it, even under dire circumstances. They wouldn’t tell us what happened before, but the house came with all of the previous owner’s furniture, so that told us enough.
66 67 USA
I walk forward to see if there’s anything in sight. Just more white and nothingness. I start to panic, running forward to see if going any faster would help. All I see is bright white, enough to make me go blind.
THE FORBIDDEN DOOR
I place my hand on the cold, dusty metal, hearing a small creak as I press down and pull towards me. As soon as it’s cracked the slightest, I get pulled into the other side and it feels so... peaceful. It’s like I’m going down a waterfall and diving into a pool of rainbows, surrounded by the warmth of the sunrays refracting off the tiny water droplets.
Jaylen
USAWashington
Liu watched as life continued as usual. Hua continued talking shit about the neighboring residents and how the landlord was too fussy and how the nights were too cold. She would return late from another night shift and Hua would be there with another story about the awfulness of the city they lived in or how their neighbor got drunk and pissed outside their doorway again. Other times Hua would prepare a meal of a congee and salted mustard roots for the both of them, claiming that she had nothing better to do anyway. Day after day. Shift after shift. Bowl after bowl. Liu wouldn’t call it love, more like necessity. Love was something tucked on the highest bookshelf between hair clips and that grade A beef she could never buy.
Liu is not afraid. At least that’s what she tells herself. Fear is for the fools, the ones who still have the time and the cash to dream. Besides, hungry ghosts are common in this side of the city and in this side of her family. It was her destiny, her lineage, the gift she never wanted. Ghosthood was like suffering, a string that tied one generation to the next. Liu still remembers her aunt’s death. She was flattened by a garbage truck on an early Monday morning and it took four men to pry the remains from the street and all they managed to get was a bundle of fractured bones and a wedding ring. Three weeks later her aunt showed up at their apartment’s doorstep as a hungry ghost, an ugly and bigger one than Hua, with teeth that scraped the ground, but she left as soon as winter came and rent was due.
68 69
Excerpt from GHOST SISTER
by Jessica
Letting out a tired sigh, Lenard made his small white bed, and with the help of his lanterns guidance, picked out his church sweater, detailed with many stitches and arrows, all centered around his neck. The scratchy wool warmed him immediately, as he began to lace his leather boots up to begin the long, dark journey to the small church just down the road that ran parallel to the brewing sea. Taking one last look at his one-room home, Lenard wrapped his scarf over his coat, and placed his old newspaper boy cap on his head, the same one his father wore till he left it for Lenard. Creaking the door open, a swift and howling wind gusted through Lenard, invading the bare insides of his home. His eyes froze open, the awakening feeling of the cold preparing him for the long walk to come. But it was nothing new. For eighty years, Lenard had made this same journey.
by Julia
70 71 USA
AN EXPERT OF OLD SWEDISH LIFE
With each crunching step, his fading memories of a life before these lonesome winters would flood back to him: The nights of Christmas when his family would walk the bustling path to the church, with “God Jul” being sung from every direction. Or the early mornings when his sisters would awaken him to surprise their Mormor and Morfar with Lucia Buns, everyone dressed in white, with candles crowning the eldest daughter’s head like a halo of light. Today was Lucia Day, wasn’t it? It was hard for Lenard to remember such things, as he had no grandchildren to wake him in the dark February morning, singing with joy and light to him with warm buns in hand. Treading along, Lenard could almost smell the Lucia buns that the neighbors would have this morning. But the smell was too distant, and was overpowered by the seizing presence of the Baltic. As he peered out into the deep, dark mass, Lenard could feel his mother, making white robes for the next morning’s Lucia costumes. He could touch the dough his sisters had spent oh so much time preparing, knotting it into figure eights with raisins braided in. His hands no longer felt the stinging pain of the cold. Instead, they felt the warmth of a hundred candles being lit, lighting the way out to sea. As Lenard followed the leading light and warmth, it took him off the road, and onto the sand that laced the freezing cold sea.
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by Kate USA
Washington
netted to a heaving swell, the eroded fishermen crouch against the mist of sharpened ripples a genuflection to greatness their boats maneuver the toss of the ocean’s rough hands mount the hungry waves and let the water hold them like a sword whether fish or men the ocean is their home and the ocean is their bounty hostage against cascading wisdom, swathed in a heritage emerging around an unknown nature, a flood lashing driftwood against the gaping beach the sky flushing with clouds whitecaps pile upon themselves at the feet of onlookers and berate mount fuji but caress this miniscule intrusion and worship the human
OFF KANAGAWA
Lebanon
Washington
LEAVING HOME
Looking back at the pictures of my childhood, it certainly didn’t make me feel better. It made me want to unpack my suitcase, and question the reason it was bought. Feels like being a traitor, but does it really matter?
Looking back at the wall, which witnessed my first laughter. It gave me the urge to stop looking back, and I fought. Hoping the walls won’t break and shatter.
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Looking back at my parents, who are everything that matters. “Maybe it will be alright!” they said, trying to show support. Feels like being a traitor, but does it really matter?
Hoping the walls won’t break and shatter. I take the step leading me out. Feels like being a traitor, but does it really matter?
by Marita
Looking back at the memories; hoping they won’t fade and be lost in clutter. It sent me into a hopeless state, feeling completely caught. Hoping the walls won’t break and shatter.
The school is going to open soon, faris and his mother came to the library to buy stationery and then came home and started preparing the bag.
After a while, Fares and Musheer overcame bullying and also with his help Aoun and Raneem. They started spreading their story and sensitizing people about how hard it was bullying. And they became significant in society, the will works miracles.
BULLYING IN SCHOOL by Miral
Musheer and Faris became friends and decided to do something to prevent this bullying and told each other: We will become strong together, and they told the school principal to take the appropriate action against these bully students. But their colleague Aoun had another opinion, and he said to them: I have another solution for these bullies, and they said to him: We do not need your help, you may also be like them.
Then by chance came a young man named Laith and started bullying Faris because of his weight and on Musheer because of his intelligence and love studying .
Jordan
On the first day of school , Faris woke up excited to go to his new school.
There is a girl named Raneem who is an outstanding student and is a beloved and social girl as well. Raneem decided to talk to Faris because she noticed that no one talks to him, so she realized that he is a very wonderful and well-treated person and Raneem became one of the best friends of Faris.
The next day, Fares noticed that students were also bullying Faris , a very good student who likes to read books in free time and from outstanding students as well.
Then she came with her opinion from Aoun’s and said to Faris and Musheer: I know that you have the “right” not to be bullied. And you should not be harassed, you, like everyone else, deserve to feel safe, and then Aoun said: Yes, this is definitely about your words for actions and so they will stop bullying.
He arrived in school and his heart started beating quickly from anxiety, he entered his new class and tried to talk to the students, but all the students were ignoring/alienating him! But what is the reason? The dialogue took place in Faris’ mind: Why does no one want to talk to me? Why? Is it because I’m fat? I don’t want to stay in this school because I don’t have any friend.
Aoun said: Of course not! In my opinion, try to avoid Laith, and be satisfied with yourself, if he says or does something to you, learn to defend yourself in front of bullies not only Laith.
A 13-year-old Faris and his family were reluctant to go to another school, so he was admitted to the school he chose, but Faris was a little hesitant because he did not have any friend in this school, so he told his family with concern, but his family encouraged him, it is better than his old school.
Then Laith said to Faris: We will call you the bear and the fat, so everyone started laughing and Faris felt very sad Raneem yelled at everyone and said: I don’t see where the flaw is, is it all because of his excess weight! He should be treated like us and not by distinction! He is a normal person! Everyone has a problem and there is no perfect person, his life is free of problems! But everyone should be respected! But Raneem’s words didn’t affect anyone, especially Laith, Laith loves problems and loves bullying, but this is wrong. Then Faris said: What do you want from me, I didn’t do anything for you, I just want to have friends, what’s wrong with this!
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Faris thought between him and himself: Are they bullying me because of my excess weight?
He walked out tonight, with pale whiskers Walking through the cold and wet concrete road Suddenly confused like drinking fake wine He wants to find out the code.
China Ukraine&
He was locked in prison fifty years ago He killed, regretted, and shouted to the sky He misses his home and family But it is thousands of miles away.
The uncle opposite is drunk Dancing and circling on the street. Auntie’s barbecue stall is always patronized on the corner They have a leisurely look, they steal whose sweet?
Tonight he walked out of the foggy confusion Sat down on the asphalt road in the dark. Can the world give him a second chance? The sound around his mind, “there is no way back.”
A narrow street with red, green, and red lights, The lights shine, people laugh, and a variety of cars. Where is he going, losing his way home Everything has changed, except his scars.
THERE IS NO WAY BACK by Nina
Sadness does not fit the night Or the strength of the night against him He himself walks alone all tomorrow, Said how variable the world would be.
78 79
This is when serotonin hits. I didn’t throw the past, but instead, I jumped myself. But who’s talking anyway? That’s the shifting chapter where you read the first and last two chapters of a book. Still, we, humans, are always reading the book inversely. Beginning with the drug(y) happiness and ending with the least impressive similes.
Some wordy titanic messages. Nobody dies in that chapter. It’s a frame for those who are less reminded that the overly dramatic stories they compose are–by far–the least concerning to this world. That is when exactly they get trapped in their heads waiting for both; the sunset and the sinking of their dreams. This chapter seems devilish after all. It’s never been about jumping because nobody will, in the watch of the most welcoming; The Cliff and The Clef.
THE CLIFF AND THE CLEF
Egypt
Mr. Ebenezer, I have fallen to the same curse. I thought that the dystopian clerk(y)-dramatized society would at least leak by throwing the past off a cliff. Except for, it didn’t. Perhaps, it’s the wrong cliff, or maybe it’s not even one. Still, that doesn’t jump off my senses. Did I throw the past? Did I get over it? Who does? The ghosts of the upper world in a carol game are themselves stuck warning us about the world falling. You won’t learn–the yet-to-come amigo will tell. But I read your story, and your book is a good metaphor after all.
Pause. Hush. Not a word. Jump. In the Dickensian era, we represent the three hopeless ghosts. The Cliff who wishes everybody jumps–Ghost of Christmas Past. The Clef, a drunk deaf writer who sets an entire opera in chaos–Ghost of Christmas Present. And a life model that pretends to control both The Cliff and The Clef, but it’s much like a man who goes back in time to tell Bret Easton that being a psycho is like composing poetry in a sunflower field–Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
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by Omar
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And we will manage somehow Forever and always
Maybe, soon, if you’d like, I can be your violin Darling, let me be your violin
And when my spine crumbles under all that weight I’ll know you meant well
Just know that once you choose to wipe it, I’ll be there, crying, too So darling, play your violin
Jordan
We will manage somehow
And maybe my lap can be the chin rest
So darling, let my hair be the strings
Oh, darling, maybe you can be my bow, too I know it’s what you live for, that violin
by Ramzi
AFTER MITSKI
So darling, play your violin
And when the mirror cries cold condensation
Let my silky, pearly, long hair be your strings
Rest your burdens on my shoulders
I know it’s what you live for Darling, play your violin
THE SONG OF SUNDOWN
The allure of the amusement park at night never fails to capture me. The lights. The sounds. The people. Every inch of this magic-infused land engulfs me in a new kind of joy. The colors. The laughing children. The rides that send my heart racing. The foods that cover my face in sugar and my heart in glee. twinkling lights..warming our hearts with sugar and laughter
But all the enchanting sparkle of the amusement is minuscule next to the queen of all rides. The Ferris Wheel sits right in the middle of the park, staring from above at us like a queen would her subjects. We run toward it and wait patiently for our turn to get on this ride of quiet magic. shrinking world-muffling sounds as we rise give Afterpeacegetting off the Wheel, every other ride’s magic tastes different. After taking a break from the sounds and lights that flooded my senses, every excitement has more place to encompass my heart.
THE QUEEN OF RIDES
Reem
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Almost saying goodbye before the sun comes and engulfs us in light and warmth. The few hours from night through dawn are not nearly enough. Yet, I try to make the best of them. Close my eyes. Fill my lungs with cool air. Fill my ears with the sound of that same air caressing the trees. As the sun begins to rise, I silently hope for peace and quiet to visit us sooner. And I prepare myself for another long day.
It was a long day. So, I sit in my balcony after everyone in the world goes away. Off to sleep. And finally, I can hear the silent song of the world. I can hear without interruption. The sounds of peace and quiet. rustling Thethefreedomleaves--tobreathedawn’sbreezestarstwinkleabove.
Egypt
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DANCE OF THE DEAD
The duke began his night by standing in the nosebleeds, watching the ghosts entertain themselves. Eventually, he’d have Alfred signal for the orchestra to begin. Ghouls and ghosts would line up on each side of the dance floor before floating away with their beloveds into a complicated dance. Twists and turns with stolen kisses in-between. Eventually, the duke would join the ghosts in their ecstasy and bliss.
by Sara
Lebanon
Duke Benjamin III was generous. Rumor has it that his father’s mistress’ taught him such mannerism, for his late mother would never allow charity for those beneath her. She preferred using all extreme measures of torture available when it came to them. Duke Benjamin didn’t carry out her legacy. Instead, he held an annual ball and sent invites to all of France. Of course, words from a powerful man shook the country to its core. Streets were flooded with families rushing from store to store months before the dance was due. Women stood in loose fabrics, men struggled to find the perfect tie, and children lounged around- for the boredom of shopping had severely infected them.
On the night of the ball, carriages lined up in-front of the estate. Couples dressed in silk floated out of them. Alfred, the butler, stood at the gates and took their invites. He’d read the guests’ names and welcome them into the best night of their lives. The walls were covered with gold detailing, twisting and turning with the scars of their surroundings. The ceiling had 5 chandeliers hanging from it. But what truly blew everyone away were the tables. Rows of rotten roast beef, moldy baguette, and disgusting deserts were all available. It was truly a king’s feast. Mold of such high quality was only found up north, where only the luckiest ghoul could experience it.
I’m unseen, ensnared, by lack of darkness, I pray in hands you hold despair.
Always striving to deceive, waiting for the victory, hiding madness into sleeve. Plunge the knife into my spine and hear confessions of your sins, our wishes turned pathetic lies.
Sasha Ukraine
Bits of lies spread and hover, tears echo the world of memories all over, In rhymes and In futures of the past, wont of joy turns into wont of ache, our wishes cast away. Waking up at noon and cursing early morning, what’s right and moral left behind, Everything is wrong and nothing left to hide.
BLACK WHITE
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The world is tight and in its cracks, everyone is chained inside.
AND
My soul fills light and dark, In rhymes, and sentences, and commas, Its pain I shall remark.
Better live than pass without fighting, And to exist near someone just like me.
90 91 Georgia
by Sofie
The search for freedom has caged me, it’s not me cutting lives in the mirror, “mom I swear I’m doing it all for love,” I say as I hope my sadistic smile escapes your chaotic memory garden faster, so I can cry myself to sleep without worry, only hope not to see bars in the morning.
The chase brings me to being taken away again, drowning in memories of happiness rare as a father’s hand in a complicated marriage. The weapon is put against my head“What do you feel knowing your death?”
SEARCH FOR FREEDOM
And the day comes, embrace me in your arms, tell me you love me as I don’t feel it anymore, just smile, show your shiny teeth, not your scars. “Are you okay?” the family asks, “You can talk to us” inmates continue.
Something I never thought I would ever mutter, to kill the woman who framed me for murder.
“Peace,” I say as I shut my eyes and quiver before the gun.
“I know, I know.” Her breath on my neck made me shiver. Her chest pressed against my bare back. Her arms wrapped around my shoulders, my left hand holding her right one. Her warmth was unmatchable. The hottest fires couldn’t compete. Looking at her face felt as familiar as looking into a mirror. But unlike in the mirror, I loved what I saw. “What’s your second favorite thing in the whole universe?” She said softly.
“They won’t. They know you too well,” I wanted to turn in her arms and look at her. “You’re their friend.” But she didn’t reply.
“Losing you.” I replied, not wasting a second. “I’m being serious!” came the defensive answer to her gleeful laughter.
DEATH IS ALL BUT THE END OF LOVE
“Oh? That’s a lot of love.” She was amused.
“But I thought they’d be the first,” Her confused tone sparked adoration in my heart. “You love them so much, no?”
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“If I were to ask any question, would you answer?”
“Without hesitance.”
Sova 93 Iraq
“I wish you came to me more often.” It sounded pathetic, even to my own ears. Her hand slipped from mine. Her warmth leaving me.
“The stars.”
“Please ask me something else, I want to hear your voice one last time.” I was pleading in vain. I could tell she was gone. Her side of the bed felt empty behind me. I still felt the phantom sensation of her fingertips softly grazing my back, tracing the patterns of constellations.
The silence between us stretched for the length of galaxies. I felt the words lining up in her head, building up to form sentences that I never could predict.
She hummed from behind me. “Alright… what’s your biggest fear?”
“I do love them, but there is something else I love more.” I said.
“I wish you weren’t dead.” I said, but there was nobody there to hear.
“They come second only to you.” I brought her right hand to my lips. I wanted to kiss her while I could. “Careful, they might get jealous.”
I watch him, the wind carding through my hair and letting it fall in wiry strands against bare skin, flushed despite the way the seabreeze bites at the tender of my stomach and the small of my back. His heels are scarcely touching the ground as he moves, ebbing and flowing with a grace that belies his strength like a river cutting a glacier, balancing on nothing but toes and a prayer as his arms crane up, reaching for the sky. My fingertips try to trace the path he carves, nails pointed and pulling towards him as I try to reach out for the teasing glimpses of skin. The upper muscle of his thighs teasingly bared, he knows, flexing and shifting under rice paper, his face so small and round, a porcelain doll that smiles with its eyes and perfectly small blood red lips, the way his arms reach up as if to grab the stars in his hands and use them as craggy footholds to the moon and fall like he is weightless in the arms of the air.
by TJ
I know now, why he won’t let me touch him, stumbling and lurching forward. My hands rake against nothing with air, clutching and grasping at laughter and whispers, my face flushed like I’m drunk on everything. I can feel his mouth, tracing the shape of my jaw, down the bob of my throat and the curve of my breasts where I let no one touch, and lower still.
DRAGONS AND FAIRIES
I was wrong. He will be the one to tear me to pieces, in the way the sea sands at a cliffside and leaves nothing but rubble. The way a seaside will crumble, without warning or pause, just to embrace the corrosive salt and acidic water, the mundanity of it underwhelming to smaller things and overwhelming to bigger things. His mouth is gaping and his flattened molars, hidden under a wiry smile like the rest of him, are curling fangs that walk the line of breaking skin. Wings, thinner than the stiff crunch of morning frost, do not break or shatter. They simply crumple with little fanfare and they are ripped, glass from skin.
I can’t tell if I want to writhe under his skin or tear him to pieces. Maybe both. He is a whipcord of strength, back flexing and chest bared as his spine arches, black hair like silk strands. He’s like a dragon, and his eyes are a piercing blue as he locks his gaze onto mine and I feel an unearthly heat like the oceans boiled by the sun as he pulls and I am caught.
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of water hammered down on the trees as if someone had turned on a huge shower over the ancient forest. It started suddenly, but judging by the heavy, dark clouds, would go on for quite a while.
It was raining.
She didn’t care. She was free. WAS RAINING
She didn’t care. Without fear of potential sickness, she ran through the forest. The smell of damp soil, the music that the water was playing on the trees, and the way her clothes, completely soaked, clung to her body were all familiar. It was relaxing. It made her feel alive.
IT
It was Countlessraining.droplets
by Tsovinar
It was raining.
She didn’t care. One with the wind and water. One with the green surrounding her. One with the very essence of the forest. Untouched by the passage of time, She ran. Where? No one, not even herself, knew. She was the forest herself. They were two parts of the same coin. Similar, yet different. There was no need for directions.
Armenia
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She didn’t care. She was in her element. This was her life. This was her forest. This was her home. She has lived here for countless years. And would continue to do so for centuries more
It was raining.
It was raining.
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FORMULA
This dark, silent island is his working home He spends days and night in here cold and alone Some dorado fish and mollusk dna are his only friends and companions today
But if you insist, your finances spike And here you are dear V in your lab but the night The secret in front has an ethical shtick
stolen by those who are always just right Never come back to the true science side You can’t go cry or just go forget No one has known the right way round yet
His newly adventitious inventing lab state Required by the government in some old estate An ode to a scientist to never be perished And his only project forever be cherished So tell me now traveler what hides behind, your wanting to search for an eternal life?
Would you move the path or just die on it? Quick, make your choice, your future awaits Will your mommy just stay in her positive state A future solution, just don’t step aside, here’s your way to your own eternal life
Russia
by Vasilisa
Money***
So tell me now pal? What the secret behind you’re truly subnormal eternal tough life.
A dark centered lab Some math just to stick And old buried weight of the wounds that still sick
A***look in the mirror, a glance from behind Here comes in the future, obligatorily light A scientist as simple as his name v.h Looks up in the bloom of an unburied rage
A wish and a pray but just not to the gods To science, to realm of the knowledge above With dreams and with praise of the schrodinger cat Becomes something more that we’ll never forget
Ukraine
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I SPENT FIFTY DAYS OBSERVING THE SUN
Chasing the sun on my bike, I overlooked many years of hard work being crushed in an outburst of rage and carelessness. I swooshed by with wind flowing trough my hair and a fly in my eye. Our soldiers died so that we could see our country once again, as close to what it was before the 24th of February. It’s said their sacrifice was for a much greater cause, but I believe that they died for thousands of careless bike-riding kids.
I wake up as the last few stars disappear from the sky and I see their bleak shining dissolve in the sunlight as I get ready. It frightens me how the world changes form one stage to another while I simply take a shower and cook myself breakfast. What else have I missed doing these mundane tasks?
by Yasmina
Watching the evening take hold through the blinds feels surreal. The sun slowly sets and the shadows elongate, gradually painting my bedroom into a cool, dark color. What’s even more surreal is the realization that my father wakes up while I turn on my meditation to fall asleep. While I think about how important it is for me to get my eight hours of rest, he thinks of another way to make the lives of his family and co-citizens easier. While I struggle to fall asleep to the sounds of the TV screaming in the living room, he wakes up to sirens and goes to work. It’s much easier to keep up with the sun than with Zelenskiy’s posts. There’s something about it’s predictability and consistency that’s way more appealing than the flux of information that often contradicts everything I believe in. The earth keeps spinning us, though, it seems to spin some a bit smoother and quicker than others.
Crack
Crying, weeping, and hurting as your reflection is stranded off on a plain surface Simply a mirror, but why does it hurt so much as I force myself to brace;
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Crack
UNTITLED
Black eyes, scrutinized, cowering behind your gaze Your melanin skin filled with marks, losing all its glaze Hollow eyes with dimming blaze, looking beyond a mirror’s gaze Skin, untouched and unloved, it’s not your own beauty that you start to crave
Simply a mirror, I convince myself, though I feel quite sick Maybe it’s my heart or the glass you break with your bare hands That I slowly lose myself and engulf in your sounds of Crack.
Bangladesh
Crack
Seeking consolation from a mirror, you turn your face away Hiding your face in your hands, you whisper the words, “ It’s okay”. However, thoughts not in array, contorted with dismay, tearing you apart every day A futile realization; words like felt, wanted, and needed do not always stay.
Crack
Crack
Words you scream, phrases you hurl, and thoughts you speak As time passes, your broken soul is something you do not bother to pick
by Zuyena
“The Birds”, a short story, was featured in Dalkey Archive Press’ anthology Best European Fiction 2016. In 2016, he participated in the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program. This was followed by residencies in Shanghai and Sun Yat-sen University in China. He has translated novels by writers such as Thomas Pynchon, George Saunders, Octavia E. Butler, and Peter Beagle into Bulgarian. In 2020, his translation of George Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo won the Association of Bulgarian Translators Prize. He is currently working on a PhD in Bulgarian literature at Sofia University where he also teaches courses on creative writing and fantastic literature.
INSTRUCTORWORKSHOP
ROCHELLE pOTKAR Fictionist | Poet | Screenwriter, Rochelle is an alumna of Iowa’s International Writing Program (2015) and a Charles Wallace Writer’s fellow, University of Stirling (2017). Author of Four Degrees of Separation and Paper Asylum, which was shortlisted for the Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize 2020. She had her poetry film Skirt featured on Shonda Rhimes’ Shondaland. Her short story collection Bombay Hangovers was released in 2021. Widely-anthologized, a few of her poems and stories have won prizes. Her first screenplay was a quarter-finalist at the Atlanta Film Festival Screenwriting competition 2020.
INSTRUCTORWORKSHOP
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INSTRUCTORWORKSHOP
VLAdimir poleganov (b. 1979, Sofia) is a Bulgarian writer, translator, and screenwriter. He is the author of one collection of short stories, The Deconstruction of Thomas S (published in 2013 by St. Kliment Ohridski University Press) and one novel, The Other Dream (2016, Colibri), which won the Helikon Award for Best Fiction Book of the Year in 2017. His short stories have appeared in various literary magazines in Bulgaria and abroad.
INSTRUCTORWORKSHOP
RUMENA BUžarovska is a fiction writer and literary translator from Skopje, North Macedonia. An author of four volumes of short stories translated into more than ten languages, her book My Husband has been adapted into three stage productions in Ljubljana, Belgrade and Skopje. A 2018 resident of the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, she is a professor of American literature and translation at the Ss Cyril and Methodius University in Skopje. She is the co-author and co-organizer of the women’s storytelling initiative PeachPreach.
mary hickman was born in Idaho and grew up in China and Taiwan. She holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where she was an Iowa Arts Fellow. Hickman is the author of two books of poems, This Is the Homeland (Ahsahta Press, 2015) and Rayfish (Omnidawn Publishing, 2017), which won the James Laughlin Award, given by the Academy of American Poets and chosen by Ellen Bass, Jericho Brown, and Carmen Giménez Smith. An assistant professor at Nebraska Wesleyan University in Lincoln, Nebraska, she also teaches in (and loves!) the University of Iowa International Writing Program’s Between the Lines exchange program.
DELANEY NOLAN got her MFA in fiction from Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 2016, and is currently a teacher and editor located in New Orleans. She has taught online classes with Catapult, and was a BTL counselor last summer. She’s also taught writing with IYWP in Iowa, with IWP in Morocco, as a Fulbright specialist in Moscow, and elsewhere.
alea adigweme is an anti-disciplinary IgboVincentian-U.S.-ian cultural worker who utilizes the mediums of creative writing, book arts, performance, community engagement, installation, video, and other visual media. She is based in Tovaangar, the metropolitan area commonly known as Los Angeles, where she just graduated from UCLA with an MFA in Interdisciplinary Studio Art. She also earned an MFA in Nonfiction Writing, an MA in Media Studies, and a graduate certificate in Gender, Women’s, and Sexuality Studies from the University of Iowa.
TEACHING ASSISTANT & PANELIST
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GYASI HALL is a Writer of Stuff™ from Columbus, Ohio. Their essay “Alas, Poor Fhoul” was the runner up for the Black Warrior Review 2020 Nonficiton Contest, and their debut poetry chapbook, Flight of the Mothman: An Autobiography, was published by The Operating System in spring 2019. They recently graduated from the University of Iowa with an MFA in Creative Nonfiction, and they are the lead nonfiction editor for The BreakBread Literacy Project. They currently reside in Iowa City where they’re working on what they hope will be their first book, an essay collection about Black people and comic books.
TEACHING ASSISTANT & PANELIST
SEAN ZHURAW Sean’s writing has appeared in Boston Review, Handsome, New Session, Tin House, Denver Quarterly, Defunct, and elsewhere. He has earned degrees from Columbia and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop where he won the John Logan poetry prize. His translation of Theodor Däubler’s The Starchild was a finalist for Ugly Duckling Presse’s 2021 open reading period. He teaches at the Community College of Philadelphia and Widener University and lives in West Philly with his husband and two cats.
TEACHING ASSISTANT & PANELIST
TEACHING ASSISTANT & PANELIST
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ANTHOLOGYDESIGNER
Georgie Fehringer is a Black queer artist and writer, originally from Seattle, WA. An Iowa Arts Fellow and MFA Candidate at the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program, their work has appeared in The Black Warrior Review, The Chicago Review, TIMBER, and Brink among other places. You can find their work at GeorgieFehringer.com
MASON HAMBERLIN is a queer writer, designer, bookseller, and educator from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, located on unceded Occaneechi territory. An MFA candidate at the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program, they’re the winner the 2022 Roxanne Mueller Essay Prize, as well as a receipient of a Marcus Bach fellowship. You can find their writing at Ninth Letter, The Adroit Journal, Entropy, Shenandoah, and more. There, or along the shelves of Chapel Hill’s Epilogue Books, where they wrote maybe one-too-many of those recommendation cards.
BTLASSISTANTSUMMER
PROGRAM ASSISTANT
YOUTHCOORDINATORPROGRAMS
ALISA WEINSTEIN received a BFA in Drama and MA in Educational Theatre from New York University, and a PhD in Anthropology from Syracuse University; she also studied at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, and conducted dissertation research on a Fulbright-Nehru scholarship. Among her other writing, she authored scripts for India’s Sesame Street, Galli Galli Sim Sim, and is currently at work on an ethnography on tailors working in Jaipur, India. A co-founder of Home Ec. Workshop in Iowa City, she often teaches knitting and sewing to crafters of all ages.
CAITLIN PLATHE received her BA in English and Creative Writing from the University of Iowa. An alumna of IWP’s Between the Lines program, she has held several assistantship positions at IWP. She is also the author of I Am No Plath, a volume of poems.
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SPECIALINSTRUCTORSEMINAR
SPECIALINSTRUCTORSEMINAR
SPECIALINSTRUCTORSEMINAR
LA SHAUN PHOENIX MOORE is a Detroitbased vocalist, spoken word artist, activist, culture creator and wife. Moore’s interdisciplinary work is infused with her love for the city of Detroit, hip-hop, God, social justice and her black momma. She is currently working on her first memoir exploring the complexities of the Mother Wound and how it is rooted in her immediate family. Moore is the coach of the Youth Performance Troupe for InsideOut Literary Arts. She is the recipient of the 2020 and 2021 Creators of Culture Award by CultureSource.
SPECIALINSTRUCTORSEMINAR
Melody Moezzi is an Iranian-American Muslim author, attorney, activist, and visiting associate professor of creative writing at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. She is the author of War on Error: Real Stories of American Muslims, Haldol and Hyacinths: A Bipolar Life, and most recently, The Rumi Prescription: How an Ancient Mystic Poet Changed My Modern Manic Life, which earned her a 2021 Wilbur Award. Moezzi’s writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, The Christian Science Monitor, NBC News, Inside Higher Ed, Al Arabiya, The South China Morning Post, Hürriyet, The Straits Times, Parabola, and many other outlets. She’s also a United Nations Global Expert and an Opinion Leader for the British Council’s Our Shared Future initiative. You can follow her on Twitter at @ MelodyMoezzi and on Instagram at @Melody.Moezzi.
JUSTIN ROGERS is a Black poet, educator, coach, and editor from Detroit, Michigan. Rogers shares poems surrounding living and praying as a Black man in America and explores fantasy through Pop Culture. He most recently has work published in Tinderbox Poetry Journal, The Metro Times, Detroit Action, and is the author of the micro-zine “Nostalgia as Black Matilda” (Rinky Dink Press 2017). He released his chapbook Black. Matilda. in 2019 with Glass Poetry Press. He is the coordinator of InsideOut’s award winning after school program, Citywide Poets and part of the 2021/22 MACC Rising Leaders Cohort.
KATERYNA BABKINA is a Ukrainian poet, prose writer, columnist, screenwriter, and playwright. She’s the author of four poetry collections (Lights of Saint Elm, 2002, The Mustard, 2011, Painkillers and Sleeping Pills, 2014, Charmed for Love, 2017, Does Not Hurt, 2021), a novel (Sonia, 2013), a novel in short stories (My Grandfather Danced the Best, 2019) and two collections of stories (Lilu After You, 2008 and Happy Naked People, 2016). She has also written 3 books for kids (The Pumpkin Year, The Hat and the Whale, and Girls Power [co-authored with Mark Livin]), which are extremely popular in Ukraine. Her writings have been translated into English, Swedish, Polish, German, Hebrew, French, Spanish, Romanian, Czech and Russian.
JIDANUN LUEANGPIANSAMUT has published more than 20 novels, largely in the sci-fi and romance genres. The youngest-ever winner, in 2017, of the Southeast Asian Writers Award, she specializes in dystopian and LGBT themes, and YA literature. Her novel เฟื่องนคร (City of Stars) has been translated into English and Chinese, and will be the basis of a TV series. Her participation was made possible by the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs at the U.S. Department of State.
SRI LANKA ‘22
SPECIALINSTRUCTORSEMINAR
SHEHAN KARUNATILAKA has authored the novels Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (2010) and Chats with the Dead (2020) as well as the children’s book Please Don’t Put That in Your Mouth (2019). The recipient of the 2008 Gratiaen Prize, the 2012 Commonwealth Book Prize, and the 2012 DSC Prize for South Asian Literature, he also writes on sport, music, and travel for major newspapers and magazines. His participation was made possible by the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs at the U.S. Department of State.
IWP RESIDENCY PANELIST
THAILAND ‘22
IWP RESIDENCY PANELIST
shawntai brown is a Detroit writer, media commentator, literacy coordinator and teaching artist. Her work centers on empowering communities through experiences that educate, challenge and entertain. She has a Bachelor of Arts in creative writing from Western Michigan University and a Master of Arts in Literacy Learning from Marygrove College. Her plays have been performed in New York, Chicago and across Michigan, including her episodic series eLLe, centering queer women experiences, now in its 10th year. She co-hosts a web show Woman Crush Everyday, reviewing Black woman-centered queer media and interviewing content producers, and cofounded Black LGBT+ Plays, a creative development network for film and theatre creatives. Currently, Shawntai serves as the School Coordinator with InsideOut Literary Arts where she previously taught poetry as a teaching artist. She is a board member and playwright with Extra Mile Playwrights Theatre and a 2020 Krege Live Arts Fellow.
IWP RESIDENCY PANELIST Côte d’Ivoire ‘22
จิดานันท์ เหลืองเพียรสมุท
EDWIGE-RENée dro is a writer, literary translator (French and English) and a literary activist from Côte d’Ivoire. She is one of the laureates of the Africa39 project and her writings have been published by Bloomsbury, Ankara Press, Myriad Editions, Popula and many others. She has also judged for prizes like the 2015 PEN International Short Story and the 2016 Etisalat Prize for Literature. Edwige was the translator for “Moon Dog”, the winning short story for the 2015 PEN International Short Story Prize into French. She’s finished translating the short stories for AfroYoungAdult.
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NATIONAL YOUTH POET LAUREATE 2022
ISABELLA RAMIREZ is a queer, Latinx poet and spoken word artist from Lake Worth, Florida. She is the 2022 National Youth Poet Laureate South Regional Ambassador, a program of Urban Word NYC, and the Jason Taylor Foundation’s 2021 South Florida Youth Poet Laureate. Other recognitions include her previous literary ambassadorship as the 2020 National Student Poet of the Southeast and her title as 2021 Louder Than A Bomb Florida Individual Grand Champion. Her work has been awarded nationally by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and the YoungArts Foundation, along with being featured in Mass Poetry’s “The Hard Work of Hope” and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers’ “The Best Teen Writing of 2020.” She has collaborated on projects for the NFL Pro Football Hall of Fame, the Florida Department of State, and the School District of Palm Beach County, among others. As a freshman at Columbia University, she works as a University News Staff Writer for the Columbia Daily Spectator and serves on their DEI Committee. Through her work, she hopes to create a platform for self-reflection, social justice, and challenging the status quo.
NYC YOUTH
ALYSSA GAINES is an 18 year old writer from the eastside of Indianapolis. She serves as the Inaugural Youth Poet Laureate of Indianapolis, a program sponsored by Voices Corp. Writing about issues such as gun violence, intersectionality, and racial injustice, and celebrating history, culture, and language, Alyssa emphasizes the balance between hardship and triumph with attention to natural and religious images and the musicality of language from a desire that her communities are documented and represented. She has worked in her community to increase fine arts access, working with local youth writing organizations, leading workshops, and developing courses to intentionally bring in more diverse students. Alyssa prioritizes educational equity and arts education. She has received many Scholastic Gold Medals, was a National Student Poets Program Semi-finalist, a recipient of both the national Best in Grade Award and American Voices Award, and has had the opportunity to perform her work at the Library of Congress and accept awards for her writing in Carnegie Hall. Gaines has been published both locally and nationally. In addition to her poetry, Gaines has won awards for her one-act play Fireworks, a production of which she directed at a local theater.
SOUTH FLORIDA YOUTH POET LAUREATE
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ELIZABETH SHVARTS performance artist, entrepreneur, and writer hailing from Staten Island, NY, Elizabeth is the 2022 NYC Youth Poet Laureate, a program sponsored by Urban Word, and the 2022 YPL Northeast Regional Ambassador. A fierce advocate for educational equity, she is a Daily Point of Light Award-nominated, co-founder/codirector of Bridge to Literacy, a global, UNESCO-recognized U.S Department of State-funded nonprofit that fosters a love of language through literacy-based mentorship in 150+ youth across 6 continents. A 2021 National YoungArts Finalist in Play/Script and Urban Word NYC Slam Winner, Elizabeth is an avid writer with work recognized by or featured at The New Yorker, PBS, the United Nations, the Apollo, Lincoln Center, NY1, Grist Magazine, the MacDowell Foundation, NPR, WNYC, The Earth Institute at Columbia University, Alliance for Climate Education, and more.
IWP RESIDENCY PANELIST Zimbabwe ‘22
LAUREATEPOET
TARIRO NDORO is the author of the poetry collection Agringada: Like a Gringa, Like a Foreigner (2019), which won the inaugural NAMA Award for Outstanding Poetry Book from Zimbabwe’s National Arts Council. A finalist in several other poetry competitions, she has had her work anthologized and translated. Ndoro, who has a BSc in Microbiology and an M.A. in Creative Writing, lives in Harare. Her participation in the 2022 Spring Residency is made possible by the U.S. State Department.
JESSICA KIM (she/her) is an 18 year old global citizen who has lived in South Korea, Singapore, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. She is the Western National Youth Poet Laureate Ambassador and the 2021-22 Los Angeles Youth Poet Laureate, a program of Beyond Baroque. Having discovered poetry when the pandemic hit, Jessica has since been named a Youngarts Finalist in Poetry, Commended Foyle Young Poet, and Gregory Djanikian Scholars Finalist. Poetry has empowered Jessica to confront her invisible identities as a visually-impaired and Korean-American teen, and she hopes to inspire youth all over the country to write their stories into existence. When she isn’t writing about her disability and immigrant experiences, she serves as the founding editor of The Lumiere Review and one of the Editors-in-Chief of Polyphony Lit, both literary magazines that shed light to youth and other overlooked voices. YOUTH LAUREATEPOET
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