Editor's letter (3)

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ISSUE N° 1

WORDSMITH

Literary Magazine AMERICAN CORNER CONSTANTINE

Editor's Letter Dear Readers, I have written many versions of this letter and deleted almost all of them because words could not do justice to how thrilled I am so see Wordsmith a concrete Algerian literary magazine under the supervision of the American Corner Constantine.

I was inspired to Start Wordsmith after I came back from my US training at the international writing program Between the lines 2017 and met motivated youth that didn't have any platform to share their ideas and feel safe from the judgment of our society and to simply prosper, When I saw talent in Algerian youth I didn’t second guess about starting Wordsmith and taking the responsibility of being its editor in chief. There is a power in story telling that could be used to eradicate stereotypes - that's why Wordsmith is a global initiative- and to best represent certain ideologies like women’s empowerment, social justice, peace building and as well as introduce Algerian culture!

I started writing at the very young age of 11 but I had no platform in which I would publish and quench the writer’s thirst in me! Wordsmith is that platform I always wanted, the platform that offers a wide range of publishing categories: prose, poetry, flash fiction, short stories, visual art and articles; at first it was strictly for Algerians but after the huge interest I saw in international inspiring submitters Wordsmith is now and will always be an international publication platform.

Every tiny aspect of Wordsmith represents a decision we debated, sweated over and secondguessed until we ran out of time, as a writer I am more of the “curled up in coffee shop with a book or writing my next author breakthrough” type of girl, I did not believe I had a bossy bone in my body until I started working on Wordsmith and Joan of Arc possessed me ( I liked it!), having all this power and responsibility gave me an opportunity to practice leadership skills and challenge myself in the difficult situations I have faced.

Working on Wordsmith’s first issue, I had the honor to read/see beautiful writings/art by so many committed and thoughtful people, in which I share the selected ones with you!

Feel free to send us comments on the magazine, share your thoughts or ask the author a question!

We appreciate your support and are so happy to have you as a reader of Wordsmith magazine.

With warmest thanks,

Contents Ajouter des lignes dans le corps du texte

Our Team Lina Baaziz Founder & Editor in chief Lina Baaziz is US exchange Alumna, social activist, and full time English language and Literature student at the University of Mentouri Constantine, who resides in Constantine, Algeria. She is a former Algerian representative at the International Writing Program BTL, at the University of Iowa and teaches creative writing at the American corner of Constantine.

She published in BETWEEN THE LINES 2017 anthology ( Iowa city, Iowa) and featured in Tunnel magazine ( Pasadena, California), and is also a poetry reader at COUNTERCLOCK magazine ( Montpelier, Vermont).

Lina is currently working on developing educational sessions for women’s empowerment in Algeria and a writing summer camp.

Find her in Constantine’s boulevards nose stuffed in a book or planning world domination on her notebook.

Ouarda Benlakhlef Editing Manager Ouarda Benlakhlef is a 23 year-old driven individual who struggled to find her path, the turning point that contributed to shaping her life was discovering that English and motivational public speaking can really bring her to life and give her purpose and she didn’t stop ever since. Now she is a third -year English student, and a part-time English teacher.

She volunteers at the American Corner Constantine,where she is a certified session moderator and a public speaker. she discovered her passion for debating which led her to take part In the Algerian debating championship 2016, where she was awarded title of best debater in the Algeria and later on represented her country in the UK summit 2017. She is also a US MEPI student leader program alumna through which she founded her public speaking based youth empowerment program "I Speak " which aims at offering public speaking and soft skills training for all youth across Algeria.

Bekhta Baali Cherif Submission Editor Bekhta Baali Cherif is a writer, born on May 2nd 1995, she is a third year student of English . She loves books,her favourite is The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, one of her works is a short story called "Theories Of My Love", She is someone who believes in humanity and people's kindness more than anything else.

"Little did you know my mind was the forbidden woods your parents warned you to never enter" - Bekhta Baali Cherif

Said Omeiri Graphic designer Said Omeiri is an English student at the ENS of Oran, a graphic designer and a contributing writer for ‘’The Outlet’’ (the institution magazine). He spends a lot of time in front of his computer screen, learning new design tricks and tips. He is passionate of web designing. He likes being thrown in challenging experiences and responsibilities. The conception of the Outlet magazine and the Big Ben club at The ENS was a great opportunity for him to develop his skills and display his talents

Borhane Tabet Graphic Designer Borhan Tabet is a first year Biology major student, he teaches Photography at the Audio-Visual program at the Univeristy of Mentouri Constantine, he aslo holds a photography session at the American Corner Constantine, he works at a graphic designing company in Constantine, he loves going hiking, camping and making video volgs on his YouTube channel!

Dallel Bouguenina Social Media Manager Dallel is vibrant student and writer, majoring in chemical process engineering, interested in volunteering and for the better of the world. Aiesecer ( AIESEC Org) and Manager, have tide bit of experience being on the organizing committee (agenda manager, president, team member...) for different projects, Vice president marketing for the international toastmasters club in Algeria.

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PROSE

Nieghbor's Jewel Niles M. Reddick My neighbor, Hilda, died last night. We moved here three years ago, and I think I talked to Hilda only once. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to her. There was simply no reason to. She liked my wife. Most people do, actually. An extrovert, friendly, nice, always volunteering to help others, my wife’s also pretty and looks younger, particularly because of her white teeth and colored hair. My hair, on the other hand, had thinned and gone gray, and my teeth were always yellow from antibiotic medication they made me take as a child. I wonder if I should sue. There always seems to be lawyers advertising funds available for victims of mesothelioma from asbestos, vaginal mesh gone bad, hip or knee plastic replacements that failed. It may be too late to sue and teeth discoloration was probably not worth much.

After the condolences to the family, we learned from Bud (who we’d called Jack because he was listed as such on the home owner’s directory as Jack) Hilda had passed in her sleep. He recounted that at bed time, he’d given her a handful of pills she took for a variety of conditions: heart, diabetes, lung cancer, and Parkinson’s. He made sure her oxygen was working and she slumped on the pillow and fell asleep. He wasn’t sure why he’d awakened a little after midnight, but he heard no sound, noticed she wasn’t moving, got up and turned on the light and took her pulse. The 911 operator sent the ambulance, but this time there was no hospitalization, no nursing home, and no rehabilitation like there had been the previous times. The paddles didn’t zap life back into her lifeless body. We didn’t know she’d had all those conditions, and we didn’t know most of them were genetic. Jack said all her siblings and her parents before her had died in their early sixties, too, and I glanced at their sons and grandsons and wondered if they realized it wouldn’t be long before the genes steered them in the same direction.

All we knew is that she’d had a lobe removed from lung cancer and carried around a small oxygen tank. She had the good sense to disconnect it when she smoked. We could smell it drifting across the back yard from her porch when she let her poodles run and play outside and do their business. Mostly the dogs stood at the fence and barked at me in the backyard when I sprayed weeds, grilled, or mowed grass.

A month or so ago, she’d called my wife and I heard my wife say, “Sure, I’ll be glad to help. What do you need?” I laughed, rolled my eyes, and wondered what she was volunteering to do. She was already watering the plants and collecting mail. “No, that’s not a problem at all.”

She turned off the phone and I asked, “What now?”

“She wants me to run an errand.”

“What kind of errand?”

“She’s out of cigarettes.”

“You’re kidding. You are going to buy her cigarettes?”

“Yes” “Oh my God. When I smoked, you would have never bought me a pack.”

“I know.”

So, she’d gone to Walgreen’s to buy the cigarettes, except when she got to the counter, she saw our elected state representative and was embarrassed and didn’t want to explain it and so bought gum instead. She then drove to another store to buy a pack.

Jack went on to explain that two of the four children were from her first marriage. They’d lived on a farm in an old antebellum home and she fostered children and bred dogs for years. She’d been a nurse, but had given that up when they married, forty years ago. As another visitor got in line behind us, he shook our hands, thanked us for coming, and we flowed into the viewing room, nodding at one of the funeral home men in black as we moved toward the casket. I looked around at all the flowers, a complete waste of money. They could have donated to charity and just had one arrangement for the grave, but the fresh cut flowers, peace lilies, stands of flowers planted in Styrofoam were everywhere. My eyes began to water and I figured people might think I was sad or crying when I barely even knew her when, in fact, I was allergic.

I peeked in the casket. I assumed it was Hilda, but I didn’t recall what she looked like when she’d been alive. Her dress seemed a white and gray, matched her hair, and her hands were neatly folded to cover what looked like a bloated abdomen. The track lighting above Hilda’s casket highlighted a diamond bracelet, her wedding band set on her left hand seemed at least a carat, and another diamond on the right hand, perhaps from the first husband or maybe a family heirloom, created a sparkling effect. I would never have asked, but I wanted to know if they would remove these before burial. It seemed a waste to bury jewelry. They’d make great gifts to the grandchildren or even could be pawned to cover some of the funeral expenses. I would bet that if the family didn’t get the jewelry off, one of these funeral home men would slip the pieces off and place it in his black suit pocket before locking that lid and lowering the oak coffin into the ground. The funeral home employees were perched in corners and at the entrance, nodding, and occasionally whispering.

They reminded me of buzzards on fences and in trees alongside the interstate waiting for a lull in traffic to clean-up road kill.

The next day, my wife and two other neighbors coordinated a meal, and we all met at the same time to deliver the food to the family after the funeral. They were appreciative and shared stories of happier times, said they were appreciative she had simply gone to sleep instead of suffering more, knew she was in a better place. They didn’t say it, but I knew life would go on for them. My elderly neighbors seemed nervous and may have subconsciously wondered which of them would be next, if other neighbors would feed their families. When we got home, I made sure to take my pills before I climbed into bed. I wondered if Jack, or Bud as we now knew him, would sell the house, maybe get himself an efficiency apartment since he wasn’t home much, or if would just live in motels on the road. I wondered if he would pass in his sleep and be found by a hotel maid. I wondered if he would get a good price on the house, so our neighborhood comps wouldn’t go down in a market that didn’t seem stable, and I wondered if we would get a younger family or another elderly couple looking for a one-story ranch with the master suite on one end and the spare bedrooms with a Jack and Jill bath on the other end for children or grandchildren. I wondered if Bud would ask us to collect his mail when he went on the road, and I wondered if I called the funeral home if they would tell me about the jewelry. I bet they wouldn’t.

The Logic of High Niles M. Reddick

For Gail While upperclassman undergraduates, Matt and Tim decided to move out of the dorm and into a new apartment complex called Woodstone just a few miles from campus. Rent was considerably higher than the dorm, but there were no visiting hours, there was an outdoor pool and jacuzzi, and the driveways wound around the buildings and through the wooded wetlands offering residents a feel of nature within the city. The apartments had khaki painted siding that blended with the natural surroundings and had stone patios and entrances. Inside, fresh beige paint, popcorn ceilings, a deck overlooking the wooded areas, and dark brown carpet were features that made college students feel somehow superior to their peers still in the dorm.

Tim was slated to graduate with a Business degree and go to work for a small distribution company located half a mile from Woodstone, and Matt was a Philosophy major with no plans for the future.

Though he worked full time from 3:00 p.m. until 11:00 p.m. at Ramada Inn as an evening manager, he saw himself as an existentialist plowing his own destiny moment by moment. He agreed with Sartre that hell was other people as shown in No Exit and that philosophy had solidified in his consciousness after dealing with carload after carload of Northerners on their way to Disney World who complained incessantly about the roaches, the mattresses, and the gnats. In the South, no amount of Raid killed roaches, and Matt had come to accept that gnats even lived in the noses and ears of all Southerners. He used to worry about them going in his mouth when he talked and his mother had told him: “Don’t worry about it, Matt. They’re full of protein.”

Matt was off Friday, so after class, he went to the Woodstone apartment and found Tim in his room listening to Led Zeppelin on headphones. The music was so loud that Matt could understand the lyrics.

“Hey,” Matt waived and Tim pulled the headphones off. “Are you off tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going out?”

“Nah,” Matt said. “Not sure what I’m going to do.” Neither Matt nor Tim were all that social. Each had his own set of friends. Tim dated a young woman who worked as a dental hygienist and Matt wasn’t dating at the moment. He occasionally went out with a girl he’d dated in high school or with a group of friends from the Philosophy Club. Sometimes, he went out with a group of people from the Ramada. Dora, one of the women who worked as a clerk at the Ramada, had been dating a younger fellow and said she might come by and introduce him. Matt liked Dora. She was twenty years his senior. She was shaped like a diamond with a small head and pencil legs, but wide in the hips; she had an infectious and flirty laugh, and her long platinum frizzed hair had thinned just a tad in her early forties. She told Matt she used to iron her hair in high school to make it straight. Matt enjoyed hearing her stories about the sixties. She’d participated in marches and sit-ins, something he had never heard about from his parents.

Matt’d been a child and didn’t remember much about the sixties, but in most of his childhood pictures, he sported a peace sign with his fingers and wore a MIA bracelet for one of his elementary teachers whose pilot husband had been shot down in Viet Nam. Matt actually fantasized about Ms. McMillian’s husband never returning so he could grow up and marry his teacher, but like most fantasies of young boys, it faded the next year in fifth grade when he met Suzi.

Matt told Tim that Dora and her newest might stop by, so he had planned to stay around that evening, maybe order a pizza and watch a movie. Tim agreed with the idea, so they went ahead and ordered pizzas and drove just down the road to the Castle Park shopping center to rent a couple of newer movies on VHS tapes from Blockbuster. After spending a few minutes skimming movie covers, Matt and Tim agreed on Top Gun and Highlander, two very different movies; both had been popular new rentals. While out, they stopped by the market and picked up a six-pack of Michelob. Shortly after they returned, the pizzas were delivered, the cardboard boxes so hot that steam rose when opened. First, they popped Top Gun in the VCR and settled in the leather chairs in front of the TV. Nearing the end of the film, the phone rang and it was Dora, seeing if it was okay to stop by.

When the doorbell rang, Matt opened the door, said hello to Dora, and shook Frank’s hand. Frank didn’t have a firm shake, which raised a flag. He also wore thick glasses. He was somewhat younger than Dora and worked at a boat factory as a laborer. Flag two for Matt was when Frank tried to appear hip and talk philosophy. Matt knew he hadn’t read anything.

There was still some pizza left, so Frank had a piece and some beer, but Dora waived the offer away: “I have to watch my figure, darlings.”

Matt invited Frank and Dora to stay and watch Highlander, but they giggled like children and said they were going to enjoy a romantic evening. Dora asked them if they’d like to smoke a little, and once they’d all exchanged a couple of joints between them, Matt told them he felt like his head was a balloon floating upward and away from my body. The high seemed even more powerful to Matt than the first one he had his freshman year. Everyone stared at each other and Dora’s eyes seemed like glass. Matt asked them all what they thought of the origins of the universe and they all laughed, but Matt told them he had swirling images of a beginning that unfolded and expanded, like a horn of plenty at Thanksgiving. Matt also told them he could see mathematical formulas flowing onto his mind’s eye and he jotted them down on a napkin. He said the formulas were unusual to him, particularly since he hadn’t passed college algebra.

Everyone laughed, and Dora got up from the table, tugging Frank’s shirt.

“We must get going,” Dora said. “I’ll leave it up to you, Matt, darling, to solve the riddles of the universe. I have other plans.”

Frank smiled, shook Matt and Tim’s hands, and they left.

About forty-five minutes into Highlander, Matt paused the VCR and answered the phone; it was Dora’s teenaged daughter, Amy. “Matt, I need your help.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Is my mom there?”

“No, she and Frank were hear an hour or so ago, but they left to go back to his house.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

“I had a dream Frank was a killer and was going to hurt mom.”

“There was something strange about him.”

“He lives not far from your apartment on Myrtle. Can you go get mom and bring her home?”

“Yes, Tim and I will go.”

When Matt hung up the phone, he explained the logic to Tim. “Matt, you’re high. That guy’s not a killer.”

“You know what? If he isn’t, fine, but if he is, we could stop him. Get your shot gun.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“I’m not kidding, Tim. Get the damned gun. We may have to shoot him if he has a gun.”

“Oh brother. Remind me never to smoke with you again.”

“I’m as clear and logical as ever, Tim.” “Whatever.”

Frank’s Jim Walter home was about half a mile from Woodstone, and they pulled into the sand ruts of the driveway. There were no lights on, and Tim eased his Cutlass behind Frank’s VW Bug. Matt and Tim walked through the back yard to the back screened door and knocked. Matt held the gun. “Come on out here, Frank. Dora, are you okay?”

“Reckon he’s already killed her or tied her up to torture her, Tim?” “Matt, they’re probably having sex.”

A light in the kitchen came on; a metal pan fell on the linoleum floor followed. The back door squeaked open and the porch light came on. “Matt?”

“Dora, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, stepping out onto the porch in a silk bathrobe. Frank stepped out on the porch in boxers and a t-shirt. “Matt, do you have a gun?”

“Yes, Amy called and had a bad dream that Frank was going to kill you, so I came to save you.”

“I think you need to stick to your damned philosophy, Matt. Put that damned gun away,” Frank said.

Tim took the gun and put it in the backseat of the car.

“Go home now, Matt. I’ll call Amy,” Dora said. She turned and walked inside and Frank closed the door and turned off the porch light.

“Matt, you had me almost convinced something was wrong.”

Matt laughed. “Well, it seemed so logical to me.”

Matt and Tim backtracked to Woodstone, hoping they didn’t get pulled over by the police.

When Matt got to the Ramada on Monday to relieve Dora for his evening shift, she laughed.

“What in the hell were you thinking?”

“It seemed logical to me at the time. What did Frank think?”

“He thought you were crazy as hell with the shotgun. We probably won’t go out again.”

“I’m sorry, Dora.”

“No, Matt. I didn’t really like him that much and I appreciate your worrying about me and coming to my rescue.” Dora stood on the tip of her toes and kissed Matt on the cheek. “I wish you were older or I was younger.”

Matt blushed and said thanks.

“Stick to alcohol, Matt,” Dora said. “See you tomorrow.”

Meet The Author Niles Reddick is author of the novel Drifting too far from the Shore, a collection Road Kill Art and Other Oddities, and a novella Lead Me Home. His work has been featured in over a hundred literary magazines all over the world including Drunk Monkeys, Spelk, The Arkansas Review: a Journal of Delta Studies, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Slice of Life, Faircloth Review, among many others. He works for the University of Memphis, and his website is www.nilesreddick.com