khaalidah

Revamping...

2011-12-10T13:59:00.001-08:00

I've spent the last couple of months trying to streamline what I do. That's a lot, actually. I work full time as an oncology nurse. Besides this blog, I maintain another blog, a serial graphic novel called Honor&Truth, and a website Khaalidah, which I have neglected. I self-published my novel, An Unproductive Woman, about three years ago, and due to time constraints I have neglected any sort of effort to publicize its existence and try to earn a penny from that hard work.
Part of streamlining means that I have to consolidate some of my projects, of which this blog is one. I've decided to move this blog over to my newly designed website. I don't expect that I have so many readers here, but if you happen to be one, and are interested in continuing, that is where I'll be.
The new blog at my website will be different. While I will occasionally post creative works, the scope of topics there will be more comprehensive; book reviews and information on writing and reading, and whatever tickles my fancy. You can also follow me on twitter @khaalidah. I'd love that. You'll also be able to find me at Goodreads.
If you're interested in reading my novel, An Unproductive Woman, you can purchase a hard copy or the Kindle edition at Amazon. You can also get it at Smashwords.
Well, that's it for now. I won't be posting here anymore, and will eventually delete this site. Until then...

Progressing

2011-11-02T12:24:00.000-07:00

She is metastatic to the bone and is taking Xeloda with the hopes of gaining some control over the disease because at this point cure is pretty much out of the question; in other words, unless she is hit by a bus, she'll likely die form her disease.
I marvel at how well she is doing because Xeloda can be a nasty drug; painful red hand/foot syndrome, dry cracked skin, mouth sores, and diarrhea.
Her chief complaint was that her pinky toes hurt sometimes and also that I was her nurse.
Later she told the doctor that I was an idiot, and wanted to know why I had asked all of those stupid questions about her side effects and it was explained to her that this was my job and that if I had failed to ask these questions I would have been remiss in my duties.
She also wanted to know which country in the Middle East I had come from and why I spoke such good English, and it was explained to her that my exceptional English was likely due to the fact that English is my mother tongue and that my accent merely indicates and upbringing in New England.
Lastly, she told the doctor that she might respect me if I didn't wear that thing on my head and those weirdo clothes, and she was questioned as to how any of this was relevant to the cancer that now appeared to be progressing despite treatment.

Five

2011-10-26T19:33:00.000-07:00

I expanded my inner self, pushed through the slick buttery film of Tangia's mind, through the chinks and gaps. After so many years, I was still perfectly stealthy, a phantom submarine in her mind. She didn't feel me moving around inside of her, though I didn't stay very long. Didn't have to. From that vantage, the five tiny tumors appeared as large as boulders, their hungry searching suckered tentacles splayed like fingers. I could hear them pulsing as they drank her blood.

American Too

2011-10-23T20:14:00.000-07:00

He had tufts of cottony white hair, and was quite tall, and he was sort of professor-ly, and he had some type of head and neck cancer, but after all of this time, his face is a blur in my memory; I’d been assigned to the gentleman for several days and thought that we had developed somewhat of a rapport as he and his wife lit up whenever I entered the room and we would joke amongst ourselves about silly inconsequential things.

I was that safe person to whom you could confide almost anything, at least this is how I like to justify the incident.

I’d just walked in and closed the door, about to conduct my assessment, (breath deep, how much have you urinated, what is your level of pain) when he asks, and the tightness in his voice let me know right away that this wasn’t some “and how do you like the whether today?” question, but something deeper, something accusatory, something that pained him and that somehow I was supposed to assuage.

“I mean I fought in Vietnam for this country only to have those bastards take pot shots at me and my country and my way of life,” and you’re one of them he said, but didn’t say.

I don’t remember what I said, only what ran through my mind as I stood frozen in place as the room shrank and my heart quivered behind the shell of my ribs, when I heard about the attacks and saw those images on television, I was so afraid and I tried to call my grandmother who lives in New York to make sure that she was okay, but the lines were busy for two days straight; and I’m American too; and I have never killed nor condoned the killing of anyone except maybe a child molester, who deserves every worst death, and why do you think this scarf makes me spokesperson for the wrongs of these people?

Don’t ask me why I stayed there while he rambled on instead of just walking out the door, or why I tried to responded to questions for which I had no answers, because I wasn’t guilty of anything except wearing this scarf and praying five times a day and being American too.

Exorcise in the Garden

2011-09-10T18:01:00.000-07:00

The sun shone a hot 94 degrees. My bandana, purple with hippie peace signs,didn’t prevent sweat from running into my eyes, stinging with salt. I tucked my black onyx ring into my breastpocket and then raked my fingers through the pungent black soil. Peppers and tomatoes and cabbage and collards,food to feed my family, labor to feed my soul. I worked the garden alone, buds in my ears, shutting the world out. Solace against old pains, they ebbed witheach strike of the shovel. I’ve manymore injuries to forget. I’ll be back inthe garden tomorrow.

(Drabble = a story written in exactly 100 words)

Focus, Food, More or Less and Faith (Obligatory Ramadan Post #8)

2011-08-23T15:43:00.001-07:00

On Sunday at about 1245 I stepped out into my garden to check on the progress of my tiny plot, to see if, in this insanely hot and dry weather, my spinach seeds had started to sprout. Not so much.; I think its still too hot. I ended up pulling weeds, trimming a huge sprout of sugar cane (more ornamental than anything else), digging up another tiny rectangle of earth near my fence line, and dropping winter squash seeds. Still fasting, I worked so hard that I sweated into my eyes. I ended up getting an excellent little two hour work out.

45lbs. and 11 months ago, even if I had not been fasting, I would've had a much harder time of it. I would've been out of breath and pretty spent. So on Sunday, I waited for the big let down to happen, a dehydration headache and that all over out-of-shape body ache. But, I had none of that. I felt wonderful; just fine.

This all got me thinking about how food is regarded in Islam, the principles of this fast, my relationship with my body and the food I use to fuel it. While food is to be enjoyed, over-indulgence is definitely a hazard. I over-indulged in the past and I know the risks as they creep up on you, me. You get heavy, you get slow, you get weak both physically and mentally, and you do yourself a disservice, an injustice that doesn't express gratitude to God for this life and this body. Someone dear to me has said on more than one occasion, "You won't look right if you get too thin." To this, I have had to reiterate the reminder that I am clinically obese, have been morbidly obese, and that looks are irrelevant. What is relevant is my health, and how my lifestyle will/can affect it and also how my lifestyle can affect the lives of my children. I do not wish my children to be forced to care for me when I am sixty due to illnesses that were in my power to control. I do not wish to miss out on the opportunity to worship God fully through obligatory prayers or even by making Hajj one day (a strenuous physical task) because of conditions brought on by my own self neglect. Mostly, I do not wish to have to answer to God regarding said self neglect. This body is a gift.

It's been hard work, changing old mindsets, mending my body and reconnecting with God and this fast is a great help. It helps me focus. Focus. Focus inward and outward.

I have another thirty pounds to go and there is still way more work for me to do. Inshallah, I am on my way.

Volume 7, Book 65, Number 304

Narrated Abu Huraira:

Allah's Apostle said, "The food for two persons is sufficient for three, and the food of three persons is sufficient for four persons."

Volume 7, Book 65, Number 308

Narrated Abu Huraira:

Allah's Apostle said, "A Muslim eats in one intestine (i.e. he is satisfied with a little food) while a Kafir (unbeliever) eats in seven intestines (eats much)."

Volume 7, Book 365, Number 208

Narrated Abu Huraira:

The family of Muhammad did not eat their fill for three successive days till he died.

Talking to Me (Obligatory Ramadan Post #7)

2011-08-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

During this month of Ramadan, I have been watching and listening to a lot of religious lectures in an effort to reconnect with the religious and spiritual principles that I believe in but that get buried and forgotten most of the time beneath the rush of everyday life. It is actually a bit scary when I listen or watch and the lecturer says something that, like an arrow into my heart, seems meant exclusively for me.
Last night I watched a lecturer on television; an imam named Suhaib Webb. He is an American convert to Islam. He spoke before and audience of what appeared to be thousands at a conference. They weren't listening to him and initially the din of conversation in the audience was almost as loud as he was. He pushed forward regardless with his message, building one singular point upon another about community, about reaching out to the youth, about sacred trusts, about synergistically embracing both our religious identity and our Western identity, about relationships with our neighbors Muslim and non-Muslim alike, about fear and redemption. By the end of the lecture, the audience was quiet and attentive and I was enthralled and interested and pleasantly surprised. He had my attention. Then, in his closing, he said something that hit so close to home that what I felt, that arrow though my heart?, was palpable. "We must learn to forgive each other. Right now."
Whoa. Whoa! WHOA! And I got to thinking, how can I be the best Muslim I can be, the best mother, nurse, friend, neighbor, human being, if I can not forgive the lapses of other human beings?
It is my belief that in our humanity, we are inherently weak. As such, how can we be truly unforgiving of the very thing that makes our fellow brethren human? Mistakes.
Ah, more work for me to do...

INTP, Anger, and 5 Self-Learned Lessons (Obligatory Ramadan Post #6)

2011-08-19T12:42:00.001-07:00

Have you ever taken the Myers-Briggs personality test? I have. As much as I hate to admit it, the results for me are dead on. I've taken a couple of the online versions and have tested as INTJ about 90% of the time and INTP the rest. Yesterday a co-worker of mine said that she was trained to administer a more extensive version of the test, so ever curious about self-realization, I agreed to take the test yet again. The results were INTP (Introvert, Intuition, Thinking, and Perceiving), and she said the she had never seen anyone whose score was so clearly delineated. She said that based on my score there was no way to mistake my personality typing. This all got me wondering.

Am I rigid?

According to my personality description, no. According to the way I feel, yes. According to people who know me, no and yes.

I've mentioned in more than one post that I have a problem with impatience, and I do not place the blame for that outside of myself. I am most impatient when it comes to tolerating those things I simple can't, well…tolerate.

I have a second problem. Anger, which really opposes my true nature. I will refrain from relating the cause of my anger, but suffice it to say that in this case, my anger is more than justified. What is not justified is the very rigid way that I have held onto this anger; more than a year now. I think, if I valued myself more, I would release the anger for my own sake, my own health, my own peace of mind. Every time I think that I have, I realize that I have not. So, I know that this means that I have work to do.

I realize that this post has been very self-centered. On the whole, I do not wish to make these Ramadan posts about me so much as about the experience of Ramadan, but I thought that I could press home some points that I've learned and think others can learn from.

1. Honesty is the best friend of improvement, because if we are honest we'll be more willing to face our weaknesses and faults.

2. Facing weaknesses and faults is the first step to actually working on them.

3. While working on our weaknesses and faults is intrinsically a selfish act, it helps us understand humanity as a whole and to be able to willingly pardon faults in others.

4. Pardoning faults in others is the first step toward true forgiveness and acceptance.

5. Forgiveness and acceptance leave little room for anger and much more room for love.

That's what I think anyway.

Ramadan is now more than half over. For most of us, the actual fasting part has gotten pretty tolerable and the true life reflecting process that is supposed to occur during this time has occurred. We are in the best part of the Ramadan. Sadly, it will be over in about 10-11 days. I hope that I am able to fully benefit from this time of introspection, that I might be a better person for life and not just for this month.

Work to do, lessons to learn.

The Prophet Muhammad (SAW) said:

"A strong person is not the person who throws his adversaries to the ground. A strong person is the person who contains himself when he is angry." [Al-Bukhari; Book 47, No. 47.3.12]

"Advise me! "The Prophet said, "Do not become angry and furious." The man asked (the same) again and again, and the Prophet said in each case, "Do not become angry and furious." [Al-Bukhari; Book 8, No. 137]

"Just Me" (Obligatory Ramadan Post #5)

2011-08-17T21:19:00.001-07:00

As Muslims, we believe that during the month of Ramadan the imps and demons and devils are chained thereby freeing us from having to struggle against them during this time of worship. You can really feel it too. I just feel lighter and freer than any other time. This makes it easier to worship God without the useless distractions that seem to pop up unbidden at all other times. No imps, demons, or devils also means "just you".

"Just you" or in this case, "just me", means that I have nothing and no one else to blame for being….uh….pissy, angry and impatient. OK! I get it. I am impatient and I admit it with sincere repentant shame. The great thing about "just me" is that right now, more than any other time, I am better able admit my faults in an honest way and I have an entire month to work on it. If I can get into the practice of working on my failings for an entire month, I will hopefully be energized at the end, and be able to keep up the goodness for the rest of the year.

The truth is though, and any Muslim will attest, that this isn't the usual case. We are all in such great spirits during Ramadan, making extra prayers, going to the mosque, doing good to others, reforming lost connections, being friendly, and generally trying to be the kind of person Allah really wants us to be. The fact that the little monsters that lurk around in dark corners urging us to badness are released at the end of Ramadan, is no excuse for returning to old bad habits. In fact, if one does, this is proof positive that they didn't learn a thing and that their worship must have been in some way lacking.

We can't be part-time do-gooders. We shouldn't be anyway.

Ramadan, the blessings of this month and the fasting that we do is like training. You learn to do without all of the non-essentials. Being hungry and thirsty and holding your tongue from saying things you shouldn't, of turning your whole self toward God requires patience, and patience requires strength, strength requires determination, and determination requires faith.

If only Ramadan could last longer. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'd be a better person if it did.

I Am Doing Something Right (Obligatory Ramadan Post #4)

2011-08-14T09:46:00.000-07:00

Since moving into my home about four years ago I have kept avegetable garden. The project has beenhit with a lot of misses. Tomatoes havebeen our biggest success.

This is thenature of gardening/farming. You learnyour ground, your climate region, and you learn that even if you do everythingright, you are still not in control of everything. God makes rain, or no rain, and I can’t do athing to affect that.

From spring 2010 "YUM!"

The joy of gardening deserted me several months ago. Personal challenges, first emotional thenphysical prevented me from taking any joy in my garden and recently when Ilooked up, I realized that my garden was terribly neglected and in turn, so wasI. The idea of consuming food that Igrow is even more imperative for me these days with the high cost of gas andthe resulting increase of the cost of fresh produce, and also the fact that Ihave very nearly converted to vegetarianism of the tentative ovo-lacto kind. (Have you seen the movies Food Inc. orFresh? Watching these movies has beenlife changing for me, but that is another story.)

In the last few weeks I have carefully chosen and ordered aton of new seeds and I’ve plans for a lovely winter garden of grand scale whichwill include beans, spinach, kale, collards, cauliflower, broccoli, squash, lotsof herbs, and a ton more.

Despite recent drought weather here in Southern Texas, onThursday morning after pre-fasting breakfast at about 0600 before the sun cameup, I shoveled and tilled a small plot of earth and planted my first spinachseeds of the fall season. Insha Allah, moreseeds will go into the ground as the weeks pass. While I was doing this, in the dark, while beingbitten by mosquitoes, with my daughters gabbing on the patio in the background,and the three little kittens and their momma that have made my patio a home andoasis for the last couple of months eating our leftover eggs, I was suddenlyovercome by a great sense of peace and satisfaction.

I am doing somethingright. This is the thought that cameto me. Mind you, I am not making a valuejudgment here and in no way do I want to come off as arrogant, but it came tome that I was not just doing aservice to my health and the health of my purse, but also to God. I was actively flipping the switch/turningthe tables, by becoming a producer and not a consumer. I was taking care of myself and family, butalso the greater world that we live in. I also got some much needed exercise, communed with my daughters andwith nature, and created a trusting bond with skittish kittens.

I was worshipping God in a new way.

Since then, I have repotted an overgrown sage plant, givingabout a third of it away as a gift, repotted a very leggy, woody, and overgrownthyme plant, and potted a fragrant lavender seedling. I’ve been collecting a ton of new recipes andbookmarked terrific food blogs and sites. Also, I have decided to start sprouting right in my kitchen for a yummy,easy, and new way to add cheap, fresh and organic vegetation to my family’sdiet. I am imagining an entirely new wayof living in this world of mine, and it’s all good. The excitement for my garden has returned andin the process I’ve gained a greater connection with God.

Ramadan Lessons, Communication, and Letting Go (Obligatory Ramadan Post #3)

2011-08-11T11:26:00.001-07:00

I don't normally write personal musings here, but as this is Ramadan, and a time of reflection as well as fasting, I hope that you will bear with me. (Not that I have tons and tons of people reading this blog anyway.)

During Ramadan, the conscious worshipper tries to use this time to make extra prayers, seek forgiveness from God, do good works (as cliché as that may sound), and reflect on the purpose of this life and how we would like to live it, among other things.

This last year and a half has been a challenge for me with devastating news of a personal nature and a surgery in March. My level of patience has gone from perhaps a 7/10 to a 1 or 2/10. So, my greatest prayer this year has been that Allah help me to learn patience. Another thing that I am working on is learning to think first and act second. I usually do think first, don't misunderstand, but I think that in my impatience I do harm to myself by not taking a breath during challenging situations and actually asking myself, Will I benefit in anyway by reacting/responding to this situation?. I have found, in the past when I was better at this, that in almost all situations, it is better to say absolutely nothing. We live in a global society that values and promotes communication (like this blog, for example) and we are absolutely inundated, sometimes to the point where it is harmful to our hearts and spirits, with communication from a million different sources. We think this is great, right? The height of civilization, right? A sure sign of progress, right?

Not so much. This is my opinion anyway. We cheer on the person who raises his voice and stands up for himself. We call these people fearless and bright, real go getters.

What about silence? What about saying nothing? What about closing the door to the emails and texts and constantly talking on the phone, scrolling through contacts on the Blackberry, checking the internet, turning on the television, listening to the iPod, the radio, the gossip. It can be too much. It can really choke us while leaving us unaware.

I saw an old message in my junk email folder today that ignited old anger and pain. My knee jerk reaction was to act, to call the offender, let's call him Schmoe, and have a confrontation. I realized that in a matter of less than a minute, I had made up my mind to be angry with Schmoe and make my bitterness and bad attitude known. I was going to pout, dang it, and be generally unagreeable the next time I saw Schmoe. I kept looking at this old message over and over again, my anger rising like steam, and I felt sick to my stomach. I felt awful. Then my quiet inner voice whispered, And how is this helping you?. It wasn't. I deleted the old message, swallowed hard, and let it go. I just let it go.

Ah Ha! Caught You Eating (Obligatory Ramadan Post #2)

2011-08-09T12:29:00.000-07:00

Last year on the first day of Ramadan, I was spotted standing in line in the cafe at work. A very savvy, in-the-know physician, who only an hour earlier had wished me a well meaning and extremely jovial "Happy Ramadan!", saw me buy a coffee and a bagel. He didn't say anything as I gratefully sipped the steaming hot brew but I saw the look on his face as I passed. That look screamed, "Ah ha! Caught you eating!"
Fasting during the month of Ramadan is not meant as a hardship. The purpose of the fast is to gain mastery over our desires and to learn to be grateful for what we have been blessed with. It isn't a punishment and as such there are certain times when a Muslim may not fast.
1. A woman who is pregnant, menstruating, or nursing
2. A person who is sick or in pain.
3. The elderly and infirm.
There are others who don't have to fast but these are the most common. Why do I say this all? Just so you know, next time you see me drinking a coffee during Ramadan, it could be because I'm elderly and infirm. ;)

Ma Salaam
Khaalidah

Follow thou the inspiration sent unto thee, and be patient and constant, till Allah do decide: for He is the best to decide.
Quran 10:109

How many people are trapped in their everyday habits: part numb,
part frightened, part indifferent? To have a better life we must
keep choosing how we are living." - Albert Einstein

Sent from my iPod

23 days, 8 hours, 3 minutes, and 5 seconds (Obligatory Ramadan Post #1)

2011-08-06T09:49:00.000-07:00

Ramadan is in full swing now, which means no food ordrink from sun up (0532) to sun down (2011). For Muslims, the fast means more than no food, which to the disbelief of those who do not fast, isn’t asmuch of a hardship as it seems. For thefirst three days, I was devastatingly tired, but only a tad hungry. Now the fatigue has passed and the hunger isa distant memory. I supposed that Godintended it to be this way though, that soon the hunger and the constantthinking about what morsel of food or drink will come next in our overeating,over-processed, over-indulged life so that we might use that extra time toconsider how and why we worship.

I work full-time and most of my co-workers are notMuslim. It seems as if the momentRamadan swings around, everyone has some yummy new food they’d like you to try,or that could just be me being hypersensitive. And as usual, when I decline by stating that, “No thanks. I’m fasting,” the same people that I’veworked with for the last four years are astonished anew. I’m no narcissist but I’m pleased as punch toanswer the many questions about myself and my faith. There are enough erroneous and negativeimages of people of my faith circulating that I would like to be able todismantle a stereotype or two. Beforeconverting to Islam more than twenty years ago, I had some of the same questions,all valid in their right, but I am struck by what appears to me to be and broadmisunderstanding or unwillingness of commitment.

1. Iknow it’s hot, but today it’s only 102°. (laugh, wink, laugh) This is southern Texas. It is hot everysummer, and none but the most unfortunate of us is without an air conditionerin our cars, homes, businesses, covered walkways that take us to the parkinglots, public library, grocery stores, and so on. I’m not really suffering in that regard andif I were, I wouldn’t be obligated to fast.

2. I knowthat the day is long, almost fifteen hours, but what about people so poor theygo longer than that without food? Ithink of them instead of my tummy.

3. Iknow that thirty days is an entire month, but I still have the other eleven toeat like I’m losing my mind, which quite frankly so many of us do withoutregard to the fact that we don’t need all of that food.

4. Assoon as the sun starts to set, food goes into the mouth and we are allowed toeat as much of whatever we like until the sun comes up. Here’s the kicker though, after about threeor four days of fasting, the stomach shrinks and everything you think you wantto eat, you simply cannot. No room atthe inn.

5. Sure,I lose a little weight during Ramadan, but a lot of people actually gain. Remember the part about the incrediblyshrinking stomach? Well so many of usgorge even when our stomachs are splitting at the seams and we indulge in foodsthat are far richer than we’d eat normally. In fact I recently read an insightful article about how in Egypt the saleof food during Ramadan increases by 60-100% (whoa!), and food wastage increasesby about 60% (double whoa!), and the sale of antacids also increasesexponentially (triple whoa!). No kiddingthough, right? Not quite the spirit ofthe fast, I think.

6. Thespirit of the fast. It is easy for thoseof us who live in relative comfort to forget what a privilege our livesare. Certainly we all have our own lifedifficulties, but for most of the people that I know, it could be a milliontimes worse. The most basic concernsaren’t usually ours in that we eat and drink what we want, when we want. We take all of the basics for granted. The fast is our time to remember those whocan’t take anything, not even a single morsel of food, for granted, and tothank the God responsible for giving it to us.

So… it’s okay. Noneed to apologize. I’ve made a commitmentto myself and God and I swear, I’m not suffering for it. Really, I’m doing fine. We can chat over coffee and a double darkchocolate chip cookie in 23 days, 8 hours, 3 minutes, and 5 seconds. I’m not counting, are you? For now, let’s just chat. Your company will more than suffice, and mycommitment will sustain me.

Designing a World

2011-04-17T11:44:00.000-07:00

I have been gifted with this lovely picture drawn by The Artist, who does the manga-style art for my other blog Honor and Truth. I begged The Artist for this picture…for weeks. The final deal was that I could have this picture if I promised to weave a fantasy story around her, something that I have little if no experience doing. The picture, as you can see, is of a regal and serious looking young woman with a long willowy neck and a lovely face set into stone. She has honey brown skin and thick blond hair. I find her beauty consuming, her stare breathtaking in its intensity.

I’ve named her Amana, which in Arabic, means trust.

I have set this picture as the background on my computer, my Ipod, my computer at work. I look at her every day. She talks to me all of the time and has managed with her persistence to give me insights into her world. Led, as if by an invisible hand (is this how it is with all writers?) I have drawn a map of her country and today I will draw the lighthouse she tends. Every waking moment, I am designing her world including the culture in which she functions, her total way of life. Even her language.

What an exhilarating experience it is to design an entire world form the bottom up with no point of reference. From scratch, from nothing. Scary too.

My Name is Mehmet Gungar

2011-04-01T07:59:00.000-07:00

A pencil, a new leather bound journal purchased at half price from the Readers Read going out of business blow out sale, and fifty-three years of living memories that often hurt too much to keep possession of, and yet he hadn't managed, in the entire six hours since he'd been sitting at that sticky corner table in the dingy coffee shop, to write any of it down.
He'd consumed three cups of coffee in that time, but not once did he get up to relieve himself, though he sorely needed to, because he needed even more to have written something, to have said something.
It wasn't enough, he determined while dragging on his first cigarette of the day, to simply write the basics; the years spent in school, in marriage to his now deceased beloved - their barren though not loveless years, the lifetime spent farming when all he ever really wanted to do was write, the house they lost to fire, the deaths of parents and friends, the beginnings and endings of wars.
He needed to give it all perspective, to say what it all meant to him, and also to express the exact nature of his contributions to history and the collective life of everything in the world.
So he wrote, My name is Mehmet Gungar. I am human and as such I am nothing and I am everything.

Written for Thursdays Tales

On Our Way

2011-03-27T15:18:00.000-07:00

My novel in progress, tentatively titled A Better Place (ABP), addresses the issue of religion quite openly, but not in the preachy “repent or go to hell” kind of way. As research for ABP, I’ve been reading a lot of science and science fiction. I’ve come to notice that in many of the fiction futures that I’ve read about, the religious are often portrayed as less technologically advanced or even downright primitive. Those who are not religious or do not believe in God, tend to be the most rational and are the leaders. This really doesn’t stray too far from the truth of our present. Apparently, the higher the educational stratum (especially in the sciences), the more Atheism, and vice versa. This probably explains why a large number of scientists are Atheist. Certainly this is not a hard and fast rule but I think that’s saying something.

ABP proposes that so-called social barriers such as racism and classism might be easily nullified over time as racial gaps are bridged by intermarriage and with access to free or affordable education, guidance and specialized training programs. ABP also poses the pivotal question: “Will religion or the fundamental belief in God be the last crutch upon which we stand in opposition to one another?” I have recently come to realize that this is a recurring theme in much of my present writing and I know why. I have, in a way, lost faith in humankind’s ability to…do right by one another.

I try not to watch the news, but bits and pieces keep catching up with me. Unjust rulers. Fights over land. Unjust fights for power that threatens not only the dignity of a ruler but the lives and livelihood of his constituency. Hypocritical governments that call themselves free and yet deprive citizens of their right to practice their religion in the way they see fit (provided it doesn’t bring harm to anyone else). The propensity of humankind to seek the worst in people and not the best, to happily listen to defamatory idle gossip rather than seek out the truth. Violent crimes committed in the name of a God that would have never sanctioned them. Profit seeking missions disguised as humanitarian missions. I could go on forever. In the case of perpetrators who claim adherence to a specific faith, I find myself asking, “Where does obedience to God fit into their personal equation? How could they disgrace the message of the God they claim to worship by committing heinous crimes?”

Then I look at Japan, and some of my hope is restored. In the midst of a national catastrophe, these people have managed a level of heroism, dignity, generosity, and inner strength I have never witnessed. Over 50% of Japan is Atheist, but they support and encourage religious freedom and individuality. That’s saying something too. But what?

So, in keeping with this Sunday’s topic, I wish I could say that we are nearly there, but I think that might be a bit premature. The bright side, in my opinion is, that If I am asking these questions (slow, fallible, dimwitted me) then certainly other wiser people are too. That being the case, then I can say instead, “Maybe we’re on our way.”

Written for Sunday Scribblings. Prompt: Nearly

2011-03-01T16:50:00.000-08:00

My novel, An Unproductive Woman, is set in current times, in Africa, in a Muslim polygamous family. The specifics of this novel are novel to American cultural understandings, but the general message is quite universal. The general message being, the love and trust and loyalty that often exist between a husband and wife through seemingly insurmountable odds.

My personal query is why is it that some people are able to read this story and despite the vast cultural differences come away with a strong sense of connection to that central theme, while others are unable to invest in the story out of say…an inability to get past the cultural nuances?

When I first published AUW, my first customers were the people that I work with. I sold about twenty copies to my co-workers. There are a few who read greedily, interested in not just the story if a man and his wives and their personal turmoil but also interested in the opportunity to peek into the lives and mindsets of people so foreign to their own. Many of these people bought my novel in an effort to show their support but have probably never read past the description on the back cover. There is one person, whose opinion about AUW, I was eager to learn because she is so well travelled, speaks several languages and presents herself as being overall very liberal and open minded. While she did buy AUW, to my chagrin, she did not read it.

Initially she told me about how she had little time, which I can understand. Then she would tell me how she’d started AUW but had been side tracked by one new self-help book after another (long story). Ok, no big deal. Then, finally she told me that she found AUW difficult reading, which threw me off, because it isn’t exactly Shakespeare. Believe me when I say that while I wanted to know what she thought of AUW, I wasn’t exactly chasing her down for an explanation of why she hadn’t read it. I mean, I’d already made the sale. I quickly got over it. But, I did press further when she stated that she found it difficult reading. Between her attempts at diplomacy, I was able to decipher that her difficulty stemmed from some sort of inner repulsion for the concept of polygamy and the religious aspects.

It wasn’t exactly an attempt at conversion… Whaaa?

I wonder, how often do we allow our own prejudices to prevent us from enjoying the art? I have certain, no, won’t do it, I don’t care what you say, prejudices, as I am sure we all do. I won’t read or watch anything that includes gratuitous sexual content. My personal road block goes up when it comes to anything that describes in detail child molestation or anything that outwardly blasphemes my understanding and beliefs of God. I also refuse to waste time on anything that I personally deem to be stupid (and I am sure your definition of stupid might vary from mine – so, it’s a pretty subjective judgment).

Again, I’m over it, not that I was ever un-over it, but these questions popped into my head this evening on my way home from work and I thought I’d just say a few words about it.

AUW has not sold well, mostly because I did so little in the way of publicity. I don’t have the time to do it the justice it deserves. I am pretty torn. Between current writing projects and my very full time job in breast oncology and my family and trying to find time to do nothing at all, worrying about AUW has taken a back burner. I have no regrets though. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn't write AUW the same way (I wrote it about 15 years ago and I was such a different person going through different circumstances), I still love those characters and I am still connected to them. I always tell people that I didn't write AUW. AUW wrote itself. While making money on my writing is important to me, the very act of writing takes precedence.

I have decided to make AUW free to download through Smashwords through April 1. Please read and tell me what you think. Recommend to your friends if you think it worthwhile. To download for free, use the coupon code: BF94Q.

Enjoy!

Michael

2011-02-05T13:11:00.000-08:00

Mahmood practiced writing his new name.

Moody. Moody. Moody.

When the entire page was filled, he set the pen down, sat back and looked at his handy work.

He absently stroked his smooth naked chin. After shaving, he had marveled at how pale that skin was. He’d forgotten that he had a cleft in his chin.

“You’re acting like a victim.” Fatima’s voice made him jump. How long had she been standing there watching him?

“What I’m trying to do,” he stated slowly, giving maximum effort to affecting his new accent, “is erase every sign that I am different. If I am like them, they will have no cause to hate me. I look too foreign. And listen to my accent. Half the time they don’t understand anything that I am saying. It’s no wonder they blame me.”

“But you weren’t even there.”

Moody turned the paper over and started writing again. This time, Michael, Michael, Michael. After a couple of lines he turned smiling at his sister. “You know,” his pronunciation was improving, he could tell, “I think that Michael is an even better name than Moody. More recognizable. More American.”

Fatima shook her head. “You’re just baiting them. You know that, right? They’ll never leave you alone now.”

He watched her mouth when she spoke, correlating each movement with the sounds produced. She was ten years his junior and had been here since she was six. She had no accent at all. Her voice was very American.

“How so?”

“No one respects a sell out.”

“What is a sell out?

She rolled her eyes and placed a hand on one narrow hip. He decided that when he got his next paycheck, he would take her to buy a nice pair of jeans and somehow convince her to stop wearing the damned scarf.

“A sell out is a person who doesn’t respect himself enough to stand up for what he is, or what he believes in.”

He considered this for a moment. “Ah, but one can change himself and his beliefs.”

****************

Originally posted at H&T for 3WW

A Walk In the Park

2011-01-09T14:51:00.000-08:00

“Are you crazy?” Mars said this as if he really believed it, but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was at the very least intrigued. “It’s raining out there and it’s cold.” He went to stand by the window and threw open the heavy khaki drapes. Dust stirred and he coughed into his fist. I approached to help him, though there was really nothing that I could do, but he waved me off, face red and eyes tearing up. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and held it up to his face. After moment, he took a deep breath and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket, trying to hide the spots of blood he left behind and said, “It looks like all the water in the world is coming down right here, right now.”

“So what? I don’t melt. Do you?”

He smiled at this. “You could catch a cold.”

“That’s a myth. I am a doctor, remember?” I could tell that he wanted to and I knew that he would. He has never denied me anything.

We left without putting on our coats. Soon the rain had soaked through our clothes. The blue nylon of his shirt framed his pale thin limbs like a second skin. He could see the shock of gray at my right temple through the thin white bandana that I wore, and he reached out to touch it. “You know Miri,” he said, “people are watching us. They think we’re crazy.” A plume of vapor rose from his lips as he spoke and his teeth chattered a bit.

“Let them,” I said afraid even of my own abandon, surprised that I wasn’t cold.

We entered the park from its eastern entrance, the side with the pond full of brown and gray ducks. They weren’t there today. The coffee vender was there though, positioned near a cluster of concrete benches, calling for customers from beneath a red and white umbrella with the Higher Authority emblem on it. We passed him and decided to stroll around the foot path, but we didn’t get very far.

“We should go back,” said Mars, his lips bright cyan against his white face. “I’m freezing.”

I took one of his hands in mine, the thin fingers were stiff and rigid in my grasp and I started to feel guilty. “Maybe we should get you a cup of that coffee on our way home. It’ll help warm you up.”

Mars shook his head, “He doesn’t really sell coffee.”

I continued to hold his hand as we walked back toward the park entrance. “But I saw the sign and I heard him say so.”

The cold quavering in Mar’s voice solidified when he said, “It’s just a cover, Miri, so the Higher Authority won’t know what he’s really doing.”

I stopped just outside the gate to look into his face. “He’s selling diamond dust?”

Mars raised an eye brow, tilted his head to the side. He took his hand from mine and stuffed it into his pocket. He turned away from me and back in the direction of my apartment.

“But how do you know?” I said following him.

“Because he works for me.”

That’s when the chill set in.

*************

Written for Sunday Scribblings #249

Araminta's Collection

2011-01-08T12:43:00.000-08:00

They keep asking me why I collect the children, like it's some kind of shameful filthy thing; you’d think I’d been caught picking through their refuse, or something.

Usually I don't answer, because the ones who have to ask don't really want to know, only find new ammunition for the jokes they'll make about me once I've taken my leave.

Some of them insinuate that I eat the children, use their little bones to make the jewelry I sell or that I pimp them out to men with unwholesome desires.

And I wonder, if they really think I am doing such horrible things, why don't they report me, or stop me, try to save the children, because if it were me, that is what I would do.

I tell the others, the ones who don't ask because they already know, that I collect the cast off forgotten children that no one wants, the ones tossed out like spoiled food onto the rubbish heap of our society.

While I am doing the telling, I sometimes cry a little, because I can remember the time when few women were able to bear children, making them that much more beloved and the women who could were paid to for the gift of their ripe wombs.

I have fifty-three children; fifty-two girls and one boy.

I much prefer collecting the girls, because they are most impermanent, and I do not wish for them to be forever attached to me.

They fall in love with men and later, their children, and they have this need, like inherited memory, to create their own home away from the place of their upbringing.

The girls, the women, will stop by from time to time when their need has been sated to let me know that they remember me, to share their spare love and this is good enough for me.

Between the names that I gifted them and the names they bore when I found them and the ones they chose when they left, I am afraid that I can not remember most of them, except Mars, my only son.

Sit awhile, let me tell you about him.

I found my only boy about twenty-five or six years ago.

He stood on the curb with his eyes closed as morning pedestrians passed around him giving him about as much notice as a speed bump or a flattened soda can in the gutter.

I would have passed him too, because I do not collect the boys, but for his hair, the color of the rust around a leaking faucet.

My breath caught in my throat at the sight of him, because until that moment, I had forgotten my husband's face as he had been dead for so many years; the very sight of this boy gave him back to me.

The boy was filthy and he stank of something sinister and sick but when I leaned down to look into his face he trapped me with his pale as water eyes.

He clung to me like like a planet in orbit so for this reason, along with his hair reminding me so much of my long dead beloved, I decided to name him Mars.

**************

Originally posted in three 6 sentence segments at the 6 Sentence Social Network.
Character development for novel in progress.
Also posted at WWR.

A Liberal

2010-12-05T11:52:00.000-08:00

The Boy (this is what I call my 19 year old son), announced today in an early morning bit of inspiration, that he is a liberal, "as are most college kids my age," he concluded. He waited, eyes steady on my face about a half a foot above mine, to hear my response to his declaration, as these days debating is what he loves best to do with me. I tried to balance between the revulsion I felt and the patient diplomacy I try and usually fail to practice. Plainly, I was astonished that this child of mine could be as socially malleable as to readily accept a label, no matter how good or politically correct he believed it to be, to not only allow but participate on his own pigeonholing. After several quiet moments had passed, during which I chopped half an onion and then scraped the pieces from the cutting board into the pan with the browning potatoes, I finally said, "I see, but is that good enough for you, to be confined by and loved or hated under the banner of such a fluid dependent label?" He was silent for a moment during which time I could almost hear the thoughts spinning in that head of his, then a smile split his usually solemn slightly insolent face wide open.
Mom one; Boy zero.

Nanowrimo

2010-10-31T18:44:00.000-07:00

Hey All. I'll be a bit quiet for the next month as I try my hand at my first Nanowrimo. If any of you will be trying your hand this year, buddy me. My user name is Khaalidah.

See you in December.

What Will They Say?

2010-10-21T15:44:00.000-07:00

Will they list all of the common kind ambiguities, that I loved sci-fi and zombies, dark chocolate and violent video games, my children, the comfort of my bed, my garden where I grow beans and greens and okra and memories? Will they honor me by telling the truth, that they never really knew me because my scarred heart was tucked into a thorny shell, that I was covetous with my love, that I judged too quickly, too harshly, too much? Will they admit that they once had an inkling that I might be dangerous because they witnessed a wicked glint in my eye that disappeared so quickly they doubted it was there, and that they could never understand the ease with which I could turn my back, turn them off, tune them out? Will they recall the words that I penned with my own blood because that was the only way to bleed away my longing for the forbidden and depraved? Will they know that I feared myself more than God, that I would use my own hands to choke back the black lust, like bile rising in my throat, for fear of staining my conscience, my body, my soul, anyone in my path?
What will they say when I am gone?

An Unproductive Woman

2010-09-25T15:01:00.001-07:00

Not sure how many of you were aware, but about two years ago (almost to the day) I published my novel entitled An Unproductive Woman. This was an experience filled with an enormous jumble of conflicting emotions. For one, at that time, the novel had been sitting in a box alternating from closet to garage for almost ten years, so when I finally broke it out with the intention of publishing, it was almost foreign to me. I can't say that I no longer liked the story and the characters, but seeing as how I was ten years older, I did feel as if my writing and perceptions of life had changed quite a bit. If I could do it again today, AUW wouldn't be written the same way. But this is life...and growth, right?

But this is neither here nor there. I published AUW because I believed in this story and its absolute ability to cross continents and cultures with its timeless theme of love and marriage and the hope we all have to one day right the wrongs we perpetrated in our youth.

I have recently republished AUW in Ebook format, making it cheaper and more accessible for anyone who wishes to read it. And I hope you all do.

Check it out here at Smashwords.

The Mosque On Dixwell

2010-09-19T12:34:00.000-07:00

Hanif wore a navy hand-crocheted kufi on his head, leather sandals and an absurdly provocative smile. He was such a large man that my head was thrown way back just to look at him, the sun edging over his right shoulder and into my eyes when he invited me, my scantily clad unbelieving self to the mosque, with the hopes that I would convert. I think also, he might have been looking for a second wife when he was looking at me with that smile. That Friday I went to the mosque on Dixwell, ill-dressed, and now that I think back on it, quite a spectacle, in a low cut dashiki and black skirt that I had hemmed so that it would hang quite above the knee. All of the other women there were demurely covered, and careful not to let their gazes linger too long on my bare legs as smooth and brown as caramel, or my bare head, though they were all pleasant enough. I did eventually convert, but two wives and many children later, I hear that Hanif died, and the mosque on Dixwell is gone too.

*************************************

Originally printed at 6 Sentences.

The Existential

2010-09-09T11:24:00.000-07:00

Written for 3WW - charm feast robust

I can mark the day that I became a foreigner, where broken English enveloped in a heavy accent, proof of my subjugation to man and organized, organized faith seemed evident, and where claims of originating from exotic lustful war torn locations was the expectation. It happened in July of 1990, the year that I married that African, when I remembered God, and my mother told me that I was a fool but then mailed to me an apartment warming gift of blue glasses and bath towels via UPS. Since then, I have lived unwittingly with one foot in the world of my society’s expectations of me, and the world of my expectations of myself, and then in the forefront, there is always the hope that some of these expectations, though misguided and unfair, may somehow match with what God would have me do/be. I am not complaining, and fully accept that when I donned my first hijab, I lost what beauty I may have possessed, but certainly not my charm. I am no longer a feast for the eyes of men, but as the other senses are heightened when one is struck blind, so too was my intellect, my pride, my robust longing for all that is existential, outside of the box so to speak, when I covered my other self. Can you dig the journey here, that goes beyond the concrete and reactionary, reaching forward for that wisp of peace?

*******************************************

I have suffered with a bit of writer's block for the last couple of days and decided this time to write something that is semi-auto-biographical. This is written as an experimental piece. The idea, to write a flash in six sentences inspired by the blog of that very title.

"You don't know about me...But you could."

2010-09-06T10:57:00.000-07:00

Written for carry on tuesday
As an Muslim, I have experienced some very disheartening incidents of racial and religious bigotry, that are in my opinion, unacceptable considering the vast access to information available to us in the world today and the pluralistic society we claim to enjoy in the USA. The four 69ers that I have written below are my way of enlightening, encouraging, and supporting our duty as human beings to KNOW more and better of the people with whom we share our world. I know that many will not agree, as we all have our prejudices, but we should at least be properly informed before we cultivate damaging opinions about our fellow human beings. Thank you for reading.

1.
"So, Raheem," said Gregory, "What are the Muslims saying about the Islamic center issue at ground zero?"
Raheem shrugged. "I'll let you know when I finish telephoning every Muslim in the country."
Gregory rolled his eyes, took a step closer and lowered his voice. "Hey man, I'm just trying to get to know you. I thought you'd appreciate that."
"Then next time, try asking me what I think. Okay?"
(True story)

2.
The nurse entered the waiting room and called her next patient. "Mrs. Muhammad?"
She rose from her chair near the windows. She wore a black hijab with rhinestone rim and a black jalabiyah that reached to the floor. The nurse smiled and offered her hand. "Shall I call the interpreter, Mrs. Muhammad? Arabic, Malay, Persian?"
Mrs. Muhammad smiled brightly, "Sure, why not? Which of those languages do you speak?"

3.
The Muslim nurse held her Christian patient's hand as she cried over her recent diagnosis. "Don't lose hope," she said. "Remember that God listens to prayers." She handed the patient a tissue.
After the patient dried her eyes, she reached out to hug her nurse and said with all of the generosity she held in her heart, "Welcome to America."
"I am American."
"No wonder you speak good English."
(True story)

4.
She is a woman, brown skinned with a robust physic.
The scarf hides her hair, her secret sacred parts...but not her heart.
She is human, loving and hating for the sake of God,
living and dying at His will.
She is a daughter, a wife, a mother, a writer, a life as sacred but not more so than any other.
She is more and less than you believe.
American

Troubled Seas

2010-09-05T20:39:00.000-07:00

Microfiction Monday #47

“Slurping sea serpents on my right. Outrageous orange octopus on my left. A sinking ship behind and black oblivion ahead. Where are the zombies when you need them?”

First Fall

2010-09-01T05:37:00.001-07:00

Written for 3WW – negative, break, surface
and Weekend Writer's Retreat
I stood with my toes curled over the edge, gravel at my heels. The wind felt good as it whipped around me and through the thin gauze of my falling suit. Rain water had collected at the edges of my hair and made tiny rivulets that travelled down the sides of my face, my neck and chin. I knew that I had to leave all attachments behind, so I ripped off the band of black fabric that I'd worn tied around my waist for the last year, in honor of my mother, that I might show how I mourn her death, and glanced back. He looked as if he was going to cry, but it no longer mattered that he didn't believe in me. After twenty years of marriage, I finally realized that he would never reach the level of understanding required to journey with me to the hinterlands of Belief, where nothing good is impossible because the impossible does not exist. I realized that this journey would be made alone.

He rushed forward when I extended my arms, but I shook my head, signaling for him to go back. "Let me fall with you," he begged with reaching hands. He would fall with me, not out of faith in the passing, but out of love for me, and this was all wrong. I must never be a factor.

"How could you?" I asked him, knowing that he had no answers. "You could not take this leap with me. As a simple mortal, you would only break." I always thought that when the time came for me to release myself, I would be a pent up ball of negative tension, unable to move for fear and wavering faith, but I could feel the truth burgeoning at that moment, like a living entity, pulsing with electric energy. I would do this.

A great gust, the last wind that I would ever feel in this world swirled around me, cradled me like a child in her mother's arms. I took a breath and let go. My heels scraped the edge of the roof as I fell. I had been instructed by my predecessor that I should keep my eyes closed for my first fall, so as to prevent fear from taking the place of my belief, but I couldn't do it. I wished to see the world I would leave behind rushing upwards to me as I fell. I wanted to see the moment when I parted the surface of this world and passed into the next. And...I am glad that I did. I could smell the stink of dog shit and petrol fumes, could see the lamp light glint off a stream of dirty rain water as it rushed into the gutter. I sensed all of this just before I passed.

Then my wings shot out from my sides, unfolding and stretching to forever.

Haikus on Emptiness

2010-08-29T10:00:00.000-07:00

Written for OneSingle Impression - Prompt #131 Empty

I am at my best

I require no second half

Exist as nothing

Do not offer love

I have no need for needing

I cocoon in space

At thirty-nine years

I dream of going to space

Be in the vacuum

Solace is silence

Love is devoid of action

love me, go away

Rapture of silence

Ecstasy of faith embodied

Strip husk, leave my soul

Faith is the here life

Faith in the God we can't see

The faith inside me

Deep on the inside

Wish detachment from the world

Fill the emptiness

****************************************************************************

Poetry isn't really "my thing". I usually don't write it, but some of the recent prompts that I have encountered sort of challenged me to try different forms. Those of you who do write a lot of poetry, and who feel comfortable with the form, you especially, please tell me what you think of these haiku. Thanks

Is She Ready?

2010-08-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

Written for Weekend Writer's Retreat

Excerpt from a novel in progress tentatively entitled A Better Place

Omar pressed the buds into his ears, used the edge of his nail to engage the button of the stamp size player and listened to his grandfather’s recitation. A strong deep bass, Omar had listened to this voice, like black oil more times than he could count. Omar knew the words by heart, recited in Arabic, but he did not know what they meant.

Leaning forward on the desk, with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, Omar did not see the lights come on, nor did he hear the rasp of the door against the woven sisal carpet when Mars entered, but he knew that the slight edgy man was there. Seconds later, after his grandfather’s voice faded into static, without raising his head, Omar asked, “Did you get it?”

“I’ve looked everywhere in that rat hole of an apartment, but I can’t find it. I don’t know where she’s hidden it.” Striker shifted from one foot to the next, wringing his hands, then swiped a film of oily sweat from his forehead. Omar’s silence always unnerved Mars. The most brilliant man that he had ever met, Omar often expressed such a dichotomy of emotions that he was difficult to predict. Mars had failed to retrieve the book. Omar could just as easily accept the failure and apologize for burdening Mars with the task as he could break into a rage of screams and flailing fists. Mars stood near the open door, ready to dodge and run should it come to rage.

Omar remained silent, head resting on the heels of his hands, his breathing steady and deep.

“I was just thinking that now might be the time.”

“For what?”

Omar raised his head, blinking the mist of stars from his eyes. “Did you get a chance to see the girl?”

“She’s no girl.”

“Yes. You’re right.” Omar chuckled absently. She had been older than him the last time he’d seen her and she had hardly been a girl then. “How is she? What does she look like?”

Mars’ eyes narrowed as he thought about her. He’d managed to locate her only a week ago and since, had seen her only twice. The first time was from a distance as she jogged down the steps from her third floor apartment. That time, she looked almost dangerous. A large woman with a steely erect gait, Striker would have known who she was, even if he hadn’t had a photograph of her to go off of. Like Omar, even the set of her wide shoulders made her seem fearless. The second time that he had seen her, she was passed out on the sofa of her living room after having worked a 16 hour shift at Houston-Galveston General Hospital. He stood over her as she slept, a strip of faded lamp light across her face, and Mars remembered wondering what kind of dream could cause such a fearless looking woman to whimper in her sleep. “She seems okay.”

Omar studied the skittish man before asking, “Do you think that she is ready?”

Mars shook his head. “I don’t know. Is anyone ever ready?”

“Some of us are.”

Mars thought for a moment longer before he said, “I’ve learned a great deal about her. She is a doctor. A great power is with her, and it isn’t the Higher Authority. The street people call her Healer because she’ll doctor you right there in the street, no matter who you are, no matter what.”

Omar stood. Mars leaned back a bit so that he could meet his gaze. Omar was a mountain, and sometimes just as immovable.

“Someone told me that she is different. She obeys the Higher Authority for the most part, but no way do they have her in whole. Don’t worry, they don’t make life too hard for her though, because good doctors are hard to find, and right now, they need her more than they need her allegiance.”

“Yes, but is she ready?”

“For the truth, you mean?”

Omar nodded.

“God help her if she isn’t.”

Faith and the Fast

2010-08-28T22:27:00.000-07:00

Written for Sunday Scribblings

I am asked by a co-worker if I’d like to go for coffee.

“Can’t,” I tell her for the third or fourth time this week. “I am fasting.”

Yes, it’s that Ramadan thing.

I am asked several times this week about the practice of fasting, and I am happy to share this most rewarding aspect of my faith. Certainly because I wish the people that I associate with to understand who I am. They don’t define me, but I do have this innate desire to be more than that one with the scarf. Deep down, whether I admit it or not (and I often do), I strive on a daily basis to demolish all stereotypes about myself, the Muslim woman. I am educated. I like video games (violent ones), I write, I sew, am pretty crafty actually, I can sing (and no I will not do it right now), I love horror movies, and I AM NOT ARAB nor am I from Over There (yes I was actually asked that once).

So, each year, during the lunar month of Ramadan, I and my fellow Muslims spend a month (29-30 days) abstaining from food, drink, and sex from sun up to sun down. Ideally, we also abstain from gossiping and lying, and anything questionable. We try to do more good works than usual, pray more, forgive and seek forgiveness. That’s a lot of stuff to do in a month, right?

Frequent and familiar refrains that I hear from my non-Muslim friends and acquaintances are:

1. But, you can drink water though, right? (No)

2. What about chewing gum? (No)

3. Can’t you just cheat today? (Uh….no.)

4. Aren’t you hungry? (Uh…really? What do you think?) Actually after a couple of days, hunger is not a big deal.

5. A whole month? (Yes, an entire month.)

I try to explain, not always as succinctly as I would like, that I fast because Allah told me to in order that I might sympathize with those who go to bed at the end of the day without a meal. I also explain that fasting for a month is sort of like doing a destructive restore on the computer. Your stomach shrinks and your heart grows. You realize that you, as a single human being, consume far more in your normal waking life than you really require to survive; that we waste so much in food and resources due to the decadent nature of the world and the society that we live in. That we should probably seek out a simpler, more humble way of life dedicated to serving God by serving human kind as opposed to our stomachs and our urgent base desires. But…somehow the message gets lost because people can’t seem to get past the, “I’m so hungry,” part.

A non-Muslim friend of mine recently said, “I don’t know how you can concentrate on God at a time like this. I’d be too worried about how hungry I am.” I didn’t know how to tell her without sounding all self-righteous and holier than thou, that I doubted this was true. She often skips dinner altogether in an effort to cut calories so as to get thin, because of course, at 115 pounds she is oh so fat. She tells me that she realizes that she has a touch of body dysmorphia, partly attributable to the fact that she is a “white girl”. (Her words, not mine.) If you ever asked me to fast in order to lose weight…excuse me while I roll on the floor laughing. Ain’t gonna happen, cap’t.

My faith? To me, this isn’t the same as asking what my religion is. I’m a Muslim and my religion is Islam. Okay. But my faith is in God (Allah). I have faith that these trials and any others that I am required to endure will do me some good. The fast will help me be kinder to those who do not have. The fast will help me master…myself. I have faith in these acts because left to my own devices, I wouldn’t have the structure or the inclination to do better. Then comes faith in myself. I can be a better person. I really, really can.

Four Haiku

2010-08-27T04:44:00.000-07:00

Written for ThursdayTales

North
Purple finger tips
I blow into palms for warmth
Dig deep near the fire.

South
Melt from inside out
Watermelon, sun, squitoes
AC better work.

East
Princeton, Harvard, Yale
Maine on down to Florida
Birthplace of country.

West
Fun, sun, Hollywood
Stars come out day and night
Quake into the sea.

Once More

2010-08-26T05:00:00.000-07:00

Written for Thursday Thirteen

Can't
recall
the
fire
of
love.
Please
God,
once
more
before
I
die.

I'm Scared

2010-08-25T13:47:00.000-07:00

Written for Three Word Wednesday - abstain, prayer, halo

"I'm scared. At first, they said that the chemo was making it shrink. Now it feels a little bit bigger."

"Well did you fall or bump your breast or something?"

Lupe pulled aside the gown to show me her left breast. The bruise was purple and a dirty faded green, like smudged watercolor paint. She pressed the area. Her nose crinkled as she winced. "No, I just woke up and it was there." Beneath this troublesome blemish, her tumor lies. She started to cry and it’s a mystery to me that she held on to the tears this long. The moment I walked into the exam room, I could feel her fear, a weighty fog. She wore her grief like a halo, and her husband, Fernando, wore his anger like a carved spectral mask. He didn't say one word during the entire visit. He did smile once, if you could call it that, when I questioned her about vaginal dryness and itching. "You can try suppositories over the counter," I told her, trying not to look at him when I added, "because this will make intercourse easier and lower your risk of developing UTIs and yeast infections."

Lupe glanced sideways at her husband, almost apologetic, and then she exhaled a short-lived high-pitched giggle before divulging, "We don't have sex. I mean, I just can't. It hurts too much." Then a fresh wave of tears. They looked heavy and lingered in the creases under her eyes like oil. I handed her a tissue. "I just wish Maricella would have abstained." She blew her nose. "Hail Mary ain't gonna make this go away."

"Maricella?" This is their fourteen year old daughter. She's come to a few of these appointments, asking more questions about the prognosis and expectations of the treatments than her mother. This is why I remembered her, waist length ringlets the color of crude and tiny nervous hands with purple blinged out nails, of the hundreds of patients and family members that I see each week. But, it's been about two months, at least. "How is she?" I asked this knowing that in doing so, we were leaving the comfortable realm of cancer and treatment side effects. I silently cursed myself. I'm no psych doctor, no Dr. Phil, (or Dr. Ruth Westheimer), and my schedule only allows me fifteen minutes to spend with her.

Fernando shifted in his chair, crossed an ankle over the opposite thigh, which jigged up and down like a pogo stick. Lupe placed a hand on his arm and he stopped, stood up, walked out of the room.

Lupe took a deep breath, "Maricella, she's pregnant."

I gave her the entire box of tissues, because what else could I do? For nausea and vomiting, I could call in a prescription to her local pharmacy for Compazine or Zofran. For that itchy rash between her toes, I could suggest Benadryl cream. But this? I think of my own daughter, a little older. No ringlets, no bling, no questions at all about the health of her mother, because the expectation is that I will go on living as long she needs me, as long as she wants me, forever. I wondered if perhaps this was Maricella's way of healing the pain of watching her mother's hair fall out in clumps, of listening to her mother vomit into the toilet, of watching her mother's nails turn brown and fall off, of wondering if the cure would kill instead of save her mother.

I tried to sound sage. "I understand that this is a difficult time for you, Lupe. But just think, you live in a time when there is a treatment for your disease. And you have the resources to get that treatment. Right?" I hated those words, because I had said them a million other times. I could have done better. And I tried by starting over. "I won't tell you that everything will get better. We just don't know what will happen, but we will try."

Lupe nodded, face slick with untended tears and reached out for my hand, her eyes holding me in a silent plea. I knew what she wanted before she ever uttered the words. "Will you pray with me?"

I consented to this, but held my insides rigid the entire time. While Lupe called on Jesus and Mary and saints that I've never heard of for help, I tried to counteract the sin of this concession by repeating the name of Allah over and over again in my head. I believe in God, and hoped this would be enough, because I serve Him by serving her. She hugged me, when the worst of her grief had passed.

"Be strong," I told her, resorting to cliché again, "all things happen for a reason. God does not give us more than we can bear."

She laughed. "Yeah. He just gives you a pregnant daughter."

So Little Done, So Much To Do

2010-08-24T08:06:00.001-07:00

Written for Carry On Tuesday

So little done, So much to do

Truths rejected, embrace falisy

Squares of light, shedding grief

Eat corruption, sticky sweet

So little done, So much to do

Righteous reason, relegated old

Swath of fabric, guard the naked

Strip it down, become forsaken

So little done, So much to do

The dying curse, the dying mock

Peace delivered, covered in spit

To cast away judicious writ

So little done, So much to do

Wars to challenge human rights

Love is nothing, hate is all

No heed of good, cease to call

So little done, So much to do.

Microfiction Monday #45

2010-08-23T04:33:00.000-07:00

Written for Microfiction Monday

“I know you’re cold, but hovering at my back is not going make the antidote reveal itself more quickly. It’s your own fault you decided to go and play in the acid vat!”

Pounds of Flesh

2010-08-17T10:37:00.001-07:00

Written for Carry on Tuesday

I must sacrifice pounds of flesh

to lighten a sinking soul.

Love's first sight, little more than hate

is greedy, unyielding and cold.

All things that rest under sun's glare

must fade and wither away.

Leaving all that is true, incorruptible, right

visible at the trade between night and day.

I pull back my hands, my base desires and spirit

tuck them deep into the quiet place.

To learn the way of forgiveness and solace

the slow road in life's race.

I will bare in selfless humility

to practice the ultimate covetous deed.

Scrubbing clean my most inglorious heart

in an effort to plant the seed.

To give is best, with indifferent ease

a detachment from this earth.

I will chart my way, and choose my path

determine what has most worth.

I must sacrifice pounds of flesh

to lighten a sinking soul.

No man made rule, no unreasoned plea

can ever take a hold.

Microfiction Monday #44

2010-08-15T20:10:00.000-07:00

Written for Microfiction Monday

Giggles echoed through the old armor.

“Whew, was that my breath or gas?”

His wife called, but he didn’t answer.

“That’ll teach her to tell me to take out the trash.”

Our View of Intelligence

2010-08-15T12:51:00.000-07:00

Written for Sunday Scribblings #228 - View

My son and I argue the point for the fifth or sixth time this month. I say, “People get smarter with age.” Of course, because he is nineteen (can’t believe I have a child that old), he disagrees.

“Some of the best work, the best inventions and discoveries are made by people who are thirty and younger.”

He may be correct, but the mere fact that this has turned into a debate has me thinking of counter arguments that probably don’t have merit. I can’t help but think of the famous picture of Einstein, where his gray hair is shooting out of his head in all directions. He hardly looked younger than thirty in that photo, and I tell my son this. He snorts and gives me a look as if to say that my feeble thirty-nine year old argument only goes to prove his point. “What about Steven Hawkings?”

“Uh, Mom? He was what, twenty-eight when he came up with the Big Bang theory?”

How does this stupid kid know all of this stuff? Probably because he isn’t stupid, right?

Just when I am about to give in to his argument that young brains are smarter than older brains (mostly because this thirty-nine year old doesn’t want to keep arguing the same issue – he does tell me that I am impatient) he says, “Look mom, you and I both know that you are born with all of the intelligence that you will ever have.”

I nod. Okay, I can accept that.

“But younger people do more stuff because well, they’re willing to take chances and think outside of the box. They’re all over the place.”

“Yes,” about to make my winning point, “but young people don’t have the focus or wisdom or patience to make much out of their discoveries.” I could be wrong. I don't know.

He nods.

And despite having said this a million times, I reiterate, “I couldn’t do half the stuff I do now when I was your age.” He knows that I am referring to the degree that I recently earned while working full time and taking care of him and his siblings, maintaining a home and a marriage, writing on the side, sewing and crafting when time permitted, home schooling my youngest…

“That’s because you’re more focused. That’s the advantage that older brains have.”

I shrug my shoulders. I’ve said my piece and I’m tired. This boy loves to debate and of all the people in our family he seems to target me for that honor. I like to think it’s because he thinks that I’ll be an intelligent and challenging opponent. I could be wrong. Maybe it’s because he likes to see me get all flustered and annoyed. Nah. That can’t be it.

“Look,” I say as I get up from the dining table (my hips and knees have gone stiff and I stretch to work out the kinks – how come nineteen year old bodies don’t come with thirty-nine year old brains?), “I have to cook dinner before it gets too late.”

“Will you make your famous pasta?”

“Whatever,” I say as I step through the swinging kitchen door. He follows me into the kitchen and hoists himself up onto the counter.

“So, mom.”

“What?” I lift the cast iron skillet onto the stove and turn on the gas. The stove tick, tick, ticks until the flame catches.

“Are you a Renaissance woman?”

I roll my eyes and smile at the same time. Here we go again.

*Dedicated to The Boy

Chapter 6 - Truth

2010-08-14T21:54:00.000-07:00

Chapter 6 of Honor&Truth is up today. Click here to check it out.

Detention

2010-08-13T11:01:00.000-07:00

Written for Weekend Writer's Retreat

Novel Excerpt: This was written quite a while ago. I like the direction, but realize that in the context of the story, it may require some more editing.

I remained in the HA Detention Unit for more than a month. I had two cellmates. A woman who slept all day and whose preference for the roaches and water bugs that over ran our cell to the stale starchy meals the Guard served was renowned. We called her Snow, because of her hair. Some years later I learned that Snow died in the New Years Day explosion of ’62. Official reports say that she was an innocent and unfortunate casualty. Collateral damage of the movement. I happen to know that she was the architect and the builder of the bomb that leveled those three city blocks. My other cellmate, was a woman that I still know today. Her name is Araminta. I’ve seen photos from long ago of the ancient people who looked like Araminta and the father I only knew from photos and legend. Her skin is reminiscent of lacquered roasted umber and her hair is motionless yet animate as termite mounds.

The HA beat me each day and stretched my hunger and thirst to the edge of forgetting, and took from me the irreplaceable and intangible, stripping me of all but my will. They had almost gotten to that, but for Snow and Araminta, who each night replaced much of what had been taken, by reminding me whose daughter I was. That Saba still lived because I did. That if I could be even a ghost of who she had been, I would be more than I ever imagined. Saba had once been the reserve of all that is good in women in times when women did not know their own strength. Saba was not the mother of the Underground, but the pillars on which it stood. A woman strong and solid as arctic ice. Didn’t I know? Didn’t I know that I had come from greatness, a latter day princess sheltered within the garbage heap of the world? Why didn’t I know? How did they know?

I never asked.

I was released on my nineteen birthday, pitched into the streets like rubbish from a wheelbarrow and instructed to make better of myself than my mother had. I am not sure if I have managed to accomplish this, but I will let you be the judge.

The apartment had been wrecked and ransacked of anything worth as much as a hit of diamond dust. As I sat on the stairs outside of the apartment, fixed in that space between fury and despair, I was approached by a young man. I knew the neighborhood, each corner and alley, each shop that opened and closed, every notch, every cracked brick, crumbled curb. I knew the rotten smells and the rhythms the same way the long extinct jaguars knew their rainforests. But I did not know this man.

I remember wondering when I first laid eyes on him, if he was an apparition. Thin and pale as watered down milk, with hungry green eyes, and faded titian hair, he held in his left hand a silver gun. His right hand was full of dingy fabric, attached to an equally dingy person whose gender I could not readily discern.

“Tell her where you’ve taken her things.”

The person struggled in the grip of the apparition. He could’ve gotten loose had he really wanted, but that gun was pointed at his head, and apparition or not, that gun was real enough. “I won’t. It’s my stuff now.” I was positive then, that this was a man.

I heard the gun cock and so did the filthy man. The apparition had made his point. The filthy man who’d burgled the apartment in my absence told all that he knew.

“Now, tell her that you’re sorry.”

He did.

That night, as the apparition stood at the doorway watching, the filthy man and two others returned most of my belongings. A television, an antiquated radio with missing knobs and buttons, Saba’s clothing and Omar’s size 14 shoes, the two burner countertop stove, my father’s monogrammed pen, my books. The apparition, his name is Mars Striker, pressed an envelope fat with currency into my hand. When I refused the gift he laughed, throaty and hoarse, which ended in a fit of coughing. Admittedly, I had ignored many of Saba’s lessons and warnings, having written them off as conspiracy theory, but this one had struck home. Never take currency from a man you do not know. He’ll think he owns you. He’ll think you owe him.

“I don’t know you,” I told him.

“Yeah?” His smile annoyed me. “But you’ll need it until you can get on your feet.”

“I am on my feet,” I told him, standing up to my full height, which was several inches taller than him.

“So you are.” That smile, like ice down the center of my bare back.

“I thank you for getting my belongings back, for everything, whatever that is.” I tried not to let my confusion show in my face. So much had happened and I needed time to analyze it all, to dissect what remained of my life, determine what could be salvaged and what had to be forgotten if I hoped to move forward. I needed to commune with the familiar. “But I can’t take this from you.”

“You won’t be. Araminta sends her greetings. She also sends me.”

Jenna and Mona

2010-08-12T09:41:00.000-07:00

Written for 3WW and Thursday's Tales
Joke, Leverage, Remedy

“I don’t want to lose my hair.” Jenna pushed back bright pink tendrils that fanned into her eyes. Watched herself in the long narrow mirror.

“It doesn’t matter. It’ll grow back and you’ll be just as beautiful.” Her friend Mona picked up a sheer multicolored scarf from the clearance bin, held it up to the light, then against Jenna’s shoulder. “Try this one.”
Jenna’s eyes narrowed, “Not my style.” She fingered the glittery discs that dangled from the ends. Instead of pulling it over her head, she wrapped it around her waist. Twisted left then right in the mirror. “How about if I wear it like this, with my black leather biker jacket and combat boots?”
“You’re joking, right?”
The two friends locked eyes, and then both burst into laughter. Of course the scarf was her style. Anything with color was Jenna’s style; anything out of the ordinary, anything that pushed the boundaries of good taste, etiquette or standard convention. Technically, getting breast cancer at twenty-five years old could be considered out of the ordinary, so it should have been right up her alley. Or maybe not.
Jenna pulled the scarf around her shoulders, then across her face. Through the sheerness of the fabric, she looked at her friend, the opposite of her in everyway. “You’ll teach me how to tie my scarves, won’t you, oh Muslim friend of mine?” Jenna pulled Mona against her side. They stood together arms locked in the mirror. Pink haired anti-establishment girl. Black scarved Muslim girl. Total opposites. Total friends. Jenna sighed. “Mona?”
“Hmm.”
“If I prayed to God, do you think that would give me some leverage?”
Mona pulled her eyes away from the mirror and she looked at her friend. “You mean, against the cancer?”
Jenna kept her eyes on the mirror. Nodded.
“I think that prayer is always the remedy, but what I believe is pretty irrelevant. You have to believe that prayer is the leverage you need to beat the disease.”
Jenna smiled and kissed her friend’s cheek. “What do you think of that blue scarf? You think it’ll make me look pale?”

Microfiction Monday #43

2010-08-08T19:35:00.000-07:00

Written for Microfiction Monday

“Welcome to the Big Apple,” said the tour guide to the Alien.

“Beep, blep, boop, bin.”

“No, it isn’t a real apple.”

“Bluck blu!”

“I beg your pardon! Bluck blu too!”

Araminta

2010-08-06T13:50:00.000-07:00

Written for Weekend Writer's Retreat.
Excerpt from a novel in progress tentatively titled A Better Place.

As for beginnings, I deny that I have one. Beginnings are for those who do not know God, the merely mortal, the linear being. I am none of those. My life, like all lives, is cyclical, curving in on itself like smoke, revolving in place to an unknown destiny the location and time of which is of no importance.

I believe that I am 69 years old, give or take a year or two, though most cannot tell. I am often mistaken for a woman much younger because my blue-black skin is smooth and taut against the broad forehead and sharp cheeks handed down to me by my ancestors. They think me much younger because neither the fatigue nor the frailty of old age has touched me, because I am prepared at all times to do what must be done no matter how ugly or dirty or right. I am ready for the change that must come.

I am Araminta, known by many names.

I am called Mother of Women because I have thirteen daughters. I found them all in the streets lost among the filth and human detritus, cast aside by birthers who could not tolerate or afford their handicaps.

I am called Usher, because I guide those looking for the path to God. I take them to the Underground and stand with them before the portal as they choose their faith, their new life. Then I lock the door behind them as they go into the darkness, the light.

I am called Talibah, because I seek truth and knowledge, no matter the cost.

I am also called Death.

None of the details are important. You only need to know that when you are certain of the truth, and running is your only recourse, I will be your guide. Never doubt this.

In the Future

2010-08-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

Written for Thursday Tales
The artist is ProudofBeingStrange.
Also as an experiment in writing a 69er. (What do you think?)

I stood with her at the edge of the Atlantic, the burning city lighting our backs orange.
“You’ll never believe this, but the ocean used to be bluish-gray with white foam caps when it crashed against the shore.”
I gazed out at the brown brackish water, the stink of it stinging at the back of my throat.
“Really, what happened?”
“Mankind.”
“You mean us?”
“Yes. The worst of us.”

Diffuse Liver Mets

2010-08-04T05:52:00.000-07:00

Written for 3WW - Drink, Feeble, Predict

Also a personal experiment in writing a 69er. (What do you think?)

“You need to drink.”

“Why?”

“You’ll get dehydrated. Remember what the doctor said.” Her husband held out the glass or water, sloshed down his wrist.

She shrugged. “I’m already a feeble old woman. What’d the doc call it? Diffuse liver mets?”

“You’re only thirty-nine.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m dying.”

“Yes, we all will one day. But we can’t predict when.”

Her husband stroked her naked pink scalp and she drank.

Microfiction Monday #42

2010-08-02T10:42:00.000-07:00

Written for Microfiction Monday

“What the…” he said moving forward with clawed hands aimed at her throat.

“Well,” she said backing away, “you asked me to decorate. It’s called country chic.”

The Search

2010-07-28T19:50:00.000-07:00

Written for 3WW and Weekend Writer's Retreat - Abuse, Cramp, Hatred

Authority vehicles patrolled the area and officers kept watch from every corner in the district. Forced into hiding when they’d exited an alley, Honor and Alia took cover in the cramped darkness of a filth clogged gutter. Two Authority officers lingered at the curb above their location. In the two clandestine hours that Honor spent hiding in the gutter, she was able to learn about the inner workings of the Authority and the details of the warrant against her.

"I have a real hatred for this one.” The voice was rough and nasally. He coughed and cleared his throat.

“Strong words,” said the other man whose voice was reedy and thin like shaved ice. “I don’t have love for any Believer, but hatred? I don’t care enough about them to get that worked up. Losers, the whole lot of them.”

“It is because of her that I have to work late hours. My wife’s not talking to me. Even my kid looks at me like I stole something.”

The man with the reedy voice laughed. “Tell her what’s going on. She’ll come around.”

Honor could see their feet come into view, high laced boots much like the ones she wore. One of the men kicked a ball of paper into the gutter. It bounced off Alia’s shoulder before it fell into the darkness at their feet.

“If I can’t get her into custody within the next week, I may not have a job.”

"How important can one Believer be? And she's just…how old?"

"Eighteen." He coughed again, then spat a yellow gob into the gutter missing Honor by mere inches.

"A kid."

"Yeah, but this kid is dangerous." He cleared his throat. Honor drew herself deeper into the gutter, pushing against Alia, because she expected another nasty gob to come her way. "Every day on my way into the station, I ask myself if maybe it wouldn't be better to just let this one go."

"You mean you'd purposefully not catch her? You'd lose your job for sure then."

"Yeah, but if I catch up to her, I might lose my life."

"Come on now. Stop exaggerating."

"They’re keeping the footage under wraps, but I know a guy in evidence and he let me see the film." He lowered his voice. “You heard of shifting, yeah?”

Honor listened to the silence that passed between them. She and Alia locked eyes as they waited for the conversation to start up again. Finally, the one with the high voice said, “You’re joking. I thought that was the stuff of Scientist fantasy.”

“I wish.”

Silence fell again. It lasted so long that Honor considered reaching out to touch the mind of one of them, to learn more, but the coughing man spoke up. His voice wavered a bit. “The thing that gets me is, if the Scientists hadn’t tried to poison the Believers in the first place, this would have never happened, all of these dangerous mutant kids. It’s an abuse of power, of human nature. Now they’re trying to round them up, use them for something sinister, no doubt.”

The thin voiced man shifted from his left to his right foot. “Careful. You sound almost like a sympathizer.”

“Maybe I am.”

“I get you, believe me, but if they find out, you’ll be out more than a job.”

****************************************************

* Microfiction short from Honor&Truth

Mars: In the Beginning

2010-07-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

My first memory is Araminta’s face, as she stood over me, blocking out the sharp sunlight. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the street?” I didn’t answer. Talking had always meant pain. I was maybe eight years old.

Araminta waved away heavy flies buzzing around me. They kept alighting on my face and neck. She used spit and the edge of her shirt to clean whatever attracted them to me. Acted as if she knew me. Looked me over for a long time, shaking her head, clucking her teeth. The compassion I witnessed in her eyes was so foreign it could have been a trick of the light.

Then Araminta walked away. I sat down on the curb and watched her go. Head wrapped in a mound of yellow fabric, square shoulders over round hips. Into the pawnshop, the butcher shop, the barbershop, an alley. She crossed the street and talked to people as they flew by, most ignoring her. She pointed toward me, her eyes darting and bright even from a distance. Their gazes followed the line of her arm, and after spotting me, they’d shake their heads and move on.

When Araminta returned, she pulled me to my feet.

“You are one filthy child. You know that?”

I looked down, seeing myself as if for the first time. My feet were dirty and bare. I wore an over large man’s dress shirt hooked closed with a single button, and nothing else. The shirt was stiff with blood and grime, the very sight of which sent me suddenly keening like a broken dog. I still don’t know where the blood came from.

Araminta snatched the shirt off me and threw it into the gutter. “I don’t blame you baby,” her voice low and heavy. She removed the yellow fabric piled and twisted on her head and covered me. She lifted me into her arms, balancing the weight of me against her breasts.

Araminta’s apartment was large and windowless and smelled of sage and musk. She spoon-fed me a soup of roasted vegetables and coarse flat bread wrapped around chunks of melted yellow cheese. So thirsty, I drank the entire pitcher of cold water, until goose flesh pimpled my arms. She pushed a wedge of black chocolate beneath my tongue.

Afterwards, Araminta scrubbed me with tepid water and rosemary soap. I’d hear her breath catch as she’d trace one of the many scars on my back and shoulders. They were all healed, just residual ridges and indentations where the pain used to be.

“I always wanted a baby boy, but I never thought I’d find him in the middle of the street.” Araminta held her arm up to mine, noting the contrast, and considered aloud, “Few people are as black as me, and even fewer as white as you.” She lifted me out of the bathtub, dried me with a rough towel, rubbed olive oil into my skin. Araminta hummed a melody, her voice planting me deeply into darkness. She clothed me in her robe and lay with me on her bed. Araminta pointed to my chest and said, “You are my child now.” Large soft hands stroked my face and hair, ebbing wakefulness and fear. “They say that red hair is a sign of a fierce, powerful spirit.” She kissed my forehead, pulled me tight against her side. Sleep fell over me like a sheet, and just as I submitted to the wave, I heard Araminta whisper. “I will name you Mars.”

_________________________________________________________

*Originally published with NPR's Three Minute Fiction.

*Excerpt of a novel in progress.

Pass the Mantle

2010-07-24T11:47:00.000-07:00

I never wanted to lead the people, but I resemble my father, and this was enough to convince my mother that I should. Before his death, my father, had been the last hope of our people, that belief might one day leave the underground and come into the honest light of day. Had I been asked, I would have declined, but then I’d be one of the ignorant unbelieving masses above ground. So, I guess, when I think about it, this fate is better.

I have the sickness now. The coughs wake me at night. Sometimes there is blood on my pillow when I wake in the morning. I think I might have broken a rib. Striker wrapped my chest with gauze and duck tape. He managed to score a few hydrophine for the pain. Striker is the only one who knows, but I think that Zara is suspicious. If she knows that I am dying, she will do whatever she can, including poison my morning coffee, to hasten my departure. Zara becoming leader of the underground will further dishonor my mother, who has already died a dishonorable death.

I must pass this mantle on to someone who will understand the cause and honor my father’s vision.

Strange, how my sister has grown to look like our father too.

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*Excerpt from a novel in progress.
*Submitted for Weekend Writers Retreat

Thursday Tale #17 - Mr. Cain

2010-07-21T19:02:00.000-07:00


photo by xianlove

xianlove

Thursday Tales

Mr. Cain

Angie scooped a mound of oatmeal onto the spoon and fed it to Mr. Cain. He stretched his neck jerkily forward to swallow. The effort caused sweat to bead on his bald pink head. He looked much like a baby bird, flapping and wrenching with each bite.

The black and white picture on his bedside table showed a man with thick dark hair and broad shoulders. Angie wanted to ask Mr. Cain how the man in the photo had come to be painfully contractured and bedridden requiring frequent diaper changes. But she could think of no tactful way to do this. Instead, she asked, “This you?”

He glanced over at the table as he accepted the next spoonful. His entire body shuddered when he swallowed. His voice cracked a little when he spoke. “Yes. That picture was taken about forty years ago. In those days somebody like you wouldn’t have been allowed in my house, let alone be my nurse. I might have let you be my maid.”

To this, Angie said nothing. She looked over at the picture again. Next to the photo was a woven basket filled with gold foil wrapped chocolates. A pink stock card note written in perfect calligraphy balanced on the stack of chocolates read, Thank You for Taking Care of Our Father.

Corbin, Angie’s clinical rotation partner cleared his throat. He’d been standing near the door, but was now behind her. He leaned over and whispered into her ear. “You want me to take over?”

Angie shook her head and proffered another spoonful to Mr. Cain. After he swallowed, he cleared his throat and asked, “Do you think that black people and white people can eat from the same plate and use the same spoon?”

Angie glanced back at Corbin. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Why not?” She thought of how she and Corbin had shared his coffee that same morning on the drive over to the hospital. She’d spilled her own, and knowing she’d be cranky without the morning jolt, he insisted she drink some of his. They took turns sipping until it was gone. He even let her have the last swallow. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with that.”

Mr. Cain smiled. So many teeth were missing. Angie couldn’t help but look over at the picture again, comparing the man now to the picture of himself then. He’d been handsome in those days with all of his teeth and long straight arms and legs.

“I agree,” he said. “Nothing wrong with that.” He accepted the next spoonful and the jerking began again. Instead of swallowing, this time, Mr. Cain spat the glob into her face.

Stunned and disgusted she slipped backward off the stool and onto the floor. Mr. Cain’s voice echoed around her, went right through her. And then, Corbin’s voice. “Shame on you! An old man like you, in your position.”

But Mr. Cain laughed even more.

Corbin cursed under his breath, in much the same way as he did when driving during morning rush hour traffic and someone had cut him off. Angie couldn’t decipher exactly what he’d said, but she knew that it wasn’t nice. He squatted down in front of her. Blue eyes partially obscured by flaming orange curls scanned her. “You okay?”

“I guess.”

He used his bare hand to push the glob from her cheek. “Come on,” he said offering his other hand. “Let’s go clean up."

*Based in part on a true story.