Paul Tristram is a Welsh ‘Street’ Writer who has poems, short stories & flash fiction published in hundreds of different publications all around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
His novel “Crazy Like Emotion”, short story collection “Kicking Back Drunk ‘Round The Candletree Graves” and full-length poetry collection “The Dark Side Of British Poetry: Book 1 of Urban, Cinematic, Degeneration” are available from Close To The Bone Publishing.
Faizullayeva Gulasal was born on January 28, 2009 in Gijduvan district, Bukhara region.The author of “My father’s dream” and “My mother’s paradise”.In addition, he made many achievements in chemistry and biology. English language, literature, mother tongue are among his favorite subjects. Participated in the “Festival of Book Lovers” – “Festival of Literature” and won a 3-day trip to Tashkent. There are 6 people in their family. His father died. She is a very talented, smart and beautiful girl. She has many plans, dreams, and goals for the future, so Gulasal is studying biology and chemistry and making every effort to achieve them. He wants to become a good doctor in the future and send his mother to Hajj. Her future dreams are to take IELTS, win student of the year, Zulfiya award and open a course and teach students.
the endless desires of a generation that never got the chance to make those desires come true
—————————————————–
games on the radio
some soft music
as we all wait
to die
listening to an
old guy talk
about listening
to baseball games
on the radio back
in the fifties
he pauses
thinks of something
and then starts
about politics
the war has taken
something out of
us all
there is no rush
we’re all going to
be in the ground
soon enough
——————————————————————
election day
i marvel at people who
are proud to be stupid
who picked themselves
up by those proverbial
bootstraps yet still don’t
understand how the game
is played
and here come the outsiders
the grifters that know there
is always some dumb fuck
to make tons of money off of
i sit back and watch
and just laugh
my father was one of those
dumb asses
he always thought he was
smarter than anyone else
in the room
i stole from him much
of my life
money, baseball cards,
whatever i knew that dumb
fuck wouldn’t notice was gone
when i heard the stories that
his second wife drained the
pension and let him die
penniless in the VA
i just shook my head and knew
he never learned his lesson
apparently, no one ever does
———————————————-
haven’t found a sheep yet
thumbing
through the
pages of a
magazine
hoping to
find a
beautiful
face to
lose my
imagination
ini don’t think this old farm magazine is going to do the trick
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been published in many places over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
I crouched behind the tree and Sewa did the same. My left hand pushed the shrubs aside to get a clearer view while my right hand gripped the sword tighter.
“He should be around here,” Abiola panted, his eyes taking a quick sweep around the forest, “he’s with his sister. They both can’t move so fast.”
I glanced at Sewa. Tears doused her worrisome eyes. I placed a finger on my lips, and she nodded meekly.
“Can’t we just leave them? We should go get some other people.” Wande’s voice was laden with frustration.
“Oh!” Abiola exclaimed in mock realisation. “We should leave them? So who do we hand over to the slave raiders? Your family? If we can’t produce slaves, we’re going to be enslaved when next those maniacs raid? Isn’t it better we send these children to the slave raiders? There’s no one to help them. In fact, we’re only propelling a family reunion.”
I shuddered. A tear rolled down my bony cheek. Our parents were gone, and now, they wanted us gone as well? What a pathetic world we lived in!
“Let’s search thoroughly.” Abiola pulled out his sword, and Wande followed the same suit.
With each step they took, with each slash of their swords that cut the undergrowth to clear the way, they close in us. Sewa shut her eyes. Prayers rambled silently between her lips. My upper teeth jammed the lower as I raised my sword from the ground.
Seconds trickled past. The right time approached, and I lurched. A swing of my sword caught Abiola in surprise, running past his upper arm, leaving a short but deep mark. He yelled in pain. I rolled on the floor just in time to dodge Wande’s blow, and I was smart enough to let my sword strike his leg. I sprang up to my feet to face the two men whose eyes burn with rage.
“Good as his father,” Abiola sniffled.
“Don’t you dare mention his name!” I screamed.
My belly shimmered with rage. I charged forward. Abiola dodged my strike, baiting me. Wande struck my shoulder with his sword. I fell backwards and pause. A second to gather my thoughts, to navigate the surroundings with my teary eyes.
Wande stepped forward, pointing his sword straight at my chest. I waited as seconds gushed past until his sword was a foot from me. I swirled and allowed his run past before my sword accompanied his neck, stamping the back of his neck with a deep cut. A deafening thud announced Wande’s fall. Abiola charged at me, pouring out all his rage through an earsplitting roar. I faced him. Clangs and sparks drowned the air. I was a good fighter, but Abiola possessed more experience. When he noticed I was gaining an upper hand, he tricks me with his sword and kicked me hard in the groin. I fell helplessly on the hard floor. I didn’t know if my yell was as a result of the indescribable pain or the disapproval of such trickery. Abiola sniggered, satisfaction scrawled all over his protruded cheeks.
“Where’s your sister?” he asked.
My heart skipped a beat, and my eyes darted to Sewa, then, back to Abiola. He was smart enough to follow my gaze. His marijuana-reddened eyes found Sewa crouched behind the shrubs. He snickered, and made for her. I held his leg. He exhaled in frustration and he looked back with a humph. I was awaiting this.
I poured a handful of sand into his eyes. He grunted as he tried to make his eyes remember their duties. I was no time waster. I pounced on him, dealt him some heavy blows in the face before picking up my sword and thrusting it into his lap. He cried obscenities. I pulled out my sword and beckoned at Sewa. She runs to me, crying. Tears rolled down my cheeks now. What did we do to deserve this?
I gritted my teeth. Thinking was arduous righ now. Wande was struggling to sit upright and regularise his breathing as blood spurted out of his neck. Abiola was sprawled helplessly on the floor, his chest rising and falling jaggedly. I remembered my father’s favourite saying: “overcome evil only with good.” I grabbed Sewa’s hand and I ran farther into the forest. Going back home now was a death sentence. Deeper and deeper into the forest, we must go.
#
Sunset was the best time to be in my house. The clangs of plates in the kitchen backyard announced the approach of gbegiriand ewedu soup for dinner. The mortar and the pestle bickered as my father and I pounded yams to make iyan. I was grateful for the kind of family God had inserted me into.
My father, Akinola, was a foremost blacksmith in my village. Everyone sought his services. He had a large farm too. He was rich—richer than the Baale. Despite his affluence, my father was so humble that I wondered if he even knew how much money he had. But he did know.
Struggling widows and orphans enjoyed help from his largesse. He loaned people money with no interest, unlike greedy Samu at the riverside. He was the Baale’s favourite because he put so much in the village’s projects as if he would reap profits.
Not only was my father beneficent to outsiders, but his own family also enjoyed him. My father’s two younger brothers, as well as their wives and kids, regularly came to my father for financial aid. Last week, my father doled a huge sum of money to my uncle, Wande to boost his palmwine business.
My mother wasn’t as popular as my father. She was a weaver, and a fair share of the village women sought her services. Sewa learnt from her while I learnt blacksmithing from my father. It was my lifelong dream to be a successful blacksmith like my father, known beyond the mountains that encircled my village. I also wished to be a skilled swordsman like my father. He was the one of the best swordsmen the village could boast of, always in the front line whenever the village resisted attacks from invaders and slave raiders. I couldn’t wait to inherit the ancestral sword hanging from roof of my father’s roof in my mud house. He had promised to give it to me when the time is right. But the right time seemed to be very far away…
“Tiny arms,” Sewa taunted from the fireplace.
I wiped my sweat and smiled, trying as much as I could to hide fatigue. “Those tiny arms are yours, sister. You can’t even fan the fire properly.”
My mother laughed. I knew she would. She always supported me in this little family feud.
“Well, you can see the fire blazes with more energy than you pound the yams. Even the yams cringe at your laziness,” Sewa pouted.
“Your lips are just as light as the fan you’re holding, always going back and forth without rest.”
“Don’t your dare talk to my princess like that!” Mock anger clouded my father’s face.
“Tell her to know her place and stop talking to my king like that,” my mother came to my rescue.
“King?” Sewa snorted. “He can’t even swing a sword properly!”
“What!” I exclaimed. “I’m already at the sixth level of Ijakadi swordsmanship. Just a level to go and I’ll be at Father’s level.”
Stung, Sewa turned to my father for confirmation. My father shrugged, and I and my mother doubled up in feats of laughter, basking in the euphoria of my victory.
“Yemi,” my father called, “I and I will go to the riverside tomorrow. I’ll teach I the last level.”
I jumped up in celebration and ran around. A fat smile flashed rainbows across my face. “See?” I jeered, “you can’t even make okra soup, and here you are taunting me.”
Sewa dashed a betrayed look at my mother.
“Don’t worry,” my mother said, “I’ll teach I how to make okra soup tomorrow.”
“It’s okay. Don’t let the food get cold,” my father called and we all moved inside the house to eat.
#
I woke long before the first crow. The sun rose from its slumber late. I couldn’t wait for my father to teach me the seventh level of Ijakadi swordsmanship. Most of my peers where still at the third or fourth level. But here I was, a genius!
Hardly had the sun risen when the Baale’s messenger came rapping at our door. He spoke in low tones with my father before they both left for the house of the village head. My father never returned home until the sun stood straight in the sky. Fury was scribbled all over his forehead when he entered his room. He merely nodded to my mother’s greetings, charging straight into his room. He brought out his swords and a gun. He isolated himself to a corner of the room, sharpening and oiling his sword, and cleaning his gun and filling it with gunpowder. Cranky songs of warfare burst out of his mouth. My mother eventually asked him for the reason behind his awkwardness.
“The slave raiders that went to Ouidah are coming here too,” my father began, his sharpening stone running over his sword rhythmically. “Their leader met the village head this morning, asking him to provide some of our kinsmen for sales. What do they think we are? Chickens? Or Goats? A mere commodity to be sold?”
My mother heaved. “So what are you doing?”
“Preparing for a battle!” my father raised his sword. I was amazed as it gleamed in the sunlight that trickled in through the window. “We—I specifically, as the head of our family—-told them that we’re humans, and not mere commodities. The leader of those slave raiders humphed and harrumphed on his way back. He vowed to come with more men and raid our village since we’re being unreasonable with him. Hence, every man has been tasked to go to his homestead, sharpen his sword and fill up his guns.”
My mother gasped frightfully. “Shouldn’t we flee?”
My father spurned. “A real man never runs from fight; he waits for the fight to come to him then, he deals with it. We’ll wait for them to bring the fight, and they shall never return home with their heads.”
“But these slave raiders have sophisticated weapons. Have you forgotten how they sacked Owu? Those people are beasts! Wolves in wolves’ clothing!”
My father exhaled sharply. “Woman, please, leave men’s matter to men alone. This battle is the men’s, and we shall see to it.”
My father swiped his sword of the ground, feeding my ears with a shrill exhilarating sound as he marcheded back to his room. My mother slumped on the nearest chair in resignation.
#
The sun hid behind the clouds that day, scared to witness the brutal acts of man. It peeped from the dark clouds that covered the sky. My father left home with his rifle slung across his shoulder and his sword in the tight grasp of his right hand. My mother’s pleas that he shouldn’t go entered his right ear and flew out through the left ear, with none seeping into his brain. With the rest of the clan, he marched to the village head’s house. There, they all laid an ambush for the slave raiders at the entrance of the village. If the spy was right, the slave raiders would attack that day.
My mother was too terrified to take chances. She hid Sewa and I in the mountains. She promised to return for us when the battle between the village men and the slave raiders was over.
Meanwhile, the slave raiders came as expected. However, things took an unexpected turn. When my father charged at the slave raiders, his sword high above his head, he was suddenly knocked down by one of his kinsmen. By the time he regained his senses, he was in chains, kneeling before the village head and the leaders of the slave raiders.
“What? What’s happening here?” my father’s question burst forth like a fiery fire that engulfed dry leaves in harmattan.
The Baale and the leader of the slave raiders exchanged glances. My father’s scanned the faces of those behind them. He could recognise his younger brothers, Abiola and Wande in the midst of the crowd.
“What the hell is going on here?” my father’s lungs almost flew out of him alongside the scream.
Eventually, the Baale did my father the honour of clearing his throat and speaking up. “Well, Akinola,” he called my father, “I see you’re a brave man. I don’t want us to be slaves. However, fighting against these slave raiders who possess so many sophisticated weapons can harm our village. However, since I and some of my friends were willing to sacrifice my lives for the village, I have decided to hand myself over to the slave raiders, as well as my wives and children. As for you, Akinola, my men still can’t find my children. But I promise I will find them and send them very soon. It is better earning money without losing lives than losing both life and money. I’m sure you understand my views. I’m sorry but I must do all I can to protect this village.”
Tears cascaded down my father’s cheeks as he looked behind him and his eyes found men who shared the same views with him bundled up like chickens up for sale at the market. But he went nearly crazed when he saw his wife among the women tied up behind the men. He yelled as he managed to rise to his feet, cutting the rope tied to his legs. He kicked the slave raider nearest to him in the groin before taking down the village head with a spin kick. He was prowling towards the leader of the slave raiders when his head was hit with a cudgel from behind.
“Bastards I took for brothers” my father scoffed as his eyes closed and he sprawled helplessly on the floor with my mother’s screams filling his ears. Before his senses bid him a temporary farewell, the leader of the slave raiders reminded him that the next time he would open his eyes, he would be in a barracoon like hens in coops, awaiting buyers whom he would take as masters.
#
After spending what seemed like eternity in the cave, I finally came out with Sewa. The sun was just climbing up the sky, and the moon was already saying its goodbye.
“Why didn’t Mother come back yesterday? Did something happen?” Sewa asked as she huddled closer to you.
I shook my head negatively, but I knew something must have happened, I couldn’t just lay a finger on it. Anyways, I would get to the village and find out what happened.
I knew something was wrong when I walked into the compound where our extended family lived and I saw Funso, Abiola’s first son, see me and run back into his father’s house. I called him but he never replied. I ignored him and walked into my father’s house. Sewa and I called for my parents. The gentle breeze never brought their responses.
Suddenly, Wande and Abiola burst into the room, wielding their swords.
“Uncle?” I gasped, uncertain of what was happening. “What’s happening? Where’s Father and Mother?”
“They’ve been sold. No worries. You both would join them,” Abiola’s said.
Sewa and I exchanged horror-stricken looks. Wande charged at me. I picked a nearby earthenware pot and smashed it against his head. Sewa ran out of the house and Abiola followed her. I made for Abiola but Wande held me by my neck. As I gasped for breath, my hand fell on the ancestral sword hanging from the ceiling. I gripped it and struck his shoulder. He winced in pain as he let go of me, giving me space to run after Sewa and Abiola.
Abiola had captured Sewa already by the time I got there.
“Drop your sword!” he barked.
I stopped a yard before him. “Please, don’t hurt her.”
I dropped the sword but kicked it midair. Abiola had to let my sister go to dodge it. Funny. He didn’t know the tricks of the sixth level of Ijakadi swordsmanship. I shoved him against a wall, picked up the sword and ran into the forest with Sewa.
#
We trekked in the forest for four days, and my legs became accustomed to restlessness. I pitied Sewa. She had become so lean that I feared her legs would break if she tripped over a stone. Tears were our only consolation. As my legs pushed me forward, I tried to gaze at the brighter side of the sun, hoping not to get blinded. We would surely get a new place to live, a new home, I hoped.
We stopped at a hill when we saw a cloud of smoke rising to the sky in the middle of the forest miles away beneath the hill. This wasn’t be a hunter roasting meat, I thought. The smoke was as thick as a hippo’s neck. Perhaps, a clan lived there. They would probably take Sewa and I in. With the last of my strength, I proceeded towards the source of the smoke.
“Where are we going?” Sewa asks, “do you know the people there? That’s not a village. Or do you think it is?”
I raised my sword comically and wore a big fake grin. “They can do us nothing. I have you, and I have my sword.”
I marched forward and she followed me. As we trudged down the hill into the forest, I discovered a trail. It was probably left by a lot of people who passed here earlier. Though we were scared and apprehensive, we waded closer to the source of the smoke. As we walked closer, I hear exclamations and chants, and it feels like we were walking back to my village. I kept exchanging wary glances with Sewa.
We trekked for almost thirty minutes and the smoke which was dying already seemed closer than ever. I crouched behind a tree with Sewa to observe what was going on.
I saw people, bathed in grime and dirt like ourselves. These forest-people—or what would I call them?—encircled a huge fire. Some men cut metals off their hands with swords and threw it into the fire. Women and children stood behind them, a smile plastered on each of their faces, though some of them were crying. My eyes swooped down on the fire and I saw that they were burning… Human beings!?
Sewa screamed in horror almost at the same time. I looked at her and returned my gaze to the forest-people; they now looked in our direction. Contrarily, when the men spread out, groping their swords, they suddenly appeared familiar. And when a man who seemed to be the leader stepped forward, my knees weakened at the massive familiarity.
“Father!” Sewa cried as she broke into a run. Tears rolled down her cheeks. I joined her.
My father met us halfway. My mother sprinted to us from the midst of the women. We were all locked in a wholesome embrace for minutes, shedding tears of relief.
“How did you find us?” my father finally asked when the embrace breaks loose.
“We weren’t searching for you actually,” I shrug, “we were just looking for a place to stay after we fled from home.”
“You fled?”
“Yes,” Sewa replied, “Uncle Abiola and Uncle Wande came for us. They wanted to capture us and sell to the slave raiders.”
My mother’s eyes rolled incredulously. “How did you escape?”
I dramatically held up my sword, and everyone laughed clumsily.
“You killed them?” my father asked.
I shook my head and my father sighed deeply.
He pointed at the fire. “And those are the idiots that wanted to turn us to commodity. They turned the back of my people against me. But their mistake was that they didn’t give us enough reason to believe we were meant to be in chains. Even while in chains, we revolted! And here we are! Triumphant! Killing them with their own swords!”
My father’s arrogant cackle reverberated in my ears. I flump on in the floor in a mix of delight and relief. A smile spread on my lips—my first smile since the time I last prepared dinner with my family.
“Everyone!” my father called, “we need to leave here now. You know this is the slave raiders’ route. But we can’t go back home. That village is no longer home. We have to go east, find some black soil with green plants near the river and settle there. It shall be our new home.”
We cheered scamtily. Deeper into the forest we marched. Sewa ran to my father and slid her hand in his.
“Daddy.” She asked, “why aren’t we going back to the village?”
“No,” my father shook his head.
“But that has always been our home!” Sewa protested.
“Home is not a place, princess,” my father says, “home is not where you live. It is amongst whom you live. Home is where the heart resides.”
Happy Constitution
Deuteronomy head book.
The appeal of all the people,
Disaster of freedoms
Happy Constitution.
He pledge of peace Harmony,
Light of happiness the fountain.
Of perseverance,
Fortunately the Constitution!
Maftuna Rustamova
Bukhara region
Jondor district
30th school
8-"a" class.
Trevor sat in his fancy new ergonomic computer chair, an early Christmas gift from his parents. The spare, sandy-haired man was seated comfortably in the open-space public assistance office, where he worked as a caseworker, managing welfare cases. He had been so employed for almost a year. This chair, he thought sadly, as high-tech as it was, couldn’t prevent his hands from shaking. Sometimes it was worse than others; just now, his hands quavered furiously. Clearly, this was not a good day.
Into the room strode Bert, a colleague at the agency, just back from lunch, who observed Trevor’s affliction with the usual bemusement. He took off his winter coat, placed his Starbucks cup on his desk, which was next to Trevor’s, turned to the other man and said, “Hey, Tremor, what’s up?”
Trevor instantly became self-conscious and tried to hide his twitching fingers. Bert’s coarse misuse of his name only added tension to an already tense situation.
Bert picked up his coffee, took a sip, smiled winsomely, but said nothing. The genius to his technique of torturing Trevor lay in levying the insults and putdowns only half the time. Always keep him wondering when the other shoe would drop, thought Bert smugly. To that end, Bert unwrapped a stick of gum and slowly placed it on his tongue, watching the other man from the corner of his eye. He chewed rapidly, soon getting the wad of gum limber. Then he began loudly popping it. He smiled with satisfaction as Trevor reacted severely to the chewing and to the sounds.
Trevor, who already suffered the early stages of Parkinson’s Disease, had only recently been diagnosed by his neurologist as also suffering from misophonia, a condition in which the patient exhibits untoward reactions to certain “trigger’ sounds, such as lip smacking, gum popping, dogs barking, clocks ticking, or people chewing with their mouths open. As a result of this condition, Trevor routinely frowned, sighed, or even stared at his nemesis. Which only encouraged Bert all the more. Also accompanying these reactions were increased heart rate, panic, anger, and a strong, almost desperate desire to escape the source of the trigger sounds. Just now, Trevor glared balefully at the other man. Bert smirked.
“What can I do about it, Dr. Patel?” Trevor had asked, when told of the diagnosis. “How do we treat it?”
The physician shrugged indifferently. “There is no treatment,” he told him bluntly. “You can wear sound-deadening headphones or play music or,” he suggested, “ask your co-workers to stop their annoying behavior.”
Trevor had had this condition since he was nine or ten years old—more than twenty years ago—though in those days there was no available diagnosis.
“Trev,” said his father, when the young man was eleven, “pretend that dog’s not there; that’s a boy!”
“Mom and Dad are going to take you to a shrink,” threatened Trevor’s brother, two years older and embarrassed by his sibling’s constant overreactions to ordinary sounds.
The malady was still relatively unknown. Even today, Trevor’s own MD has never even heard of the condition.
Throughout school, Trevor had felt that he wore a cloak of misfortune that no one else seemed to understand. Bert knew none of this; he knew only that Trevor was “different” and “sensitive” and must therefore be punished.
“Want a piece of gum, Tremor?” asked Bert, cracking the Juicy Fruit between his molars. Trevor closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and mentally placed himself somewhere far away. Snap! went Bert’s gum, and Trevor was brought back to the present, nearly sobbing with frustration. He felt a bead of perspiration on his forehead. He had to do something!
Trevor sprang suddenly to his feet and called out, “Ms. Shaefer, could I have a word?”
Norma Schaefer, the office manager, also returning from lunch, frowned unhappily at Trevor but crooked a finger. What was it this time? She thought peevishly. “A quick minute,” she said. He followed her into her private office, dropped into a chair before her desk.
Once they were both seated, Trevor explained his recent diagnosis, described his symptoms, both physical and mental, and, in spite of his abject embarrassment, appealed to her for help. He had previously had to account for his tremor, which was due to Parkinson’s, because some of his welfare clients, as well as his co-workers, had questioned his sobriety and his sanity. Some had even conjectured that he was undergoing withdrawal from alcohol or drugs.
“What do you expect me to do about it?” she asked impatiently. “I mean, I’ve never heard of this condition, and besides, how can I tell employees they can’t chew gum?”
“It’s just the popping,” he stressed, “and chewing with their mouths open; it’s not gum chewing itself. It’s the noise.”
Norma’s mouth formed a straight, unhappy line. “Look, Trevor, we already stopped employees from smoking. Many of them substitute gum for cigarettes, and I think that’s a good thing.” At his disspirited look, she pounced: “Maybe casework isn’t the right job for you…” He looked up sharply. “You just don’t seem very happy here,” she added, with feigned concern. You have little to say to anyone; you’re not even signed up for the secret Santa gift exchange this Christmas.”
Trevor thought back to the office Thanksgiving party, which had been held only the week before. Sitting by himself in the break room, he had witnessed Norma herself eating noisily at the next table.
She sounds like a garbage disposal, he thought wearily, looking dismally at the otherwise elegant woman. “What are you staring at?” she demanded, dropping a Buffalo wing back onto her plate. “Don’t stare at me!” Her loud chewing hadn’t seemed to bother anyone else, he’d noticed.
Trevor blew out a tired breath. Norma spoke again, drawing him back to the present: “Your work is adequate,” she conceded, “but if you can’t get along with the other employees and you aren’t happy here, then maybe you should consider a change.” And she left it at that, stealing an overt glance at her watch. Pushing himself to his feet, Trevor exited the manager’s office, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
Thirty days later, just in time for Christmas, found Trevor, master’s degree and all, sweeping the breezeway that bisected the strip mall where he now worked as a maintenance worker and groundskeeper. The air was cold, the wind brisk, but he didn’t mind. The salary was scarcely adequate, but at long last he had found what he most coveted: peace and quiet. He sighed and smiled a little. Peace. It was so sweet.
Nour Kassem (Woods), Prominent Young Egyptian Painter
I am proud to present in this internationally appreciated magazine the very special, young, prominent Egyptian painter Nour Kassem (Woods).
Nour says about herself: “I am a fast kinetic person, who wants to work, do activities, and most importantly, create.” The common opinion is that an artist must be focused on a specific artistic sector to give the best. This is not always the case and it is not so in the case of Nour who lives to dance, paint, and even golf, drawing from each of these activities creative, joyful and extremely professional energy with which she nourishes these activities. So Nour does not remain seated or standing to paint but wins trophies dancing tango and salsa and winning golf tournaments. Then she returns to painting, often immersed in the nature and beauty of El Gouna, a wonderful lagoon city on the Red Sea founded only a few decades ago by entrepreneurs Naguib and Samih Sawiris, the creator of El-Gouna International Film Festival (Cinema for Humanity) directed by Marianne Khouri, granddaughter of the legendary film director Youssef Chahine.
In fact Nour has her first collective exhibition in 2014 right in EL Gouna at TUBerlin / German University. Theme: By Diversified Gouna Artists. Then her first solo art exhibition was also in El-Gouna in 2015 at the luxurious Ocean View Hotel with the congratulations of Mr. Samih Sawiris. Other big “solos“ of Nour were in 2017 and 2022 at the Nile Art Gallery in Cairo.
Nour lives in Cairo, where she has her studio in Heliopolis, but at the moment Nour, with her mother the beautiful Mrs. Mona Safey, is again in El Gouna to paint, where the dialogues of the films presented at El Gouna International FF still echo. But there is also a cinema debut for Nour! A color version and the other in black and white about the famous director Youssef Chahine will appear in the USA-Italian Art Doc Thriller: “Ancient Taste of Death” directed by the Italian director Antonello Altamura about the Hollywood Golden Age and ancient Egypt, with the Egyptian star Wael El-Ouni. Nour, among her 400 paintings, has a series of paintings inspired by Egyptian superstars like Omar Sherif. Probably Nour’s art will be exhibited along the red carpet walk of the sumptuous palace of El Gouna International Film Festival in 2025. Some SF art galleries have expressed strong interest in Nour, whose painting meets the super lively and colorful style of the city of the magical Golden Gate Bridge.
