Cried on My Own

I said a few
silly jokes,
people laughed at me

I shared
my pain,
people judged me

I tried to focus
on my happiness,
but I failed terribly

I learned to
write poetry
and cried on my own

Write My Name

O Baghdad, write down my name
on a list of young dead civilians
being alive doesn’t always mean
everything is alright with me

I talk with tears falling on my heart
I listen with tears falling on my face
I see with tears falling on my spirit
my life has been worse than it seems

my shadow loses me whenever I want
to walk to the cemetery, only because
I have missed my friends who are no
longer around me; nor longer in this world

O Montreal, forgive me for my weakness
I am just tired of being strong for too long
write my name on the waiting list of death
So, I can sleep with my open wounds

Sensitive

The clouds are coming back
With a seasonal race between
the holy rain and my salty tears
creating a bridge to chase me away
only because I have been sensitive

I am all alone under the drops of rain
singing my misery to a broken tree
since we are broken, waiting on death
people say that I should more open
friends are just actors in my journey

I’m thirty years and still cannot stop crying
thirty years filled with thorns of sorrows
thirty years filled with worse decisions
thirty years filled with bleeding wounds
thirty years filled with pieces of broken dreams

I walk behind the mirror hiding my feelings
I blindfold my sights from my sad emotions
if love comes softly, why do I walk to the

cemetery, attending my life funeral by myself
just because I am sensitive and lost

One Rusty Immigrant

It’s amazing how people act nowadays
they talk, eat, and laugh as if they are drunk,
they judge from listening to silly jokes

I hurt you and you did not say a single word
then you hurt me deep in my veins and heart
I cry a river of sorrows, or a cloud on a miserable day

Your smile is my weakness, help me to smile
I’m one rusty immigrant, living and dying every day
I smile, and my wounds open up deeply

I have no hate because my country hates me
I have no black spots in my heart toward anyone
only because I am dead from the moment I have

my Canadian citizenship, since then people are
wonderful with me, they ignore my thirst,
they ignore my hunger, and if I die, they ignore me

Yes, my problem is I love to shine bright under
the clouds of autumn, I also adore blooming as peace
above by the moon and stars for all the kissing couples

Here I am, alone drunk as hell from today’s society
feeling numb to continue walking towards my journey,
I wish to sleep and never wake up again

Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, and Roofs of Dreams. He lives in Montreal, Canada.

A Child’s Birthday

Eat some cake,

Play with toys

Have some fun

Don’t be glum

Everyone smiles

Because you beguile

We send our love

And prayers from above

That life will bring

Happiness and joy

And it started right now

As you play with your toys!

Tupas and his family made their new life in Cagayan d’Oro, and changed their name to Constantino. Many locals had married with Spaniards or sought to ingratiate themselves with their masters and adopted Spanish names.

      Within a year of the move Tupas’ wife was expecting their second child. Their son, Oliver, was sixteen years old. 

      Maria was a born organizer. She and her maid prepared everything in the home for the birth. She took to her bed before the baby was due. She was very large, and very weak. Finally the morning came.

      “I think it will be today, sir. It’s going to be a big baby.” The old village midwife was bustling around preparing water, sheets, towels, etc. 

      “I believe she will give birth soon, sir. Your wife is terribly weak. She can’t stand much more.”

      The Rajah nodded. He’d watched her grow weaker over the last few days. He’d insisted she stay in her bed a while ago, but even with rest she wasn’t improving. There was a scream from the bed. The midwife rushed to her.

      “Come on dear, move now, you’re dilated. Breathe and push, it’ll come now.”

      The shouts and low groans continued for a while, Maria’s face grew waxy. The sweat dripped from her cheeks, dampening the clothes and bed sheets. And then the baby came. A final groan heralded the slow, but smooth, delivery. The midwife took the child and cut the cord. She held it up to clear the airways and start the breathing, sighing with relief when the first gasp for air and quiet cry came from the baby girl. Her happiness was short-lived. Tupas stood by the bed holding his wife’s hand. He called urgently to the nurse.

      “Come quickly, Something’s wrong, look.” Maria was semi-conscious now, but her belly started moving. Undulating and rippling as if there was still something inside. Maria woke and looked down. She shrieked again and clutched her husband’s hand. 

      “I’ve seen nothing like this before. Let me examine her.” The nurse inserted two fingers into Maria. It was the nurses turn to shout, and her piercing shriek was ten times as strong as Maria’s now pitiful wails. She snatched her hand away. The tip of her middle finger was hanging off, bleeding.

      “It bit me. There’s something else in there, look at my finger. God save us, whatever is it? Fetch the priest, quickly.” The serving girl hurried out of the room.

      Tupas stared at the damaged finger, open mouthed.

      His spouse was fading away in front of him. Her grip on his hand loosened, but she found the spirit for one last blood-curdling scream as her cervix widened, and the thing emerged. The nurse screamed again, not at her bloody finger, but at the slimy red creature that slithered from between Marias shaking legs. 

      The bald head looked almost human, but the red eyes and the open mouth, with rows of serrated teeth, was a macabre sight. Slime and blood streaked across the red scaly skin which now wriggled out of the now unconscious woman. The thing had withered hands, like small talons emanating from its rounded shoulder. Below the neck the human skin gave way to a lizard-like covering. The narrowing body of the beast followed the head until it was out, lying coiled up between the woman’s legs. Everyone was shocked by the apparition before them. 

      A quiet mewing came from the young baby girl in a cot by the bed. It caught the attention of the monster. Before anyone could intervene, it slid over to the cot, and without hesitation sank its pointed teeth into the new born flesh of its twin. As if carving off a slice of turkey, the beast tore off half a shoulder; the arm came with it. What was left of the baby cried no more.

      Oliver, Tupas sixteen-year-old son, rushed across the room. He’d just come home and heard screaming coming from the bedroom. He couldn’t take in the bloody scene before him. He saw his mother laying open-eyed and lifeless on the bed and ran to her.

      The monster mistook this for an attack and lunged at the boy. Olivers reactions were quick. There was a surgical scalpel lying in the tray. In one swift move he embedded it in the fiend’s throat. It spluttered; blood was running from its mouth. Oliver fell onto the beast with rage. He took out the short blade and stabbed again and again until beasts neck was in tatters. Then he lay back crying on the body of his dead mother.

More about Arthur Crandon and the rest of the book here.

a trip to Fort Lauderdale and points south  

it is hard to travel on employee passes this time of year…  because of spring break travel, the flights are all full…  especially from Minnesota to places in Florida…  but about two weeks ago, we saw a cruise deal that was just too good to pass up…  so on Friday, March 23, 2012, the day before Mary’s birthday, we set out for Fort Lauderdale…  the flight was pretty full, but we managed to get on the first flight we tried…  I did not expect to get on that flight, so had about fifteen pages of back up plans in my suitcase pocket…  but, we found ourselves in FLL shortly after noon…  we had not booked a hotel because our plans were so sketchy, so, in the airport, we went to work on Mary’s new little computer, looking for a hotel…   

well, Miami was full and what little hotel space they had was three or four times what we could afford…  and the only things we could find in the FLL area were out of town on the highway someplace for $150 on up…  then I ran across a small ad for a hotel in Deerfield Beach, just to the north of Fort Lauderdale…  I tried to find a web site for he hotel to see if they had any kind of shuttle service to FLL…  while they did not have a web site, I did find a yellow pages listing for the hotel with a phone number, so I called them…  I got ahold of a guy who said he had lots of rooms for $98…  I asked if he could pick us up at the airport…  he said that he could not pick us up just then because his car was in the shop…  when I explained our situation, he said that his car would probably be out of the shop on Sunday and he could give us a ride to Port Everglades to catch the ship…  I said that I would see what arrangements we could make to get there and if that seemed to work I would call him back…   a very nice old guy with snow white hair and a white mustache accented by his Florida tan and a blue captain’s hat…

  at the information desk told us the options for getting to Deerfield beach which included a taxi for a bout $60, a door to door shuttle for $36 or the train which was four dollars each…  (a rental car would have been about $80—but, since I have gotten older, I prefer not to drive in strange areas, if I can possibly avoid it—plus, that was not the cheapest option anyway)  so we found the shuttle bus that went to the train station…  and while the bus was stuck in traffic I again called the guy at the hotel…  I said it was “me again” which he found hilarious and so we were laughing and joking and getting along famously…  I told him that we were on our way to the train station…  he said that he would have a room for us and that when we got to the train station we would want to take a cab because the hotel was about three miles from the train station…   

the train was great, clean, fast and efficient…  and we got to Deerfield Beach with no problems…  I went into a hotel next to the train station and asked if they had heard about the hotel, which I named, that we were going to…  she said that she did not know that hotel specifically but there were lots of quaint boutique hotels by the beach…  and many of them were nice…  so we called a cab…  well, after a half hour, the cab had not showed up, so I went out to the main street and flagged one down…  it cost $12 to get to the hotel… 

the hotel was small and pink stucco with beautiful tropical plantings all around…  it had a small but nice and clean pool and the owner and I greeted each other like long lost buddies…  the hotel was a bit run down…  well, more than a bit, but the bed was comfortable and the owner and his partner were so friendly and welcoming that we were glad we found the place…  the hotel was only a block from Deerfield Beach, one of those huge and beautiful beaches on that part of the Florida coast…  and while the beach was busy, it was not as crowded as Miami or Fort Lauderdale and there were nice shady places for us to sit and watch the crowd…  families, children, teens, spring breaking college kids, retired Floridians, and Midwestern tourists like us, were enjoying the sun, the mid 80s temps and the cool breeze off the ocean…  we sat in the shade and sketched and read which is what we usually do at the beach…  we waded in the ocean…  had lunch and later dinner at some of the nice and inexpensive restaurants in the area and had a lovely time there from Friday evening to Sunday morning…  each morning, the owners partner, a very muscular and tattooed but friendly young man, made us homemade muffins which he brought to us on a tray with tea Saturday, coffee Sunday…  I think just because we were on such good terms with he and the owner…   

well, on Sunday morning, the owner said that they had turned away many people looking for rooms Friday evening because they were full…  it sounded to me like a sort of novel experience for this poor old hotel to actually be full…  and he was sorry to tell us that his car was still not fixed…  so we called a cab to go to the train station…  but the cabbie offered to take us all the way to Port Everglades for $40 and, considering how few and far between the trains were and the $20 that it would cost to take a cab from the airport to the terminal…  this seemed like a great deal…  the cabbie turned out to be a serious and extreme political liberal and he shared his political views at length during the cab ride…  we agreed with most everything he said and I think that in Florida, he was more used to his fares to the cruise terminal being Bush Republicans…  but it was a love fest all the way…  for us…   

since we had left time for the train, shuttle and taxi, we were in Port Everglades several hours early so, we had the cab drop us at a shopping area just outside the port…  we went to a grocery store and bought some soda to bring on the ship, then found a coffee place were we could sit at shaded tables on the sidewalk and read, sketch and people watch…  everybody told us that we should take a cab to the ship as the port area is very large and spread out accommodating eight or more cruise ships at one time…  but I convinced Mary that we could walk it and we set out in the blazing sun…  after we entered the port area, except for one guy speaking German on his cell phone who came striding past us with his backpack, we did not see any other walkers…  and indeed, there was not even sidewalk for part of the way so we were walking on abandoned railroad tracks for about a quarter of a mile…  the port was huge and not set up at all for walkers but we eventually found our ship… 

we stopped at one point to ask a security guard who was directing people into a different ship how we got to our ship and she pointed us exactly the wrong way…  well, I thought she was wrong, and so got a second opinion from somebody who actually knew how to get where we wanted to go…  so, as I always say, when traveling, it is really hard to get good information…    after about a three mile hike in the hot sun, we arrived at the ship a bit sweaty but none the worse for our walk and we may well be the only Americans who have ever walked to a cruise ship berth in Port Everglades from outside the port…  lol   

the cruise was very nice…  the ship held about 2000 passengers and we spent a lot of time on the Promenade deck, under the lifeboats, enjoying the lovely ocean breeze and the splash of the little waves against the sides of the ship…  I got two drawings finished as well as a number of sketches of people…  and a third drawing started which I will finish when I get a chance…   

the ports were Grand Turk, a small beach island…  beautiful sand, warm water and palm trees…  San Juan, Puerto Rico…  where we walked around looking in the shops and stores and spent some time sitting in a park enjoying the ambience…  and the island of Sint Maartin…  where we walked around two shopping districts…  the first was a long street just back from the beach which is full of jewelry stores where apparently many cruise ship passengers buy all kinds of fancy jewelry and then a few blocks further back into the town the local shopping area which was mostly advertising “urban wear” and was much poorer and more run down…   

we stopped in a kind of pathetic little casino to use the restroom and then went back to the beach where we sat in the shade of one of the very nice rustic tourist bars and had a drink…  I almost never drink alcohol but we decided to get a margarita and share it…  so we ordered that and paid the $6…  the barman said that he had some “extra” so he gave us two for the price of one…  and I must say, the cold, icy drink went very well there as we sat and watched the beachgoers and other tourists in that gorgeous tropical setting…  we had a nice visit with the barman who told us about his years living in the USA but he was born in the islands and had come back home…    after Sint Maartin, we had another beach day at Half Moon Cay which is a very small beach island in the Bahamas that the cruise line leases…  from the shade of palm trees, we enjoyed the beautiful beach… 

we swam in the ocean…  the water was turquoise and absolutely clear…  then we walked around the island…    we saw more sea life than usual on this cruise…  one day, we saw lots of dolphins… at one point, about eight at once were jumping through the ship’s bow wave…  we also saw beautiful sea birds going after the multitudes of flying fish chased up by the ship…  and on one occasion we saw a small group of humpback whales…   we saw one dive with his/her massive flukes coming out of the water maybe a half mile out from the ship and then one jumped all the way out of the water and made a huge splash… so, that was very cool to see…   Sunday morning we were back in FLL… 

we knew the flights were very tight, so basically were listed for anything that had any seats at all…  we wound up getting on a flight to Detroit…  and though all the seats from DTW to MSP were full, we managed to make a connection through Grand Rapids, Michigan, so after four hours in the Grand Rapids airport, we got on a little 50 seat CRJ regional jet to Minneapolis…  flew over Lake Michigan and then the lights of Central Wisconsin…  it made kind of a long day of travel, but it all worked out and now we are back to our unusually early spring in Minnesota with trees already beginning to leaf and green grass…  both a bit earlier than usual…     

Irina

by Denis Emorine

Translated from the French by Phillip John Usher

He was fifty-six.  For a little over a year the attacks had become less frequent.  In the bedroom mirror he saw a puffy face with thickened traits.  Jean had never found himself handsome but, recently, he had been avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He sighed, turned around. The writer, as Jean called himself, looked down at his watch: she would be here soon. The young woman had come up to him yesterday, after the conference, and said she was a journalist. She wrote for some review whose name he didn’t know. What was her name again? Irina… Curious, he thought, a Russian first name and yet she spoke with an Italian accent.  The writer, who loved things exotic, was delighted by this unexpected contradiction.  Irina had wanted to continue the interview in a more private setting. “My hotel room, is it really suitable for me to meet a young woman there who could be my daughter?” thought the writer smugly, proud of himself.  Right away, he had made his advances with a disconcerting amount of self-control.  And beautiful Irina hasn’t tried to push him away: “What will be will be” she replied, her eyes lighted by a will for challenge.
Jean had seen her walk away, unsettlingly striking in her suit of royal blue. Irina waved a small wave before disappearing. “This evening, she would be his, that was sure.”
Back at his hotel, a message was waiting waiting for him from the mysterious journalist which left no doubt as to her intentions. The writer was gloated on his luck.  Decidedly, literature could lead to anything or rather… to anyone, he corrected, happy with his stroke of wit.
Jean thought about his wife who had stayed in Paris and he quickly realized -not displeased- that he was going to cheat on her for the first time. For sure, there had been plenty of opportunities but, in thirty years of marriage, the writer had only committed adultery in his imagination. So, why then take this opportunity at a conference in Lisbon on “Culture : Europe’s (heavy) conscience”? He didn’t know. Their meeting certainly had spice to it.  Obviously, literature was only a pretext: the unknown woman was no more a journalist than he was an archbishop; she had deliberately chosen to seduce him. It was not an unpleasant thing.
He flicked through Pavel Armoria’s “Trajectories”, one of the books he’d taken with him: “The room was in darkness. At present, the old man had nothing to wait for. He opened his eyes… Rain covered the town.” This sentence made him somewhat melancholy. The coincidence struck him: it had been raining over Lisbon since he arrived. What did that matter?  He was going to roll in the hay with this belle inconnue! No call for the blues, huh? “It’s the first time”, he thought again. “Another good reason to make the most of it, at your age!” added an interior voice.
She would soon be here now. Jean imagined Irina, slowly undressing in front of him, revealing… All of a sudden, his heart was knotted with pain: quickly, my medication, quickly! Had he at least brought it with him? Bent in two, panting, he rummaged in his suitcase… Not there! Where had his wife put them? … Yes, he remembered now, his pills were in his suit, on the bed! While he dragged himself towards the crumpled clothes, someone knocked at the door. He didn’t open. Irina was in front of him. She looked at him with an indescribable expression. “Is this what you’re looking for, oh love of my life?” she laughed.  Jean looked up.  His medication! How had she been able to… She must have taken it from his pocket while they’d been speaking.  The writer winced with pain, it was a serious attack. Irina was a couple of steps away, her poise a challenge. She took off her long blue dress, she was naked. “Come get them if you want them, my love”, she murmured, “but you’ll have to tackle me and my body. Be careful, the doctor’s told you to avoid strong emotions”. Jean could no longer offer any reply.  The pain was increasing, his breath was short. “One last time…” he mumbled. All of a sudden, he had the impression his wife was leaning over him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Jean felt a kind of well-being wash over him. He reached out his arms in her direction, tried once more to stand up before crashing down heavily to the floor.

Denis Emorine

Irina

Il avait cinquante-six ans. Heureusement, depuis un peu plus d’un an les crises s’étaient estompées. Le miroir de la chambre  lui renvoya un visage bouffi, aux traits épais. Jean ne s’était jamais trouvé vraiment beau mais, ces derniers temps, il évitait de se regarder dans la glace. Il soupira puis se détourna. L’écrivain consulta sa montre : elle ne devrait plus tarder maintenant. La jeune femme l’avait accosté hier, après le congrès, en précisant qu’elle était journaliste. Elle écrivait dans une revue dont le nom lui était inconnu. Comment s’appelait-elle, déjà ? Irina … Curieux, pensa-t-il, un prénom russe alors qu’elle parle français avec un accent italien ! Cette anomalie ravissait l’écrivain, grand amateur d’exotisme. Irina avait manifesté le désir de poursuivre l’entretien dans un endroit plus intime. « Ma chambre d’hôtel, est-ce bien convenable pour une jeune femme qui pourrait être ma fille ? » avait rétorqué l’écrivain avec fatuité. Aussitôt, il lui avait fait des avances avec un aplomb déconcertant. La belle Irina ne s’était pas dérobée : « Soit. Advienne que pourra » avait-elle répondu, une lueur de défi dans les yeux.

Jean l’avait regardée s’éloigner, si troublante dans ce tailleur bleu roi. Irina lui fit un petit signe de la main avant de disparaître.  Ce soir, elle lui appartiendrait, c’était sûr.  A son hôtel l’attendait un message de la mystérieuse journaliste qui ne laissait aucun doute sur ses intentions. L’écrivain jubilait. Décidément la littérature menait à tout ou plutôt… à toutes ! rectifia-t-il, heureux de ce trait d’esprit.

            Jean pensa à son épouse restée seule à Paris et brusquement il réalisa -non sans déplaisir- qu’il allait la tromper pour la première fois. Certes, les occasions n’avaient pas manqué ; pourtant, en trente ans de mariage, l’écrivain n’avait commis l’adultère qu’en imagination. Alors, pourquoi à la faveur de ce congrès à Lisbonne sur « La culture : (mauvaise) conscience de l’Europe » ? Il n’aurait su le dire. Cette rencontre ne manquait pas de piquant. Evidemment, la littérature n’était qu’un prétexte : l’inconnue n’était pas plus journaliste que lui archevêque ; elle avait délibérément choisi de le séduire. Ce n’était pas désagréable. 

Distraitement, l’écrivain feuilleta « Trajectoires » de Pavel Armoria, un des livres qu’il avait emportés : «La pièce était dans la pénombre. A présent, le vieil homme n’attendait plus rien. Il rouvrit les yeux …. La pluie recouvrait la ville. » Cette phrase lui causa une certaine mélancolie. La coïncidence le frappa : c’était vrai, il pleuvait sur Lisbonne depuis son arrivée. Aucune importance ! Il allait s’envoyer en l’air avec une belle inconnue ! Pas de quoi succomber au spleen, non ? « C’est la première fois » pensa-t-il encore. « Raison de plus pour en profiter, à ton âge ! » ajouta une autre voix intérieure.

            Elle n’allait plus tarder à présent. Jean imaginait Irina, se déshabillant devant lui avec lenteur, dévoilant… Soudain la douleur vrilla son cœur : les médicaments, vite, ses médicaments ! Est-ce qu’il les avait emportés, au moins ? Cassé en deux, haletant, il fouilla dans sa valise…Rien ! Où sa femme avait-elle bien pu ? … Oui, il s’en souvenait à présent, les pilules étaient dans son costume, sur le lit ! L’écrivain se traînait vers le vêtement froissé lorsqu’on frappa à la porte. Il ne répondit pas. Irina était devant lui. Elle le regardait avec une expression indéfinissable. « C’est ça que tu cherches, amour de ma vie ? » s’exclama-t-elle en riant. Jean releva la tête. Ses médicaments ! Comment avait-elle pu ? Elle les avait certainement pris dans sa poche, lors de leur conversation. L’écrivain grimaçait de douleur, la crise était sérieuse. Irina se tenait à quelques pas de lui dans une attitude de défi. Elle ôta sa longue robe bleue. Elle  était nue. « Viens les chercher, mon amour, murmura-t-elle, mais il faudra me passer sur le corps. Fais très attention, le médecin t’a interdit toute émotion. » Jean n’était plus en état de répondre. La douleur augmentait, le souffle lui manquait. « Une dernière fois… » balbutia-t-il. Soudain, il eut l’impression que sa femme se penchait sur lui et posait les mains sur ses épaules. Jean ressentit une sorte de bien-être. Il  tendit les bras dans sa direction, essaya de se relever avant de s’écrouler lourdement sur le sol.