Celeste
by
Mehreen Ahmed

The children of the alley made clay dolls. They sat by a rubbish pile and dressed them all. Dolled them up, faceless at first. Then they gave them eyes and nose and curvy mouths. Legs and hands to dance with them at sundown. If this wasn’t enough, they also made tears with Lipids, Lysozyme, Lipocalin, Glucose, and Sodium. Water, made out of H2O. Oxygen to breathe, blood from Iron to carry oxygen to brain; carbohydrates, fats, proteins, and ethanol. Estrogen and so on to trigger pleasures, euphoric. The brain, composed of Cerebrum, Cerebellum, and Brainstem. Skin to cover and protect.

The children were blind. Still, they melded a silken network of chemical medley into this unique creation. Even kindness, generosity, jealousy and cunning—propensities—were inclusions of this concoction. They gave them a name Clay Dolls, who had everything they needed to dance with them—energy, intelligence, sentience. Except, there was one potent component, the children were circumspect—eternity, they reserved only for themselves, which the Clay Dolls found disturbingly lethal. The chemicals they had been tied with were eyewash.

Every dance was long and nuanced; the children took a lot of care to choreograph. In great details they took a butcher’s knife and pierced it through the Dolls’ hearts. They were blind; they didn’t see them die; but they had known it all along; this dancing was thrilling, in which the bodies putrified, not the chemicals. They used the same building blocks to make new dolls in tightly packed chemical knots. In their blindness, the children saw naught, what the Clay Dolls had asked for. They’d never even viewed their own reflections—let alone them—but Clay Dolls had eyes. They saw them—The Makers for who they really were—insensitive, in wanton jouissance.

No matter, the Clay Dolls matured overtime. They developed a foresight, which eluded The Makers. The Dolls thought of a ruse to get even with them. They learned the ropes and progressed. While they danced with The Makers, they’d also begun to tutor themselves in natural herbs, potent in medicinal value. The Makers had taken them for fools—Clay Dolls. Surely, when they tried to butcher them, they realised they couldn’t kill em’ all. Some stood back up while some fell. The Makers comprehended with a sixth sense, but couldn’t do anything preventable.

The Clay Dolls were gradually overpowering them. Knowledge had given them much boost. Still, they continued to dance but far lesser kills, for The Makers to roost. More Clay Dolls survived as their skills exponentially exceeded The Maker’s expectations. However, The Makers found comfort that the ultimate power over the organic world resided in their hands. Only they were eternal, and wise enough to govern these lands. Although, the creepy sixth sense alluded to them that the Clay Dolls were not only dancing in tight compartments under the blue, but had traversed the space as well, who now had the sense of space-time, the gaseous Canopus and the laws of physics.

Why, the Clay Dolls were unstoppable, yet they were fettered? The Makers felt angst and conferred amongst themselves. The Clay Dolls were reaching heights too far in the sky. They needed to be cut down to size. Whoever had the knowledge of immortality would win this war. The Makers found solace that the Clay Dolls would not win because they danced to a mortal tune which they had been attuned to since inception. The Clay Dolls would never know how immortality worked, thereof, The Makers would always dominate.

It rang true, the laws of physics did decree this that in time every organic life would perish. The Makers had made sure that the Clay Dolls were just that—organic, and nothing more. The sixth sense allowed them the light of prediction. However, The Makers had not predicted this. The Clay Dolls persisted. Did they not deduce that immortality was immutable and not bound by any strict parameters? Maybe, The Makers were delusional of galaxies that when they blossomed, they hinged on the laws of physics, alone.

Who made The Makers, any way? The Clay Dolls theorised that The Makers were subjected to the rule of law, too, not all that powerful—astronomical objects galvanised the stars. Where did black holes exist—wholly eating stars and what not? Galaxies could die and another could be born. Also, true to time. Since the big bang, this stretch of the solar system had occurred. It stretched and the stretching continued, theoretically, towards a gravitational collapse—Clay Doll’s collated and observed the true nature of the universe.

The Makers spun out of gasses, far surpassed the lowly masses—immortal creators just their luck, but, no interlocutors by any long shot. Both mute and blind, they made the Clay Dolls in their own image. Albeit, the Clay Dolls were borne out of them but had not turned out eternal, but different—enigmatic and more.

The fate of the Clay Dolls was sealed. Without oxygen, they couldn’t breathe. Without food this variant would be deficient. All designed in blindness, but the same law could be applied to The Makers in reverse—stars, the sun, the rains, the rainbow and all the lovely confection that fell from them. In hindsight, they too died. They too were prone to destruction which the deluded Makers wouldn’t know. The Clay Dolls, figured out the celeste. More lights sparked through their neurons than all the lights sparkled in the milky way.

In this blinding paradox of the sixth sense, The Makers had not marked a proximate magnet—a spiralling blackhole they couldn’t flee; new stars were born, new Dolls were made—locked in a deadly dance—a game without a referee. Much to their delight, this much light the Clay Dolls had perceived. Knowledge that had given them an upper hand that there were more things in heaven or on earth—no one was free from the strict laws of physics. Such choices had not existed. Not to date at least.

Denmark

My grandfather was a first generation Danish American who grew up in a Danish speaking household. But he never taught my father to speak Danish. He wanted to be all American. My mother named me after my Danish great grandmother, Karolina, who died in a tornado. I traveled to Copenhagen and I was struck by all the blonde children in Tivoli Gardens. I stuck out with my dark hair. My mother’s father said we descended from an American Indian scout but it was a myth.

Uruguay

I went to the beach in Punta del Este before I worked as a journalist in Buenos Aires. I took the ferry to Colonia—where Uruguayans sold colorful wool sweaters—to renew my tourist visa every few months. My work papers came through just before I left Argentina.

Mexico

The Israeli soldier I met on the way to Macchu Picchu became my boyfriend. He followed me to New York and we traveled to Mexico City together. We climbed the stone steps of Teotihuacan, pre-Columbia pyramids where men were sacrificed to the gods.

Cayman Islands

We went to the Caribbean for our honeymoon a year after we married. We snorkeled and the fish looked gray in the dark ocean. We read books on the beach and went to bed early like old retirees—worn out by Scud missile attacks during the Gulf War—and we soon separated.

Hong Kong
I had a layover in the Hong Kong airport for twelve hours on my way back from Australia to New York City. I didn’t think I had enough time to tour Hong Kong so I stayed in the airport. I wandered through the posh shops and read a long novel at a café. As a girl, I dug a hole in the backyard with my brother and told my mother, I’m digging to China! My grandfather flew cargo missions over the Hump—the Himalayas—from India to China during World War II. I always wanted big adventure like my grandfather.

Karol Nielsen is the author of the memoirs Black Elephants (Bison Books, 2011) and Walking A&P (Mascot Books, 2018) and the chapbooks This Woman I Thought I’d Be (Finishing Line Press, 2012) and Vietnam Made Me Who I Am (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her first memoir was shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing in nonfiction in 2012. Excerpts were honored as notable essays in The Best American Essays in 2010 and 2005. Her full poetry collection was longlisted for the Terry J. Cox Poetry Award in 2021 and was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry in 2007. One poem was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize in 2021. Her work has appeared in Epiphany, Guernica, Lumina, North Dakota Quarterly, Permafrost, RiverSedge, and elsewhere. She teaches creative nonfiction and memoir writing with New York Writers Workshop.

The Song of Life

Ahmad Al-Khatat

A song you’d be thrilled to hear, 
with eyes sharing their sorrows 
to the nightingale 
a grief’s mouthpiece takes me 
to innumerable nostalgia
We hear the lyrics of the song, 
as clothes become wet from 
sobbing to the morning daylight, 
not moonless nights...



Wings In the Wind

Periodically, I see everything 
all at once 
I know every corner I walk
by myself

I turn my skull before I make a 
rational conclusion, I wrap my finger 
to assemble my achievement
in Montreal and Baghdad.

When my generation was removed,
It erased my innocence, 
It erased my imagination, 
Shatter my days into black as soil

Death has forgotten about 
Wings in the wind, after it demolished 
my written poems to homeless signs 
as if I am playing marbles barefoot.


The Finest Cigarette 

On the first day of the new year, 
 I light the finest cigarette up and 
sip a cup of black coffee by myself, 
then write about hope on the typewriter.

The night born with stars and torn them 
The children of world recall their little pets 
While the children of Iraq & Syria remember
the dates of their siblings' death in the war.

I no longer run after the birds and butterflies
My days are low, like the tears of a dying angel
My life is no longer delightful and brief  
Even love has been eliminated from my universe.

No one seems to care about my flying wings
Everyone is celebrating the night we shattered 
The wooden floor sustained your bitterness tears
This oppression made me an alcoholic and hopeless.

Another cigarette, another bottle of Russian whiskey 
Another great rhythm and blues to listen to alone 
Waiting for the time, and walk missing from the pub
Destiny undresses my flesh and leaves me as rotten skulls.


Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally. He has poems translated into several languages such as Farsi, Chinses, Spanish, Albanian, Romanian. He has published some poetry chapbooks, and a collection of short stories. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2019 and was also nominated for the Pushcart Price 2020.

Love is a waste of time 
It's like a Dynamic 
Love is a waste of time 
It's like a Landmine 
Love is a waste of time 
It's like a Summertime 
Love is a waste of time 
It's like a book lines 
Love is a waste of time 
It's like a Quarantine.

Poetry 

~ Tears ~



How do I say this

As peace roll out of my life

While I wear a garment of pain

To sleep in the bed of sorrow

Having my room spray with depression 

Blocking the sound of melodies in my ear

Left in the hands of the bed sheet

To give me cold after being soak with Nile from the eye



The road to happiness is block with every man foot

No one to consider the cripple rather whip the crush stick out of their hands

The only one that appear on the scene is the one that wet my face

And inspire these broken lines carrying my thoughts far off

In the land where nature controls creature

So I’m lost of sound stanzas 

-Dreams-
© Gabriel T. Saah (Marvelous Inker)

Beautiful heart warming pictures that don’t let you sleep,
Tiny strong willed creatures that won’t allow you speak,
They push you for it, hold you down for it,
But won’t let you quit.
Inexhaustible vehicles with you as the driver,
That make you think of only doing better,
Like a fair mother and good father,
They push you continuously to growth.
Radiant morning sun rays that spark courage and help you forget mere broth.
Silent fires that blaze with intense heat,
 That cleanse your inner and make you neat.
Sonorous lullaby, that pinch your eyes not to shut,
And beautiful babies that need serious attention as you go about.

SHEHZAADA, ABDUL & LINCOLN

In economics classes & management level presentations I have often encountered the term birds-eye view & insect-eye view. Just for academic purposes, these two terms are used to indicate an overall broad overview (bird’s eye view) & a detailed micro level view (insect's eye view). But whenever I heard these terms images came to my mind. 

A bird, may be an eagle soaring high in the sky with all his panache & ridiculing all our master creations at ground level by the sheer size of its visibility. All our skyscrapers appear as mere Lego blocks or Jenga pieces to him. Similarly the insect eye view reminded me of the blur compound vision as found in insects and an insignificant Lilliput like stature. Though both the views are relative to the literal sense and is an illusion of the truth. But Shehzaada & Abdul had actually explained these economics terms to me in Luxor, Egypt.

Since the day I had seen Brendan Fraser kiss Rachel Weiss in a hot air balloon in the movie “The Mummy Returns”, it was in my bucket list. I mean the hot air balloon and Egypt part. 

So when I finally visited Egypt & booked the Hot Air Balloon ride in Luxor, I was thrilled to the core. There was fine sense of accomplishment within me. It’s common to most middle class Indians when one of their childhood dreams come true.
The excitement kept swelling as the burning fire kept swelling the inflated balloon. Most of my fantasies are linked with Hollywood movies, I switched from Mummy to the Disney’s Animation Up as we went up. As we went up the world below started getting smaller and smaller. It was dawn and the sky was pink. The sun was about say good morning. 

Simultaneously as many 15-20 hot air balloons joined us in the air. All of them were vividly colourful and morning sky looked like a beautiful painting. After we finished admiring the lucid sky & vibrant neighbouring balloons it was time to look down.

A hot air balloon can go up to 3000 feet high as per Google. I don’t know how high our balloon was but view below was fascinating. The desert looked sparkling yellow with the sun just rising. The sand dunes and rocky cliffs as if resembled a hidden castle in the desert awaiting for a prince from top. Or maybe it was a dungeon where an evil magician was trying his spells. The green patches of irrigated agricultural lands added to the colour contrast and made it even more vivid. The trees, rocks, huts, houses were mere colourful dots. We could feel the wind on our faces and the fire on the top gave us warmth. 

As the sky kept changing colours, my mobile camera kept clicking pictures good enough to embarrass the Instagram filters. The aura was peace and serenity personified. You could breathe in all the freshness from the morning sky, appreciating the brilliant craftsmanship of nature while the daily hassle and cacophony of the world below appeared miniscule and insignificant. The rocky desert below took me to another childhood illusion one where Aladdin flew on his magic carpet over these sparkling rocky deserts. Truly majestic or may be a bird’s eye view.

Though joy descends gently upon us like morning dew as our balloon descended the golden patch of land slowly started taking the shape of a barren rocky lifeless desert. It was then I saw Shehzaada & his friend. From the birds eye view Shehzaada & his friend resembled two princes galloping on their horses tearing through deserts may be chasing some evil magician out their kingdom holding their swords high in the air. But we descended further the horses turned into small donkeys, and my Don Quixote & Sancho Panza turned into 2 lean kids. Shehzaada was one of them & he had a dry branch in his hand which resembled his sabre from the bird’s eye view. As our balloon finally touched the ground Shehzaada & his friend stopped to greet us.

The desert was barren, lifeless & hot. For miles there was no sign of life. It was seven in the morning and already we could sense the heat. As I saw Shehzaada from the ground level it was not a hard guess that he was far from a prince. As I came closure his lean physique, dry lips, dark sun burnt skin tone and clothes with a number of holes told a thing or two about this tribal lad. Even the donkey was thin and weak. As Shehzaada’s friend approached another balloon adjacent to us Shehzaada approached us.

His meek and small eyes were pleading and his hands were touching his cracked dry lips in a gesture to indicate he wanted food or money. I never asked his name. I just assumed his name would be Shehzaada or a prince from the bird’s eye view. But while I was having the privilege of the insect’s eye view I asked what his donkey was named. 

“Abdul” replied Shehzaada. Abdul stared obstinately at us and indistinct braying clearly signified that he was not much intrigued by our existence. I wanted to ask Shehzaada a lot of things. Where he lived, if he went to school, if he watched cartoons or movies, if he liked burgers, how his parents were, whether he knew of Aladdin? But unfortunately we couldn’t communicate through any common language. I don’t know even the A of Arabic and obviously Shehzaada was ignorant of English.

Most of our co-tourists were busy taking selfies so I decided to chat a little with Shehzaada. Though my efforts were futile verbally but his bright eyes told a thing or two. Unlike me, a hot air balloon was no fantasy for him. He sees it daily. It’s rather boring for him. Probably he hates most tourists too as they are reluctant to pay him a tip. Even Abdul, his companion, seemed to hate us as for the balloon he had to travel 30kms in the morning from their village. His angry stares and frequent braying justified his stance. But does Shehzaada fantasize of aeroplanes or pizzas? Probably. When I was his age I had seen “The Mummy Returns” and the hot air balloon fantasy stayed with me. But in Shehzaada’s eyes I could see his dreams were the basic amenities of life. Good food, a warm bed, basic education maybe. The dry white puss around his pale lips signified he was clearly malnourished. Poverty is just a dot from the bird’s eye view.

    

As Shehzaada extended his right palm towards me, I introduced Lincoln to him. Yes, Abraham Lincoln, on a five dollar bill. He took it and smiled gleefully. Probably he smiled at Lincoln. Shehzaada doesn’t know Lincoln. He does not need to. He knows Abdul and loves him. But Lincoln at that moment was significant for Shehzaada in the insect’s eye view. Probably Lincoln will fetch him some of his fantasies, may be a pizza or an ice cream! This too was my bird’s eye view and not the insect’s eye view where a poor tribal kid would value pizza more than a full meal of rice and lentil soup. 

I wondered if it was a compound insect vision or a bird’s aerial view. I wondered if I were a proud eagle or an insignificant centipede. But Shehzaada hardly cared. With Lincoln in his pocket he climbed on Abdul’s back and galloped towards another descending balloon few metres away. As Shehzaada, Abdul & Lincoln vanished in the distant horizon an eagle screamed in the barren desert, merging my bird’s eye view and insect’s eye view into one stark reality. The reality that involves Shehzaada, Abdul & Lincoln in the barren deserts of Luxor.