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September 2022

"El Hay" by Sarah Richani I don't know the man it belongs to, my dad does. The house has seven floors. Ground: Here is the entrance hall that is overseen by the caretaker. He locks the main door by night and opens it in the early morning hours. Floor 1: The kind family that tries to invite me to gatherings Floor 2: The young man with a motorcycle. His dad yells at him and tells him to find a job. Floor 3: A family, I only know their car. It is of a sleek shade of dark grey. Floor 4: My family and my dad, the

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Fiction
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I pick up the telephone to dial Carol's landline number. All day, the fan has been switched on, but the apartment is still suffocating. Underneath my white chemise and black trousers, I am sticky and impatient. No answer. Soon after I put the phone down and mentally prepare myself to get a glass of cold water, the phone rings, startling me into a gasp.  "Carol?" I ask, breathing slowly. My body feels stiff, too stiff even for these sixty-six-year- old limbs. "And what if it weren't me?" "No one else calls." "You love to victimize yourself, ya Salma." I can hear my sister's exasperated sigh,

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Fiction
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The world has been dreaming. It dreams about undead things. It dreams about money. Do you want to know about its dreams? Let me tell you. Listen. It is dark. We have lost the path. We have tumbled into the night of the world. It is the night of a babel choir. There we meet the people, dolorous. There we meet the empousa. She greets us with spirits. She greets us with metals. She tempts us. She looks to be tempered. The empousa offers many gifts, takes many shapes. She lives underground. Some say it is where she hides. Do you

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Non-Fiction
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From Sab Afsānay Meray (All My Stories) by Hajra Masroor Translated from the Urdu by Jaideep Pandey Wrapped in a black silk burqa, with the niqab pulled over her head, she stood at the train ticket window, somewhat surprised. It was 11:30 at night. Only fifteen minutes remained until the train's arrival. But the ticket window was still shut. She was exhausted from looking at the window which showed no signs of opening. She looked around herself. Hundreds of people were sleeping like corpses on the floor and on the benches, as if none of them really had to travel. She slowly turned

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prose, Translations
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It will flag like a Good  Conqueror, will be identified As an american poem, there will be drones  In its speculations of sky, it will lack imag Ination, the vaguely targeted  Will be vilanelled in To bodies of Repetition, children will be placed in proximity To slaughter, the american Poem will syntax the police state  Human, will disavow  Systemic Injustice & make settlement  In a journal named after stolen land, named  With stolen language, no one will own  Language in the american  Poem, which will be paid in maimed  Money without naming all money as maimed  Money, will exist within an

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Poetry
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About Us
Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal was founded in the English Department of the American University of Beirut in 2012 with the intention of creating a space for both emerging and established writers who have a connection to Lebanon.
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Letter from the Editor | كلمة المحرّرة

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