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Home2022 (Page 6)

July 2022

"Distilled" by Maya Alameddine Karma Monday. I pee on a stick in the morning.  Tap - Google maps. Type in: Planned Parenthood, Bleecker Street. Wonderful. Now, the intelligence officer tracking my internet activity also knows that I'm pregnant. Panicked searches for clinics and appointment timings will record my brief pregnancy in a datacenter somewhere. An un-erasable and easily retrievable fact. In a few days, it will be used to curate a Facebook advertisement, pushing newborn baby clothes onto my screen.  "Don't go alone," my friend's voice cautions through phone static. She's in Rio de Janeiro and I'm here. I close my eyes

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Non-Fiction
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Runner-up "Alexandria" by Sarah Al Adayleh In his sleep, his fingers move in twisted circles, dancing a silent, drug-infused choreography. Eyes shut, his body lies slumped back in the pale green armchair. The liquid in his lungs makes it hard for him to lie down without drowning, so he sleeps in his chair while I sit on his hospital bed. At times, he speaks out loud in sudden bursts, speaking confidingly as if to an old friend. Not to me. He mutters about his knee surgery, conspiracy theories, and loneliness. Then he falls back into silence in the armchair.  From his bed across the

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Fiction
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Runner-up "Kuwait City" by Sarah Al Adayleh Saud timed his runs to avoid people. But even in the dark hours before morning he sensed idle eyes tracking him across the neighborhood and imagined whispers of 'ayb. 'Ayb for being outside amongst the laborers. 'Ayb for straining his sweating body past the climate controlled neighborhood walking paths. He had tried navigating past mall-walking mamas and babas who made their laps around vacant luxury brand shops and the occasional SADU CO sportswear boutique dotting the retail desert. The rush of sweaty air Saud left in his wake clashed with their clouds of 'oud. They wrinkled

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Fiction
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1st Place "Sharjah" by Sarah Al Adayleh I was ten when I first learned how lonely it is to be a woman.  The sun was low on the green Sharjah hilltop, where my aunts Masi and Kaki, two female cousins, and I were picking marigolds. For every yellow marigold, an orange one - to have even-looking garlands for the pooja tomorrow.  The marigolds were planted in the shape of "SMILE, YOU'RE IN SHARJAH." We didn't want to knock off any letters, so I had to be methodical. It was a cool day that smelled like wet grass. People walked out of the fruit and

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Fiction
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المرتبة الثانية "الرباط" by Sarah Al Adayleh يجلسون بهدوء في سياراتهم الضخمة والمكيفة، عند إشارة المرور يرفعون أعينهم الصافية وينظرون الينا بخجل من خلال زجاج نافذة الحافلة الكبير، لا يطيلون النظر في وجوهنا الكئيبة، منظرنا يرعبهم، ليس شفقة علينا لكن لأنهم يتخيلون أنفسهم في مكاننا، زحام وروائح ووجوه قبيحة، الوضع مرعب.  يراقبوننا وأراقبهم، هناك دائما خلل في هيأتهم، الأغنياء كلهم تقريباً من ذوي الاحتياجات الخاصة. أحاول أن أتجاهل مَن هم داخل الحافلة، لا شيء يستحق أن تراقبه هنا، نظرات النساء الواقفات تخترقني. كلب غير مؤدّب، يجلس ونحن واقفات. العدل يبدأ من هنا أيها اللعينات، لن أترك مكاني المريح لأقف تحت إبط أحدهم ليقال

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arabic, Fiction
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المرتبة الأولى "صنعاء" by Sarah Al Adayleh يعجبني الذهاب مبكراً إلى شارع المطاعم. أتوقّع دائماً أن أرى نفسي نائماً في هذه الزاوية أو تلك، ولكن لم يحدث مرّةً أن كان أحد المشرّدين المُستلقين على جنبهم هو أنا. الداخل إلى هذا الشارع يبدأ سنته الأولى مُشرّداً، ثم في سنته الثانية يصير مجنوناً، ثم تستقرّ حالته بعد ذلك، ويغدو مواطناً عادياً من مواطني شارع المطاعم. آخذ كأس شاي بالحليب وثلاث حبات خمير وأقعد. القطط لا تزال راقدة في وضع جنيني وتحلم بالقط المنتظر الذي سيملأ الشوارع بعلب التونة، العصافير تهبط وتلتقط فتاتاً وتزقزق متبادلة أرقام هواتفها، والعناكب ترسل خيوطها اللزجة وهي تسب عار الذباب الذي تأخّر

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arabic, Fiction
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زينة الحلبي | كلمة المحرّرة يتهيّأ لك أنك تقضين وقتك لا تتحدّثين إلّا عن المال، أو على الأقلّ لم يحصل أن تحدّثت عن المال بقدر ما فعلت طوال السنتين الماضيتين. شاهدت سعر صرف الليرة يزداد عشرين ضعفاً مقابل الدولار، فتحوّل مالُك من كائن محسوس إلى آخر وهمي، يقال لك أنه لا يزال موجوداً في المصارف، من دون أن تتمكّني من لمسه. لن تلمسيه، ولكنك ستنفقينه وفق أسعار صرف تتبدّل مع ساعات النهار. مالك إمّا محتجز في المصارف، وإمّا سائل متحوّل أو متجمّد على شكل نقود معدنية صارت كنوزاً أثريّة تحيلك إلى حياة غابرة لا تحاكي انهيارك المعاصر. كلما انهارت الليرة أمامك،

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المحرّرة | Editor
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"Spring in the City" by Nour Annan Inspired by Antonio Ruiz-Camacho's 'Origami Prunes'. Mama, You often asked how I came to know her, this is how: I had egg yolks on my mind the night I met Salma. It was a humid New York evening, the type of August existence where it feels like the city is grabbing you by the neck and only letting you go once you admit that it is, indeed, "the greatest city in the world." It had been two years since I'd graduated from NYU with an arts degree bankrolled by you and Baba. I'd spent

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Letters, prose
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"Sea Change" by Heather Miller Translated from the Arabic by Rusted Radishes It was in the midst of an August day, but suddenly the city felt cold. They said it was war, and it was not war. They were idols of stone and tyranny, and the sea was calm when they rained glass down onto the city.  * Glass under the feet of pedestrians. On the asphalt, and inside shoes. Glass under teeth. Glass that tastes like glass. Glass in children's toys. In their bedrooms. Glass under the television. Glass in front of building entrances - the buildings without doors. Glass

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prose, Translations
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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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