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SEEDS Literary & Visual Arts Journal (Spring 2015)
Showing posts with label All Published Work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label All Published Work. Show all posts
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Ode To Maya (And Caged Birds)
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SEEDS Literary & Visual Arts Journal (Fall 2014)
Ode To Maya (And Caged Birds) appears in its current version here.
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Back Seat Drive
By Abrahim Harb
I was a kid. About 17. My mother had been on edge lately. She would sit on her couch endlessly staring at the TV. Or past it, I could never tell. Her eyes bulging out her eyes, puffy—tissues nearby soaked in tears. Two more days passed and then the weekend came. That weekend, we wouldn’t go to the movies, spend quality time at the mall, or even leave that couch, just a quick stop to the store for tissues.
That famous couch—with its oversized, comfortable pillows—that until this point in my story—and on occasion after that—served as perfect pillow fight pillows and easily stacked, doubling as a fort wall. The sun beaming in through the window, giving metaphorical light, to these instantly gloomy few days.
My mother sat me and my siblings on the formal living room couches. Not the ones with the big pillows, but that ugly one that would hurt my butt—stiff with seriousness—we were arranged in a way that forced us to look at each other with nowhere to stare, now that the shades are closed. She stood up and closed the dining room lights. Suddenly, the light from the porch light lite up one window and shone through the glass door. My mother sighed—tissues still near, as I rose to open the door.
“Sit!” she said.
My worry grew.
“It’s open,” she said to whoever was on the other side of the door.
The Only Memory
By Abrahim Harb
Grappling—holding onto remnants of our lives—is the only thing containing our sanity. Becoming unhinged is unpreventable—even necessary. He begins to throw around photos—cussing at them, as if the photos could respond. Nurses rush in...and I’m asked to remain where I am. It’s like clockwork. I mumble, “Where is there to go?” and I stare at the unpreventable chaos. He is taken away and put in a secluded room. That is how they treat the residents when we “misbehave”—and are removed once we have finished. I personally don’t like it—I can commend the home though. It works—instead of letting the person have a spurt of insanity that triggers others—next thing you know, the entire 2nd floor of the home is singing in non-uniform insanity.
Grappling—holding onto remnants of our lives—is the only thing containing our sanity. Becoming unhinged is unpreventable—even necessary. He begins to throw around photos—cussing at them, as if the photos could respond. Nurses rush in...and I’m asked to remain where I am. It’s like clockwork. I mumble, “Where is there to go?” and I stare at the unpreventable chaos. He is taken away and put in a secluded room. That is how they treat the residents when we “misbehave”—and are removed once we have finished. I personally don’t like it—I can commend the home though. It works—instead of letting the person have a spurt of insanity that triggers others—next thing you know, the entire 2nd floor of the home is singing in non-uniform insanity.
The Only Memory
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* "The Only Memory" was published in the November 12, 2013 edition of the SEEDS Corner for the Independent at Northeastern Illinois University (NEIU) under a pen name A.i. Herv. It is part of the "SEEDS Corner" series, by SEEDS Literary & Visual Arts Journal in the Independent.
Note: I was the Editor-in-Chief of SEEDS at the time, I submitted under a pen name.
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