I learned the other day that women are born with all the eggs they will ever have. Which means I existed as an egg in my mother’s womb before she was born—before that, even—and she existed in her mother’s mother’s womb. And so we are all much older than we realize.
I was with my mother during her turbulent childhood, through the screaming matches, slammed doors, and shattered plates. I was there during the long hours she worked at the deli to pay her way through college, and I was there when, at age 16, she broke her leg and my father helped her with her crutches in Spanish class and fell in love.
And my mother, she was there with my grandmother the night before her wedding, when my grandmother said no, it was all wrong, she didn’t want to marry him, and my grandmother’s mother said too bad, it’s too late, you have to go through with it.…
...continue reading
Best viewed in the Northern hemisphere in July & August
He’s unbalanced
despite what neighboring scales suggest.
My faint companion; visible
not always
& sometimes even in-between phases.
Always off fixing (or breaking) a system of binary
stars, travelling along the yellow sea between
Beta
Nu
Xi.
Ascension
as the Hunter sets.
I remember the burn of your sting.
– Janet Dale
Author’s Note: “Scorpio” is part of a series featuring the twelve zodiac constellations.…
...continue reading
1.
She thought about him at the oddest times; the thoughts vaguely embarrassing, as if revealing her to be a fraud —something other than a good wife and mother. She considered herself a practical woman, and by her sober estimation, the memories served no purpose. They were, in fact, counter-productive to the already complex task of simply living her life. Yet, as much as she tried, she was powerless to control them. That was the maddening part —their unpredictability. When they were upon her, a kind of déjà vu took hold, leaving her unsettled and lost. Like the time two summers ago, on a family trip to Nags Head, when memories of a long-ago beach welled up from the bright sand like a guilty confession, leaving her dizzy and lightheaded in the Carolina sun, as her family chattered about her, oblivious.…
...continue reading
I set fire to the voices in my head. I use them to fuel the fire in my belly. They move my train down its tracks. They’re not the type that require a doctor or medication — not right away at least. Those don’t burn very well. Mine are like a fine, black piece of coal. And, like coal, you don’t see the extent of the damage they’re causing until you’ve been burning it for awhile. In my case, it took thirty years.
My therapist says we all have them. They’re the voices of our fathers, our mothers, our teachers, our siblings, our friends, our enemies. They tell us a story of who and what we are. Some are quiet and some are loud. Some are good and some are bad.…
...continue reading
The laces on Henry’s running shoes were starting to come undone as he ran around Columbus Circle heading towards Central Park. He was frustrated by the cotton laces he used on his shoes. One more time they had snapped while he tied them while preparing for his run. Even so, he continued using the cotton laces. He loved the way they felt when he tied them into a knot. The feel of the cotton reminded him of the success and praise Pops had heaped on him as a child. He could hear his father’s words, way to go, son, as he pulled the cotton strings together. The laces were a daily reminder of the warmth his dad had filled him with, giving him the confidence he continues to hold onto, and the self-esteem that propels him on his lunch-time runs.…
...continue reading
You´re old enough now to name
the unnamable, wear it like a bracelet
clasped around your wrist at birth.
The long-legged spider I crush to quell
your fear and mine is no longer
an arachnid but a concept,
its stillness scuttling through your body
days after I flush away its remains.
At bedtime, the It rises out of
the swamp of your mind, prowls
your dreams, famished. Unicorns,
half-colored drawings, chocolates, coins
of sunlight, your cat´s sleek meow
all gorged, as if life were a dazzle
of lies tumbling about in kaleidoscope.
That plastic forever, cracking.
Nightly, you run into the kitchen,
fear trailing you like the last stark
notes of a funeral hymn, your face
a graveyard of questions. Where
among the tombs of truth and fable
shall I tuck you in?…
...continue reading
Fayyaz Vellani is a British-Canadian writer who has lived in London, New York, Toronto, and Philadelphia, where he teaches writing at the University of Pennsylvania. His stories have appeared in The Bookends Review and F-Word Magazine, and his first novel, Tea with Ms. Tanzania, will be published by Africa World Press in 2022.
In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Vellani speaks with Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum about his recent writings, as well as his love of music, his diverse experiences teaching in different countries, and more!
– Fayyaz Vellani…
...continue reading