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.…
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.…
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.…
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!
It never rained anymore—it sweated. Moisture hung like a curtain of milky cataracts over the day, waiting to be lifted. Dampness had oozed into the bricks of my apartment building, found its way into cracks of the bathroom, and turned the caulking black. Not quite black mold, not yet. The heaviness weighed me down, and I had to drag myself out of bed, no longer hopeful for the catharsis of a thunderstorm.
The painters had finished yesterday, and I needed to reassemble the apartment. Even after I had pointed out the blackness creeping up the walls and ceilings of the bathroom like a spider’s web, my husband Danny refused to admit he could see any problem. “The place looks fine. It’s too much work. And to do it now, ahuvati?”…
