The 14th Night (The Massacre)

why does the world not speak of this!

nataallh

masscare

Najlaa Ataallh

Translated from Arabic: Evelyn Teo

How can language help you write down what you witness with own eyes but don’t understand? How is it possible to carry on putting thoughts on paper and translating how you feel? You are dead. Dead in every intellectual sense of the word.

You may still be breathing because a rocket has yet to split your lungs in two. You may still be able to see because your head hasn’t been dashed against a wall yet, from the force of an mortar explosion.

But you are dead.

The sky seems to be angry with Gaza, it showers the earth with body parts, that land on pavements and the middle of each street. Normal life has become a distant memory, like a ghost you chase in a dream. But everyone in the dream is dead, even you are; it’s just your body has yet…

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stay or change

a splendid adventure

curveballs.

The white and red stitched round blazing through diamond dust headed right for its leather home.

Curveballs start off at one height, one velocity, one direction. You see it, prepare for it, make adjustments to your position to make contact with it, and then it does what every good curveball does. It drops.

The thing about curveballs is you don’t know it’s a curveball till it’s, well, curved. Changed its direction, dropped a few inches, thrown you off your game. At that point there’s nothing you can do to change its direction or make it do what it seemed like it was doing before.

Once the curveball has revealed itself to be the curveball you were not expecting, you have a choice.
You can keep your position and go out swinging, maybe get lucky and tip it off.
Or, you can change positions, drop your chin, and go in…

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So I’ve kind of always wanted to be a writer…I think…

musings of a jenna

writer

When I was six, I decided that I wanted to be an author/illustrator when I grew up. At that age, I loved drawing even more than I loved making up stories. My collection of thirty-six Derwent pencils was my prized possession (after, of course, my teddy bear), and rabbits who wore jackets and fairies with tremendously long eyelashes were my preferred subjects. Around the age of ten though, my love of art started to waver. Drawing, which had once been fun and relaxing, had now become a chore. I became constantly frustrated by my attempts at artwork. It wasn’t good enough for me to simply enjoy drawing anymore. I needed to refine my skills, I needed to get better. By around twelve I became so frustrated that I gave up on art altogether. I was a hack, and I had to face it. My new dream was to forget the…

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Two Sides of Tolerance: Accepting Others

A Quiet Week In The House

Perfume

Not long ago, I enjoyed tea and pastry at my favorite bakery. A woman with dizzying perfume swept into a seat behind me. Her sharp, expensive fragrance slid over my table, invading each sip and bite I took.  Irritation engulfed me. I snatched up my notebooks and stomped across the room to pen a few ill-tempered paragraphs. When my tea tasted good again, I stole a glance at the perpetrator. Slim and sixtyish, she stiffened under my scrutiny.

I expected someone offensive and unlikable–a diabolical, slathering fiend, perfume bottle in hand, ready to shoot pungent fluids at my face.  Instead, a frail and self-conscious senior citizen nibbled a croissant.  Her red-and-black plaid pantsuit radiated as fiercely as her fragrance. She was the kind of woman who applies lipstick with a tiny brush and styles her improbable chestnut hair with precision. In a deserted bakery, she purposely chose the seat closest…

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Refusing to Blink: savoring the season of childhood

Untitled presentation

If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times.

“Enjoy every minute.”

“They’ll be grown before you know it.”

“It goes by so fast.”

In my pre-motherhood days, I thought these were just the sentimental musings of people who were either being dramatic or who couldn’t think of anything else to say and so they just made the token grandparent statements they’d heard other people make.

At one time, it even frustrated me. After being encouraged yet again not to get in a tizzy about dishes and housekeeping because I’d have plenty of time for those things when the kids grew up, I thought to myself “Lady, I am cherishing my children, okay, but I can’t just sit and look at them all day long! At some point, I HAVE to do the dishes…”

But that was just my hormones talking; if I was being more honest with…

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