Jim Masri decided that today was a good day to die. There was nothing better than having a clear blue sky, or a starry night, on one’s day of death. “It’s better than watching television. I’ll watch the sky. That’s what I’ll do. Might as well get ready for up there,” he said to Melissa, the day nurse. “Enough of such talk, Mr. Masri. This morbidity of yours will not get you any better,” she said. “You’re perfectly well according to Dr. Petersen. In fact, you probably will not be needing me this time next week, Mr. Masri.” “Call me Jim, dammit. And you’re right, I probably won’t be needing you this time next week.” Going on about her daily routine, Nurse Melissa didn’t show much sympathy to the octogenarian’s drivel. Jim didn’t mind though, he knew she was trying to get through another day. *** “No, no, no. Don’t turn on the television. In fact, don’t turn it on anymore.” “Well, suit yourself,” said Jerome, the night nurse. “It’s just a waste, kid.” Jerome didn’t say anything back. Jim didn’t mind; after all, like [...]

Marwan stretched across a couch in the lunchroom of the Al-Wasat daily, pen and notepad in hand. On that day following the Eid holiday, there seemed nothing more serene than the silent rush of traffic as observed from a double-glazed window. The setting sun poured down its golden light in bucket loads across the road to Budaiya. I began writing my column in this daily with the idea that I could say something that might, or might not change the world, he wrote. I then learned that changing the world does not begin with a barrage of ideas. Changing the world is not in the realm of human possibilities. It is an illusion that we chase, one that we fool ourselves into accepting just to give ourselves hope about the future. An uncertain future. Little by little, Marwan slipped into the past, into the memories of a childhood spent running under the summer sun in palm gardens, stepping on rich, moist soil. Into a time when he went to the hafez, learning and memorizing the Quran. “The objects of nature change very slowly. A palm [...]

“The degradation of an individual does not encompass the certainty by which that individual sees himself. For one to see himself in true light requires both certitude and verity. It is only with a lack of levity in character that one rises above the trifles of day to day life to obtain light. Sometimes–no, most of the time, we need each other to obtain light,” Dr. Emmerich said. His words slightly echoed in the lecture hall. Emmerich was old, frail and had a calm demeanor about him that indicated his total and utter acceptance of his state of being. His tweed jacket seemed to have been surgically stitched to him, for one never saw him with any other jacket. “He’s an idiot,” whispered Laura, “I’m going to Mack’s…you coming?” Laura was young, pretty and–to put it bluntly, hot. She was the type of girl that you’d fool around with even though you had nothing in common apart from unhindered raging hormones. “Sure,” I said. *** Mack’s was a regular hangout for the five of us. We’d spend hours on end wasting time, talking about nothing [...]

Mr. Crippin had a deservedly wicked name. He walked into class with calculated, military-precision steps that he himself never faltered to observe every morning. He’d focus on his own brown leather shoes as he walked in front of the whiteboard. “Children,” he said, raising his head, “the homework tray seems to be filled up nicely today. I expect each and everyone of you to have done a job that would not have me furious this time tomorrow.” He was barely taller than us, yet his extra two inches made all the difference to third graders. Add to that blondish side-combed hair, a weighty mustache that spelled nothing short of strict, and gleaming gray marbles for eyes. We never could tell were Mr. Crippin was from. His unaccented English deluded all of us. At one point, he did say he was Welsh. Then he said he was British. By year end, he was either American or Canadian. I could never recall what the reason was for his ambiguous origins. All sorts of theories were put up about Mr. Crippin. He murdered his neighbor and fled the [...]

Traffic, Part I Rise and shine, everyone. This is Mental Melvin on 96.9, the sunshine station, with another brand new day of utter and total annoyance from yours truly. If you’ve got your own music, I’d suggest you play it instead of listening to not so funny me! Mental Melvin didn’t say that exactly. But I think he should’ve. Why would I want to listen to a two bit DJ that’s pretending to be funny? Give me the news. Give me the weather, traffic report–anything but Mental Melvin. Give me silence. I turn off the radio. Consolidated Flour Mills, reads the sign in glorious neon. Hello work. Morning Coffee “Philosophy melosophy.” Yousif picks up his teacup, “I don’t care what you make of life, as long as you make something out,” “of it,” I interject. “No, out of yourself. I don’t care what you think about all of this,” Yousif says, sweeping his hand. “Philosophies are a dime a dozen. In fact, how about this one right here,” he says, holding an Oreo, “life’s a cookie,” and takes a bite. He looks at it with [...]

There once was a little boy with a very big heart. “I’m afraid your son has a rare congenital heart defect called Vendler’s Cavity. It’s an extreme case of malformed semilunar valves and a larger-than-normal heart size,” said the doctor. “I’m sorry, but your son is not expected to live long.” The little boy was taken from doctor to doctor, his parents trying in vain to have someone say to them he will live forever. All they heard was that he will die sooner than later. *** Alas, the years passed and the little boy was no longer little nor a boy, for he was a man. With whatever time he had, the man decided that he would help people and commit to charitable causes rather than to worry about his future. He traveled the world, saw places and met people from cultures far and apart. He also met a girl. She was a charity worker that pulled the strings of his large heart in ways never before known to him.

“Hope can make you lose sight, kid,” Rutherford said, “it can blind you from the truth, it can take your mettle and turn it into that which is worse than nothingness. You can falter and fall far quicker than you thought possible.” The frail, old man said those words as though he lived them, as though his being felt every nuance of hope’s danger during his eighty-odd years of living. I couldn’t tell what had happened to make Rutherford utter such melancholic drivel. Perhaps a love long lost, or perhaps something that had to do with matters of a pecuniary nature. “Hope,” he told me once, “is one side of the same coin, that of expectation, the other being disappointment.” *** Rutherford had hope once, I thought. He had it and it let go of him. To the old man, hope could be perilous. It could take a man’s soul and raise it to the stars, only to let it fall back to earth. Broken, shattered, Rutherford found a home not in hope, but in despair. He found a home in melancholic sputters of a [...]