ADORE'S APRIL THREAD
This month’s showcase features a selection of recent writing submissions from emerging voices. Each work is presented as part of Adore’s ongoing monthly collection.
Featured Writers
Megan Shala
My Old Friend
Jawahir Alamin
A Love Like Salt
Jasmin Acikgöz
Shadow Creature
Nadja Gavran
Sit in Silence
Vaanya
Desolate
Meerub Tariq
Mosaic of Me
Mary Upton
An Apparition
Lily Tolev
Leonard Tripartite
Minhal Ayesha Qazi
The Relinquished One
My Old Friend
Written by Megan Shala
I love my job. I feel very lucky to have such a perfect part-time job at nineteen, though it took me four applications and four phone calls. I knew working at a library would be great, but I didn’t expect to feel as much love and warmth as I do in less than two years. It’s really the people who make me feel this way. For one, disgruntled patrons appear nowhere near as often as they do at retail jobs. Most interactions only involve grins, book recommendations, and warm wishes.
The other lovable people are behind the desk with me. My boss, Nancy, is always fair. My co-clerk Ivan is always a chatty Cathy. And even actual Cathy, lounging next to the desk. The homeless-by-choice woman, who often has delusional episodes, tells kind patrons to take their money and “shove it WAY up their ass” when they offer. But the person I’ve met at the library whom I love the most is Jeff.
Now Jeff is not some dreamy guy who I pined for. He is my 75-year-old gay coworker. The first time I spoke to Jeff, I was walking into the staff room on my first day there. I wore a bright smile on my face, my most sensible pair of jeans, and a librarian-ish pink and brown striped cardigan because I really wanted these people to like me. It turned out I didn’t need to do much for Jeff to make me feel welcomed.
“Good morning, Jeff!”
“Oh hi there! Don’t mind me, I'm just taking my percs,” he said in his slightly hoarse, slightly feminine, heavily Italian New Jerseyan voice. His breath reeked of cigarettes, mocha coffee, and some other funk I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
And that’s when I knew we’d be great friends.
Of course Jeff isn’t abusing Percocets; he has rheumatoid arthritis. I think the pains were bound to hit him after all the stories he told me about his young adult party animal years. The stories are one of many things I love about him. Jeff and I always work the night shift, and it can be very slow at times. Once the influx of patrons dies down, I’ll actually see him start to look off into the distance and daydream like a cartoon character with a dazed smile and a bubble above its head. This is when he breaks off into a story. Not just any story, though; it’s always as vivid as a movie playing right in front of me.
“Oh Megan, you would have LOVED it. It was the late sixties. I was with the hippie crowd. All my girl friends were wearing tall gogo boots, short dresses, and big, big hair. I had on boots too, blue jeans that made my ass look fantastic, and my FAVORITE brown fringe jacket. We were cutting class to take the train to New York City to see Jimi Hendrix for $5. The smell of pot was stuck to our clothes as we walked the streets of the city at night. There were so many people, yet it felt like we were the only ones alive. Our boot heels were clicking in sync. The red and blue lights from the signs were shining on us so perfectly that we felt like movie stars. Our laughter was louder than that steady honking of cars. I just felt so much joy.”
He’s right, I would have loved that. Every time he tells me a story, I feel a longing to go back to a time that I never even lived in. I see Jeff standing in front of me, telling the stories, the aged hunch in his back, the skin on his face sagging, his liver-spot-covered hands theatrically gesturing. But in his powder blue eyes, I never see his age. I see the light and euphoria that has stayed since those young nights.
He hasn’t become a sour old man. He can joke around even better than I do with friends my age, and he’s the most unfiltered person I know. Like when a patron walked by once who looked about sixty years old but had his black hair styled in extreme 2010 emo side-part bangs.
“Where the hell does he think he’s going with that hairdo?" he said, with that strong Italian New Jerseyan twang and the same funk in his breath. Cigarettes, mocha coffee, and I figured that the missing note of funk had to be old salami.
Jeff also can feel like the grandpa I never had. I think he treats me that way because he never had kids; he says it’s the greatest regret of his life.
He usually plays oldies softly on the work computer when we’re at the front desk together. I told him I love Frank Sinatra, so he puts him on sometimes, and we quietly sing along to “I’ve Got the World on a String."
Also, he’ll sometimes come from his dinner break with an adorable, crooked smile and tell me in a singsongy voice, “I have a surprise for you!” and then reveal a king-sized KitKat from behind his back. He does this because I told him I like KitKats one time.
He has brought me instant pudding as well because I said I had never had it before. When he returned from his break, he came behind the desk with a container of pistachio pudding that was a terrifying neon green, a miniature spoon he stole from a baby shower, and a can of whipped cream.
“Try it and let me know what you think. And be honest, don’t spare me. You can eat it out here too; I’m the boss of you when Nancy’s gone home… Oh wait! Let me get the whipped cream for you.”
Crrrshhhhhhhhhh
And a patron walks up waiting to be helped. I’m sitting there, holding my radioactive pudding, and Jeff is spraying a mountain of whipped cream with the smile of a child on his face. He stops with a huff as if she’s interrupting him and then strolls to her with a friendly, "Hi, how can I help you?” It’s a wonder how easily a charismatic old guy can get around.
No one hates Jeff, not even our boss when he calls out sick just because of a mild downpour. I would love to have dinner with him if he weren't out with his friends so often. He truly feels like a close friend to me. But there is a caveat to this bond that I tend to forget during all the laughs.
I am inevitably going to lose him.
He reminds me of it during our conversations every now and then, and it sobers me instantly. He’ll complain about his arthritis and then say, "Oh, I’m getting old.” That kiddie smile vanished and was replaced by eyebrows drawn together in concern; his lips fell into a knowing frown.
When this concern arises, without fail I get teary-eyed, realizing that I can’t do anything to slow the time or stop him from leaving. I’ve never had a friendship with an expiration date. I wish I could think more positively, but what good will that do if it’s inevitable? To stop my tears from falling before they should, I can only banish the thoughts for the moment. I soak up his personality, his jokes, his stories, and even his smelly breath as much as I can while he’s here. That way when the date comes, I’ll remember him. And he’ll live on in the vivid stories I tell others. I feel very lucky to have known Jeff before he became only a story.
A Love Like Salt
Written by Jawahir Alamin
My love is passed around the house like a salt shaker. Left on the counter, then the table, then absentmindedly on the microwave. Always within reach, always in use. It's sprinkled over morning eggs and late-night soups, as imperceptible as habit, to keep the house serene, and the evil tossed away. It melts in seconds on a warm skillet, hissing with the temper of a mother who knows the recipe by heart. It stings like a paper cut when the day is stretched out, A reminder you've touched something living. My love is everywhere. caught in the tablecloth's flimsy threads, clinging to the cusps of the kitchen tiles, resting in bedroom corners, and washed into the salt of your tears.
Schattentier
Written by Jasmin Acikgöz
Du springst Auf und ab unbemerkt und unentdeckt lauscht und wartest Schreist dann auf Rufen tust du Aus den Augenwinkeln Leicht zu erkennen oder doch nicht? Verschwindest mühelos SCHWUBS: Bist du weg Warst du überhaupt da?
English translation
Shadow Creature
Written by Jasmin Acikgöz
You jump up and down, unnoticed and undiscovered. You listen and wait, then cry out. You call. From the corners of the eyes, easy to recognize; Or maybe not? You vanish effortlessly. SWOOSH: You are gone. Were you ever there at all?
Sit in Silence
Written by Nadja Gavran
Up at the top of the rooftop, Staring down at you. You’re going in circles Around the house. The trees are listening; It’s getting dark; come up. But you only stare back at me; We sit in silence for another evening Me at the top, You at the bottom.
Desolate
Written by Vaanya
Laughs were silenced, Wings were tied. Said, "Pain makes you grow," To kids who were supposed to grow with smiles.
Mosaic of Me
Written by Meerub Tariq
The clock struck half-past eleven. I put away my books and pens. With all things settled and done, I picked up the awaited satchel bag. The bag I had been carrying On my shoulder the whole day, Since… I don’t know when; Maybe since my memory began. The worn leather foretold Its years of labor and lies. Removing the cover under the lamp, My eager fingers indulged inside. Curiosity killed the cat, indeed; Likewise, I pricked my finger. The fragment on the top Was not a moment to cherish. Some were smooth and bright, Others were sharp and darkened. I removed each fragile fragment, Placing them lightly in a row. From the geometry of each, I could trace the flash of memory That made each fragment whole, And the evocative tale they hold. This: a smile from a random kid, The scent of a mother’s tender hug, The fragrance of a flower on the road, Or a heartfelt compliment earned. That: a razor-like side-eye from a stranger, The hollow silence of a phone call unanswered, The puddle of coffee spilled before tasted, Or a quiet, sudden shatter of a dream. When assembled in an array, I weaved the ones together; Those that were meant for each other, That fall perfectly with each other. Once crafted, I took a final look: Today’s entire day at a glance; A striking architecture of traces, Of moments lived and gone, but not lost. Waiting to be annexed with hundreds Of all the other fleeting days’ records, To fill the void within the wall. That is the breathing picture of me: All the days I have been me.
An Apparition
Written by Mary Upton
When I was six, my sister’s hamster disappeared. He was called Curly, despite the fact his fur coat was pin-straight. My sister was into irony from a young age. I used to believe she committed deliberate acts of defiance; it was only later that I understood she was earnest and considerate of everything she did beneath her wry sense of humor.
Curly was a present for her eighth birthday. He went missing roughly one year and two months later. My sister was naturally maternal; baby dolls were her favorite toys. Playtime consisted of rocking them in her arms and cradling their delicate heads. Then I came along, and she put into practice all that she knew. When I was small, she used to pretend that I was her baby. She’d bundle me up into a toy pram and push me around the garden, pointing out different flowers for me to smell; grabbing the stems of roses, tulips, and daffodils, bringing them closer to my nose. She’d beg our mum to give me a bottle and read me a bedtime story. Sometimes, when I woke up, she was already there waiting, sitting on the floor looking at me through the slats of my cot. This is what I threaded together, anyway, from things my mum said in passing or by watching old home videos. As I grew older and harder to command, the intensity of her mothering began to ease a little. She was ready for the responsibility of another living thing.
She hadn’t been expecting Curly; she had wanted a rabbit. For weeks leading up to her birthday, we painted and drew pictures from her imagination, her instructing me with a vision. The rabbit was small and black, with eyes the color of olives, and we littered the house with replica creations of her. My sister wanted to feel the weight and warmth of something held in her arms or sat on her lap, but a hamster offered little heft. The helplessness and vulnerability of the little creature made her quickly forget her dream of ever wanting anything else.
The day Curly went missing began like any other. We woke up in the thick fog of dreams left over from the kind of deep, unadulterated sleep that only children encounter. Slovenly, we wandered downstairs into the kitchen to pour ourselves heaped bowls of Cornflakes. Our mum scrambled to get us ready for school, putting our shoes out and remembering our packed lunches. By the time we arrived home that evening, Curly was gone.
My sister was never one to panic; at least not in front of others. She wasn’t particularly upset; I don’t remember her crying at all. More than anything else, she appeared mystified, unable to settle until she had answers. I was enlisted to help, and the search began in places most obvious: behind the sofa and under our beds. We then checked the bath, the airing cupboard, and behind books on the bottom shelf. As that first night went on, my sister’s checklist of potential places became increasingly more unlikely. She looked in the fridge, the oven, on top of the wardrobe, and inside all of our shoes. He had simply vanished.
For all my sister’s self-control and lack of emotional response, her stubborn determination for a resolution was unwavering. We created missing posters that we stuck to lamp posts and handed out at school. She manipulated our Mum into throwing a big sleepover under the guise of needing something fun to do to distract from her mourning when, in reality, she had recruited people to become volunteers as the search for Curly continued. At one point, she even made calls to plumbers found in the Yellow Pages, inquiring to see if they’d investigate our toilet, sink, and drains. Our Mum hid the book after that. She tried to console my sister as best she could, assuring her that he would likely turn up. “He probably just went on his own adventure!” Sensing my sister would have been dismayed at the idea of Curly being replaced, she refrained from offering to buy a new hamster initially. Instead, she approached with trepidation and was tense from trying to gauge what impact the loss might’ve had on us, given that our Dad had also gone missing three months earlier.
Without fanfare, our Dad walked out of the front door one day and never returned. Of course, we didn’t know at the time he wouldn’t come back. From what we understood, he had to go away for a while because of work. I don’t remember a specific moment when my sister and I were told outwardly that he’d be gone forever with some kind of manufactured sit-down speech from our mum. She preferred to just get on with things.
As days turned into weeks without any sign of Curly, the coincidence of the two disappearances didn’t go unnoticed. One afternoon, I asked our Mum if she thought Curly might have gone on a mission to find Dad. I was at the kitchen table reading a magazine while she busied herself with dinner. She replied a noncommittal, “Oh, yes, maybe,” in a voice slightly higher pitched than normal.
That evening, up in our bedroom, I recounted the exchange to my sister. Each night, she would climb into my bed to hug me and read me a story. That had never changed. It was in these moments, as sleep neared close, that we felt most comfortable to confide in each other. She told me the difference was that Curly would never leave by choice, pausing before adding, “Because he was only a hamster.” I discerned I must be missing something that, at six years old, I couldn’t comprehend. I was too slow to ask questions, as she quickly kissed me on the cheek, jumped out of my bed to turn off the light, and dived under her covers, turning away to face the wall.
When a month had passed without Curly, my sister declared one morning over breakfast that she was ready to move on, and to do so, we would need to hold a funeral. Sardonically, but not unkindly, our Mum told her that hamsters were typically exempt from these kinds of services. My sister retorted that Phoebe, a friend in her class, had a funeral for her cat, Snickers, when their Granddad ran him over in his car. Our mum said she’d never heard my sister mention a “Phoebe” before. My sister ignored her. That weekend, Curly received a small, curated send-off.
My sister was meticulous in her planning. Our Nana passed away almost two years ago, which gave her good experience to draw on. She created an order of service by hand and invited a new friend, Rosie, to come round after school and help with preparations. Rosie was valuable because her family went to church every Sunday. She brought her hymn book and a Bible to our house. My sister stressed that the detail was important for us to honor Curly properly. On a hot summer’s day in June, we all wore black, and our living room furniture was moved to facilitate the rites. Rosie attended too, despite never having met Curly. She used our coffee table as a pulpit, taking a stand to lead the singing and read out passages about the strength of God’s love. Eventually, my mum shepherded us into the garden, bringing out plates of sandwiches cut into triangles, cocktail sausages, jammy dodgers, and a jug of squash. Thoughts of Curly escaped my mind for the remainder of the day.
Summer turned to autumn, leaves dropped, and I turned seven. The new school year had begun and routine resumed. Neither Curly nor Dad returned home. My sister and I hadn’t discussed the disappearances since the funeral, preoccupied with other schemes. The Olympics were on that year, and most of our school holidays were spent studying sports on the TV or listening to the radio for updates once our mum told us our eyes would go square. The living room, once the site of Curly’s wake, now hosted our gymnastic competitions. I pulled off sofa cushions to do roly-polys on the floor, and my sister practiced handstands against the door. Our gymnast careers were short-lived after we were banned from inside sports when my sister accidentally smashed a photo frame. We turned our attention to track and field. We competed in discus throwing with frisbees, shot put with beach balls, and high jump over a broom handle on the trampoline. My sister made us both daisy chain crowns and gold medals out of milk bottle tops to wear when we watched the closing ceremony.
Our mum casually floated the idea of a new pet a few times, but my sister was unconcerned and evasive. The idea of longing for and then losing someone else was too terrifying for her to admit openly. Then one day, on our walk back from school, a small black cat with eyes the color of ripe pears followed us home. I saw a blur of movement and turned as the cat dashed behind a car wheel out of sight. It happened again, the cat hiding when I tried to catch a glimpse. I told my sister I thought a cat was following us home. “Yes, she’s found us finally,” my sister said. I asked if she knew the cat, and she told me the cat had visited her in dreams. She wanted to come and live with us but didn’t know the way. My sister had written our address on a piece of paper and slipped it under her pillow a few nights ago so the cat could retrieve it when she next visited during sleep. Our mum gave no protestations, allowing my sister to scoop up the collarless cat. She would take her to the vet tomorrow, and all being well, we would keep her. “She’s already ours,” my sister affirmed and announced her name was Bunny.
Leonard Tripartite
Written by Lily Tolev
It’s fairly warm for winter in this part of the world. You told me I should call At any time, but I don’t. I was told once that everyone gets What they deserve. I’m not sure what’s right and what’s left anymore. I drain the battery on my phone, computer, TV, keys, wallet, car, And I ask the moon. I stare at the moon and I ask for guidance. I plead for direction; kneeling and all. I'm no longer answered. It’s a matter of perspective. There’s a locked box sunken at the bottom of the ocean floor, between Our coast and that distant island, and that Keeps everything of me away from You. You weren’t the lucky one. You weren't chosen for this mission. I am not to be conquered. But I knew this was happening. You couldn’t have known. But I knew. The whole time, I knew. It’s a new feeling, to know. I turn away from the sun; it isn’t our time. I read in between the Lines and search, successfully. I cut the cord to the center of the crisis, Leaving unharmed. I am no longer A rat-brained, leeching state of girl; A pleading woman with honestly nothing to lose but her mind; A hopeless wreck and mooching sycophant to some morally-gray teenage boy. I am no longer whatever I was or wanted. I am Reborn. In all the power that the ocean carries; her might against Ships and sailors and storms; I have stood a test like Hers and emerged a victor. I’ve never been so sure. I’ve never had such control.
The Relinquished One
Minhal Ayesha Qazi
The applause reverberated in my ears as my eyes bored into the stage. The stage lights illuminated the huge auditorium, celebrating the people dressed in black ink gowns, with ear-to-ear grins and buoyant spirits.
Mama’s eyes glowed with tears and pride, smile lines beaming joy. Her braid was styled neatly, looking elegant as ever in her orange sari.
“Momina Qazi.”
The name, when called, erupted the loudest applause next to me. Mama’s face radiated triumph as Momina stepped onto the stage and took her degree, grinning for the photo. Yet, with all this around, I felt a peculiar melancholy; tears brimming for something other than felicity; clapping subtly, smiling so daintily.
Momina took her degree and came running into Mama’s embrace, hugging her with warmth. They eventually pulled apart, and Mama pressed a tender kiss on her cheek.
“I’m so proud! My heart is rejoicing. What wonderful kids I have!” she spoke with affection and pulled me in too, remembering my existence.
“Yeah, congratulations, Momina,” I despondently murmured. The tone was unintentional, but the spark couldn’t be summoned. It seemed faintly significant since they had already exited, continuing their jubilant chat. I sighed and trailed behind.
Our home was decorated with colorful balloons. The cake present on the table looked lonely, yet felt like enough.
“Mama, I want to ask. Was Momina’s future more important than mine? Is she worthy and loved more than me?” I whimpered as my tears finally fell, emotions escaping. My mum looked astonished and Momina froze. “I know we were light-pocketed, but you made me make your decision,” I stated.
“Minhal, please; it’s Momina’s day,” she replied. I scoffed and slammed my door. Muffled sobs escaped as the sorrow swallowed me. I chose to relinquish. Indeed, I was happy for her, but the thoughts of “what ifs” came to mind. If I had chosen this opportunity instead...
Within this sea of emotions, my eyes fell on a mysterious door which suddenly appeared, filling me with curiosity and leading me to open it without hesitation.
The whole scenario from Momina’s graduation was captured in my vision. I looked up to the stage to find her, but the name that was called left me stunned.
“Minhal Ayesha Qazi.”
My eyes widened and fell on my mum in the audience, who held the same radiance and loving gaze for me as she had for her. I scampered across the stage and held my degree, smiling with exultation. Momina was nowhere to be seen, which left me in wonder, until I noticed her in Mama’s hand; in a picture.
Realization hit me; the resigned smile left my face as I felt mixed emotions. I watched myself running into Mama’s arms. We both were over the moon, sharing bliss. In a switch of time, I came back to my room, as if fate chose to give me a taste of this reality. The glimpse of such a universe left me in lingering regret, yet blithe. The dreams weren’t perished, but now cherished and enlightened.
Thank you to everyone featured in this month’s showcase!
Submissions for next month are now open.
SUBMIT HERE: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdVhnYR0vszruzmbA6vgTgcP6UJ2-OPYXlKjBAkzXyP3qJ5ZQ/viewform?usp=sharing&ouid=115262157011670853556
Eternally grateful <3