Happy Birthday!

a short story by Jehan Ammar

‘10.’ My family and friends chant, counting down until it’s finally my 18th birthday. I feel surrounded by love, with my close ones gathered around me. Never have I felt more myself than in this moment—an anchor for all the future versions of myself.

‘9.’ They start shouting louder, and my cat hisses, hiding behind some bushes. I love her.

‘8.’ My best friend raises her arms, a few dots from a failed DIY stick-and-poke tattoo still visible on her wrist. I have the same. We were so foolish at 16. Perhaps we will never be again. The thought saddens me.

‘7.’ My father doesn’t count, but he nods approvingly. That’s as much as I get, but he’s here, and that’s all that matters. I wonder whether my father’s father also nodded approvingly back at him when he was just a child.

‘6.’ My boyfriend counts the loudest, as if trying to express his immense love through the sound of his voice. It’s both silly and endearing.

‘5.’ My little brother kicks me under the table. I screamed at him earlier for drawing a picture with my makeup; I kick back.

‘4.’ I can see a single tear running down my mother’s cheek as she comes to the realization that I won’t be her little girl anymore. Is it a tear of sorrow at losing a part of me or a tear of joy at gaining another?

‘3.’ The sound feels muffled in my ears. I feel disoriented. The ground under me starts shaking.

‘2.’ It’s all quiet now. The moon and stars above me are gone. The sky is pitch black. I feel as if I am dissolving.

‘1.’ My vision goes completely dark. This is the end of my journey.

‘0.’

 

‘I extend a cordial welcome, ushering you back into the embrace of the realm that inherently belongs to you. In what manner did the experiential sojourn transpire, eliciting intricate layers of emotional resonance and cognitive reflection, culminating in a nuanced synthesis of subjective realities within the temporal confines of the undertaken odyssey?’ A person in white robes is talking to me. I look around; I am in a seemingly endless illuminated white room. It’s neither hot nor cold and I feel no breeze around me, playing in my hair like it did just seconds ago. I feel like puking, but nothing comes out. There is a weird high-pitched noise coming from everywhere.

‘W-What. I don’t understand.’

‘Perceive not distress in your countenance; rest assured, the retrieval of recollections shall imminently manifest within the recesses of your consciousness,’ the creature adds calmly.

‘I don’t understand. Please, where am I? Where is my family? I was just home. Don’t hurt me, please, I am just a child.’

The creature sighs. ‘You are no child.’

‘Please, I still count sheep when falling asleep. I want my mom back. Help! I need help!’ But there is no one here aside from us. My screaming is not based on logic but on instinct.

‘Just wait a few minutes.’ I bend over. My tears fall to the ground, I cry, not prettily but hysterically as I hiccup on my own snot. My hands feel bigger, somehow, as I cover my ears with them. Minutes pass. I do not remember anything that could explain this situation. The figure before me stands still; I can see the seam of their gown within my vision. The ends of their long blonde hair appear strange and unreal but not out of place. I wipe my tears away.

‘Please let me go. I- I- my name is Allie Anderson. I like the colour green and I like cats and-’ the figure kneels down in front of me. I look up but not directly at it. It appears human-like with features both androgynous and soft yet in a way unsettling.

‘You should remember by now. Why can’t you remember? I know this is the first journey, but you said it would only take a few minutes. You must remember-’

‘Remember what? I have never met you before, so what are you talking about?’ I try not to weep. The noise becomes louder.

‘You are not Allie Anderson.’

‘I am.’

Now the figure seems slightly panicked. I avoid their gaze as they search mine.

‘Technically, yes. You made her. You made them all. You made everything.’ I look at the creature’s hands, now fiddling in a strange way as if they have never been nervous before. ‘You went there to dwell amongst them, to navigate a labyrinth of mortal emotions. To experience it all as a lower being and take in what it means to be blind to the future and the past. To feel not despite your seeming mortality but because of it. And now you have returned. So please just tell me what we have wanted to know from the very start, how was it? Did you acquire mortality in some form?’

I can’t follow; my heart beats, proof that I am human.

‘No, I want my family back, please. Let me go.’ My fingernails push through my skin; blood gushes out. The creature looks at me with sadness and perhaps a bit of pity. It hurts.

‘You are still in this form because you choose to be. The blood is not real because you are not human. You once made me, remember? You couldn’t possibly forget that?’ Their voice aligns with the high- pitched noise.

‘I am a fraction of yourself that you sacrificed and granted freedom. Like a cell having been cut from its original body, you understand? Please don’t forget me. Please. You are all I have,’ they add but it still makes no sense. Maybe I am dreaming? But what if I am not?

I search for its gaze now, observing a loneliness in their eyes that seems to have originated in the depths of mine. I know their eyes, the first eyes I have ever formed with my hands, a part of myself and yet another being. Not all-knowing but the closest it will ever be amongst all other fractions.

Second to me in everything, yet the companion worthy to hold my cold, all-mighty hand once we are finally dying. Doomed to be born, to exist until I cease to, yet still being frightened by the possibility of my absence? Has my creation ever experienced panic before, dreading eternal companionship with a stranger named Allie, now intertwined with me? Can they even name fear as an emotion? Or is this perhaps the first piece of humanity and thus mortality I brought along with me? The reason why I even created it all in the first place, so I can feel what being alive means and therefore acquire what it means to die.

Mutual understanding floods us as my being shapeshifts into something familiar. The blood dripping from my hands doesn’t stop but subsides. Proof that I am now part human. Part mortal. I remember—the making, the loneliness, the indifference, the wish to end it all. The decision to create something so I can destroy myself. The creature feels calmer now; I can sense it. I do too.

‘So, how was your first part of the journey?’ they ask.

I feel warm and sad for Allie and the beautiful experience it was to be her. I miss my home, the uncertainty that comes with being young and vulnerable and the love of the people around me. It pains me to leave her behind, yet I cannot wait for the next part to come.

‘It was lovely. I am feeling… warm.’ I take the creature’s hand, emphatic. ‘It’ll be easier next time. Don’t panic. I will bring great knowledge with me. Six more journeys to go until it’s time to start demolishing. I shall return soon.’

Surprised at the unknown warmth of my hand and the blood still dripping down occasionally, the creature’s brows furrow. This will be our end.

‘I will be waiting for you then,’ they answer while running their thumb across my knuckles. I close my eyes; all noises fade away.

 

‘9.’

The chanting startles me, and I hiss.

Icarus

a poem by Lukas Bartsch

Illustration by Jehan Ammar

I wander in phosphorescence,
not quite capturing its essence,
Tumbling falling through the aether,
high above yet still beneath her.
Ethereal realms thundering, colliding,
the heavens pondering still deciding.
Deep within the earth ascending,
in metamorphosis transcending,
the shining knight falls on the sword –
growing wings, becomes a lord.
In the light beyond the shades
freedom turns my fears to blades.
Roses drowning in the fog,
wallowing my mind does block
the comprehension of the form,
the wings the scales, the horn.
Hence, I’m trapped in waking hell,
my body but a tolling bell.

Memories Keeping Me Awake at 3 am

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

death, funeral, sexual harassment

a collection by Jehan Ammar

Mondays, Am I right?!

It’s 7:50 am on a Monday. My eyes feel tired as I stare at my phone again, waiting for the bus to arrive. I look up, taking in the sun as I see a grey Smart pass me by. I worry about my seminar and how my group is so far behind. They better show up or else I got out of bed at 6:30 for nothing. I did not know at the time that they were still peacefully sleeping in their beds, dreaming and snoring. The Smart passes me again. The man looks confused. I remember when I first moved here, getting lost in the narrow streets and being too shy to ask for directions. He looks fifty, bald, possibly without family. That much I can tell from the car. I take a step forward, hoping to provide help. I can see the fast movement of his arm, and then something pink. It is his dick. In his hand. He looks at me and continues. I step back.

***

Goodbye

My mother next to me smiles. I feel unsure about this and stare at the camera lens and my reflection within, black ruffled blouse matching my hat in color. My father’s face is telling me to smile as well, which I find weird and strangely out of place. Almost the whole family is here, only one member missing. What a chance to capture this moment. I shift in my seat and look at my mother. I hate being here and I hate my father for taking pictures now, even though I don’t really hate him. I argue and argue and never quite smile. The camera shutters. We leave the restaurant and make our way to the funeral.

***

The good, the bad and the medium

I remember your death more than I remember your life.

But when I do, I think of mostly the good.

How the thriller we were writing had so many twists that, by the end, not even we knew who the killer was. Maybe we never did. Maybe it was never about the ending anyway.

But I also remember the bad.

Sometimes.

The moment when you came out as queer. I told you I’d support but never told you how seen I felt in that moment. How that moment mattered. But it mattered only to me because you declared it a joke an hour later. But you were perfect and beautiful and as long as you looked at me, no joke could take away words unspoken.

I also think of the medium occasionally. The moments when you felt on top of the world while climbing a tree, happy and carefree while I stood chained to its roots in worry. We were 13. How we were both failing math at 14 but you didn’t care at all while I cared too much. Now you’re eternally 15 and I’m 22 but a part of me isn’t. I wonder if it’s a piece of me you took to the grave or a piece of you, I keep carrying every day in the depths of my heart.

Your birthday is coming up. We barely knew each other, just a fleeting moment passing by, long gone. I miss you. Sometimes. In the good, the bad and the medium.