Fiction

The Blowing Clouds

"It makes you wonder how they are ever able to agree on anything," Iraj Mansouri said. They were leaving his wife's aunt and uncle's house. It was raining and the clouds were blowing all over the sky. The boy, Arash, liked the way they looked. Iraj's wife, Soraya, did not say anything. She was thinking about what her aunt and uncle had told them. Actually it was her aunt who had been doing the telling. Her uncle had not wanted to talk about it. "What is the use of talking about it?" he'd said. And he'd gotten a pained and lost expression on his face.>>>

Shaadi's Story

Shaadi finally decided to do it. She signed up with the Iranian dating site, submitted her photograph, and answered the questions. She thought to herself, “I’ll be 100% honest in answering the questions. I don’t want any complications as a result of withheld information or half truths.” She wrote down her real age, her real weight, and answered all the questions fully and truthfully. Among the people she heard from, there was a man who seemed like a good choice. He was her age, had been married and divorced, didn’t have any kids and didn’t want any, and his picture showed him to be good looking, with a full head of hair, dressed in a nice suite. She and Hamid started chatting and corresponding online>>>

واعظ شهیر

" په چرا امشب اینقدر دیر کردی , قول داده بودی سر شب خونه باشی, دلم خیلی شور زد"
" راه بندون بود زن , " کافی" تو مسجد امام حسین منبر داشت , مجبور شدم از میدون فوزیه تا اینجارو پیاده بیام , اونم با این پای ناقص, سگ پدرا ول کن  نیستن "
" ببینم این کافی همونه که میگن تو روضه های زنونه غش می کنه و خودشو میندازه وسط زنا ؟"
" آره "
" میگن به چشم برادری خیلی ام خوشگل و خوشقواره ست "
" نه خانم اون یه آخوند دیگه ست " >>>

The Secret

We would be playing in the street in the evening and I would see my American friends' fathers come home from work and kiss their wives and I would think, my secret's out. There it was for all to see. I used to wonder how the street didn't freeze in time just then. I used to wonder even more how the American father could go straight from the kiss to talking about his day or the traffic. It was a secret because we were Iranian and I felt like I was the only one at home who knew that it was nice for a man to kiss his wife when he came home from work>>>

سه تابلوی مرگ در دستشویی

در شکل آدمیزاد مرگ را امروز دیدم. در دستشویی خانه ام. داشت دندانش را می شست. چراغ روشن بود وارد که شدم. تصویرش در آینه منعکس شده بود کنار یک لیست لغت به زبانی بیگانه که به آینه چسبانده بود و جایی برای تصویر من باقی نگذاشته بود. مردی لاغر بود. و تمیز. بهش می آمد وسواسی باشد. کلاه گیس قاضی ها یا نجیب زاده هارا بر سر داشت. چهره ی فیلسوفی را داشت که تصویرش روی کتاب نقد عقل محض بود: با چهره ای استخوانی و خیلی جدی که وقار، نه پیری، آن را سایه زده بود. با دقت بیش از اندازه، در همان حالی که لغت حفظ می کرد، بین دندانهایش را نخ می کشید. در مورد زمان خیلی با ملاحظه بود: از هر ثانیه یِ پانزده دقیقه فرصتی که بین دیدار دو آدم خردمند داشت، عاقلانه استفاده می کرد: دقیقا بیست و هشت ثانیه صرف هر دندان، صرف حفظ هر کلمه جدید می کرد. >>>

Parsa's Bride

We have known each other through our childhood and college years, and as each of us has started working in a professional field, we have kept in touch, visiting each other once a month at a small marina café. It is our time to be that which defines our identity, so drastically different from that of our parents', and still very different from non-Iranians. We are the odd Iranian American bunch of our metropolitan city. One of us is a graphics artist, another a dental student, a third one a psychologist interning with the prison system, and there are two software engineers, a teacher, and a bartender in our midst. I am still attending law school. Every first Sunday of the month, we get together at the corner table of the noisy Café Roma, where we have breakfast and catch up with each other>>>

قصه کوچ

در "بخارست" هواپيما عوض مى کرديم. هوا آزار دهنده سرد بود. برفى سنگين فرودگاه را پر از اشباح کرده بود. شلاق باد، ساچمه هاى ريز برف را بيرحمانه در پوست صورت مىچکاند. نور زرد و بى حال تک توک چراغ هاى ترمينال دوردست با تاريکى مسلط بر همه جا، کارى نداشت. چهار صبح بود، مامورين سلاح به دست که تا گردن درلباس هايشان فرو رفته بودند، از زير کلاه پوست هاى چرک و بى قواره خود، تک تک مسافران را مى پائيدند. از پله هاى هواپيما که سرازير شديم، نگاه هايمان راکه بى اختيار روى آنها افتاده بود جمع کرديم. سه ساعتى را بايد درانتظار کشنده باشيم، و براى سوار شدن، از سد کنترل پاسپورت بگذريم. از "بانکوک" مى آمديم. در آنجا داشتيم مى پوسيديم. بدون " پاس " به پاکستان و از آنجا به تايلند رفته بوديم. هر جاى ديگر را فکر کرده بوديم جز"تايلند" را. و حالا داشتيم بيرون مى زديم>>>

You’re not a MAN!

That’s right Mr. Gordon! I believe so… Yes…you can call me Ahmad M in your report. I was Jamshid’s interpreter for the whole four days…Mr Jamshd was from Yakubi village…Yakubi village? Yes, it’s…. about 45 minutes away from the American military bases. Yes, it was December 5, a few hours after the rocket attack on the military base that the security guards captured him…the attack happened in the morning and they captured him after sunset…just a few hours... Jamshid’s only possession was a used Toyota whose family bought for him so he could work as a taxi driver.>>>

Illusion

“I’ll be home a little late,” Adam said to his wife on the cell phone. “How late is late? You know we have guests tonight. Salad and entertainment are your responsibilities.” Shiva said. “That’s exactly why I’ll be late. I need to get a book before I come home. I’ll show you some incredible artworks. A co-worker of mine had a calendar designed with optical illusions. They’re amazing. You’ve never seen anything like it.” “You mean like M. C. Escher’s artwork?” She asked. “Yes, but more mystical. Some of them are really mind boggling. These artworks really threw me off. You’ve got to see them.” “Known artists?” “Most of them are not. We’ll find out tonight.” “Hmm, that’d make an interesting subject of conversation.” >>>

Kill the Black Dog

The unrelenting August rain pounded the cabin roof of an Alaskan Chilkat Valley campground. Sitting by the crackling fire and looking through a large window, I could see soaring snow-capped mountains and thousands of bald eagles feasting on the abundant Chilkat River’s salmon. The remoteness of the unspoiled wilderness made me feel as if I had arrived at the end of the world. About several dozen people had come to this camp for a week of rest and restoration that included informal talks and workshops. It was a recess time. One of the participants, a very elderly Tlinget Indian man and I sat together enjoying the magnificent display of nature>>>

A Saturday in May

The day starts innocently enough. Having gone out the night before, I sleep in a little, before setting off for my morning run. I feel victorious at having once again completed the 5 mile trail. I record a new personal best. For a mediocre runner such as I, that amounts to shaving off a second or two from the mile. Every personal best deserves to be celebrated. So, I promise myself a small piece of chocolate after dinner. I start on the usual Saturday morning chores – laundry, grocery shopping, a little cleaning here and there and lastly the hairdresser’s. I was to meet him at around noon. Dressed, made up and ready, I settle on my leather recliner – cherishing the moment. I slowly drift into a delicious slumber, only to be nudged awake by the ring of my phone>>>

Babak's Story

Maryam loved Babak and Azita. They were her best friends in the world. Babak had been her first friend in the US, when she had first arrived from Iran. She and Babak had gone through college together, had helped each other through some rough time, and had celebrated each other’s weddings. They had also helped each other through their divorces. They could talk about anything and everything, politics and arts and gossip, and they never grew tired of each other’s company. Luckily for both of them, the men and women who had entered each of their lives seldom felt threatened by their deep friendship. Maryam was so happy to see Babak’s life brighten up when Azita entered it. Mature adults and professionals, lovely and compatible together, they were a joy to watch and to have around>>>

Half a child

The war started on the last day of the summer 1980. It changed everything. It destroyed our neighborhoods and brought whoever lived in the lasting ruins closer to each other, but it separated us from the rest of the peaceful world. The change didn't happen slowly. It was abrupt. It occurred on a Tuesday night, in the third week of war at 10:30 PM. At 6:45 the sirens echoed and Tehran went dark. I hid inside my usual shelter, my closet, and my parents found refuge in the bathroom. We waited. The noise of a jet - flying high- turned into a deep powerful rumbling, as if thunderstorms were descending from skies, but before the first eruptions, a long moment of silence fell on the waiting city>>>

The Foghorns at Night

There are nights in San Francisco when I wake up in the middle of the night and hear the foghorns out in the bay, and I have lain in bed and felt the beauty of where I live, listening to the different sounds at their different intervals, and the whole idea of a horn sounding over the land and the sea has been one that has made the night and the city feel like my own. It has sounded like a horn that is watching over everyone sleeping, and those who are awake and coming to rest after crossing an ocean, and listening to it purposefully feels like it gives me a little access to all it sees. I have tried to think about places where a horn sounding at night does not carry any of the beauty of a city, places like Baghdad, where those horns carry an ugliness instead>>>

Pebble Beach – Half a Sandwich

I call his room from the hotel lobby. It wakes him up. A brief silence. He asks me whether I want to go up. Hesitation. I respond that I will wait for him in the lobby. I am not in the least bit offended; surprised a little; flattered somewhat, but interested, I am not. I grab a cup of coffee and the local paper, and settle into one of the plush chairs in the foyer. I pore over the Carmel news with gusto. A local resident has come across a $20 counterfeit bill at Dolores and Ocean which he dutifully turns in to the local authorities. A squirrel has munched his way through the front seat of a car parked at Mission and 7th. A resident on San Antonio finds the tires of her car missing. The culprit turns out to be an ex-boyfriend who has disabled her mode of transportation in exchange for the money she owes him>>>