Lobster Man

In a land where pink trees nudge higher at a bright yellow sky everyday, it's only natural to assume that a lobster man lived there. He had to lobster feed, bright red hard skin and a clamp, his left hand though was completely normal. The man's growing rage was all thrown behind a pair of fierce purple eyes, so his rude heresies never gave away his psychotic personality, nor did his fearsome looks.

The man went to the local pool with no apparent purpose, too friendly, however, to be told off. This kept going for a year or two, until one particularly hellish day; he barged in carrying a large laser gun along with an army of 12 thousand spotted African elephants – all imported from Nepal. Nobody thought much of it, since this ghastly sight was far from odd, in fact it was more like a monthly festival, though meat balls are more commonly used than laser guns. The deformed fellow, however, did not seem to be in a festive mood, quite the opposite in fact, he intended on boiling all the people in the pool to avenge all the lobsters being cruelly boiled alive in gourmet restaurants everywhere. He succeeded.

Except when he shot his laser gun in the air, it hit the city's central water pipe thus flooding its electric station and causing fire to surround it from all sides, blocking any emergency vehicles that attempted to get through. With the intense heatwave, no water for sanitation and no electricity, diseases break out causing parasites to eat away people’s brains. Meanwhile, the fire keeps spreading furiously; burning down entire cities and basically turning the world into a giant inferno. This naturally produces enormous amounts of carbon monoxide and dioxide causing the depletion of the ozone layer and leaving the Earth prone to all the harmful cosmic rays. Combined with the heat from the fires and its emissions, the very fabric of time and space is torn so all the dead people from the past start flooding the Earth and complaining about how much better their generation was than this one.

The whirl pool of hate and resentment grows to an extent which causes the Earth to turn to a giant baked potato then explode! The people naturally, keep suffocating in space since there is no oxygen, but they can’t die – They keep reviving because of the space-time tear. People end up floating through space flickering between life and death, miserable for all eternity.

-Raya Masoud
Awesome aspiring scientist and more importantly, lazy and crazy

Source: Williamsburg Art & Historical Center, USA

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The Curse of the Caste

I’m an urban boy. I love big cities with their fumy exhausts, historical monuments, rude people, wide wealth gaps, disgusting public transportation and chic restaurants. After the excruciating process of taking my IGCSE examinations this May in Cairo where the sirens and whistles are sometimes too loud for you to be able to think, I decided to visit my grandma in Alexandria which contrasts with Cairo the way New Jersey contrasts with New York.

After visiting the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, the Alexandria museum of Art and watching The Hangover 3 in a local cinema, I decided that what I was missing was yoghurt slush, a drink Alexandria is notoriously known for, on one of the rustic cafes located right by the Mediterranean. The experience was one of immense delightfulness as the scent of salt air surrounded me all over. When the waiter brought over the yoghurt slush, I said ‘merci’ instead of ‘shukran’ and expected a moment of awkwardness. Weirdly enough, I was treated to ‘De Rien’. One thing led to another and soon enough we were talking. The young waiter of twenty-something apparently spoke three languages, went to law school and ended up working as a waiter because he couldn’t find a job and the entry level salary for lawyers was less than that of a waiter.

As I walked home, I couldn’t help but wonder about the Egyptian social system. Law school graduates from my social class, which your average sociologist will define as upper middle class, graduate from college and are supported by their parents throughout until they reach that point in their lives when they are finally ready enough to support themselves. That got me thinking, has the caste system or income discrimination really been eliminated or are we merely living a more discreet form of it? Is success in the world truly based on personal achievement alone, or are the depths of our parents’ or our own pockets the real deciders of whether we shall make it or break it in our futures?

Unemployment rates, nationwide, may be on the rise but that isn’t stopping everyone who society defines as ‘rich’ or ‘classy’ from effortlessly landing jobs through family connections with the C.E.O. of a multinational company or the renowned dentist who plays golf with one’s father in the community club. Could this be the root cause of the slackness, laziness and plain failure that is the ubiquitous complaint in most of workplaces today?

To everyone’s misfortune, the issue doesn’t just affect the individual in question, but the other person who was worthy of the job but didn’t have enough contacts, and more importantly, the economy as a whole bending in his or her favor. This is what has lead to the failure of our society today.

Why don’t we treat everyone for the assets that they bring to society rather than for the surnames, since they’re such an obvious indication of where we come from? Isn’t that what made first world countries become what they are today? Sure, if we’re taking Egypt as an example, even though it is my understanding that issues of the sort occur elsewhere as well, a huge part of the reason that upper middle class individuals are picked over those of a lower social class is the fact that upper middle class individuals are actually higher educated, but isn’t that to blame on the dismal conditions of public education in most third world countries? It all goes back to corruption, which is an issue I’ll be addressing later this summer.

It is not an unheard of notion- you eliminate caste and society will become a better place. Survival of the fittest is how the world was meant to be, not survival of the richest!

-Adam Ashraf

Untouchability, a solemn critique of the now outlawed Indian caste system by prominent artist and former Dalit (or 'Untouchable') Savi Savarkar

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Just Another Day at School

Dumb people walking in slow motion surround me, they remind me of stranded sheep. I throw away the dirty cloth I used to clean the dried blood off my custom-made baseball bat that had nearly 127 one-inch nails attached to it…pure beauty. It did take a while to do that though; I should probably use Dettol next time. I lift the loose-hanging bandanna around my neck to cover my nose, eyes and chin, then I tighten it firmly.

The electric guitar intro starts; I lunge through the Brain-Dead crowd and start bashing heads with this beautiful instrument of mine, perfectly timing it with the beat of the drums. I keep swinging and bludgeoning, pouring all my imprisoned, suppressed rage on them. I enjoyed every moment of it, the music is so loud! The drums are smashing hard; the electric guitar is playing so fast, it's insane! Pure madness!

I'm hitting so savagely now, as if I'm possessed by Satan himself. I start laughing uncontrollably, quickly getting hysterical, until I'm interrupted by the abrupt pause in the music and then a calm, tranquil song plays; I stand confused for a fraction of a second, before I'm snapped back to reality in my normal school uniform sitting peacefully on a bench alone, with my headphones on, while the students go to and fro in all directions just before they leave school. The song is still playing. I look down at the source of music in my hand, which is my phone, and read the name on the screen…"Mum".

"Yeah, Mum?" I answer.

"I'm not going to pick you up after school today, take a cab and come home, okay?"

"Sure, see ya", and I hang up the phone, to find the same dirty cloth I used to clean my bat in the other hand; I sigh and think to myself, "I seriously need to see a doctor.", then I throw the cloth away and blend into the crowd, resisting the slight urge to smash the face of a student with a forceful punch, until I make it out of the school of the school gates and find my way home.

"Upon writing this small story, I've reflected upon my dark, dreadful days in my old school. Back then I had a very chaotic, rash mentality; since it has been a very morose period of my life. I've always had violent thoughts, and had almost no friends preferring solitude. I've always looked at things from one perspective; making me miss out on a lot of things…

But, after revolting on my previous lifestyle, I've thought about temporarily resurrecting it, and try to write about how I've really been like back then. I guess that's what I got…"
- Nader Mohamed Ghoneim

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Chains of Glass- Part 4

"19, 19 had died in that bombing. 17 of them were adults, probably parents. 17 parents had been blown into bits, ripped apart, piece by piece, mutilated like some insignificant lifeless toy, like my glass box. And something had whispered in my mind then, “Only 19?”

I threw up.

It had taken them thirteen hours to piece my mother together."

(Continue reading Part 3 here, or skip straight to Part 1)

Have you ever wondered, when you look at where you stand, how exactly it is you got there, as if it were impossible for you to trace your own steps? How you ever felt, while you stare out a window, as if everything beyond was completely unfamiliar, no matter how many times you might have witnessed it before? Have you ever pondered, as you examine your own partial reflection in the glass, who it is staring back at you, as if you’ve never known that person to begin with?

It is not like I had once never imagined who I’d be, where I’d be or what I’d become. It is just that now that I am here, ten years past, nothing is like I ever thought, or could ever think it would be.

Standing behind glass had once been my protection. It’s funny how they had once thought, how I had once believed that would somehow shield me, us, from the brutality and suffering we felt defined everything without. Had we forgotten, or had we simple not known then, that seeing that pain and misery we cringed about could never protect us from feeling it? Or had it never occurred to us that the venom we wished to escape couldn’t somehow creep through the glass and find its way into our souls as the very apathy that allowed us to witness it all unfold each day as nothing but hopeless bystanders?



Bricks lie where swirls of dust storms had once danced. Gravel covers the earth that crumbles of rock, debris and destruction had long claimed. Concrete sediments over footsteps that had once trodden the path, usually as they scrambled away, far far away from here.

Now, new ones cover it instead- fresh, firm and determined. They move in the opposite direction, in singles and pairs, no match for the droves that once preceded them. Yet progress is slow, if not painful, but as they cast a sideways glance at the window through which I see them, and we share a split-second’s smile of true, pure relish- we both know then, that no matter what lies ahead- no one shall ever have to scale those mountains alone again.

Banksy's iconic 'Balloon Girl', one among a series of wall paintings to adorn several streets of London since 2002

-concluded-
Bushra Ali

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Think Again!

Summer… it’s that amazing time of the year when we get to embrace the hobbies that we barely get to practice year-long, well at least, for people who are too lazy to get a job, like me. Earlier this week, as I got to reading The Phantom of the Opera for the third time around, my father pulled a little intervention on me to force me out of my profound introversion. We ended up visiting my great-aunt, a Turk of sixty-something who was born and raised in Egypt and has come to know me as the toddler she babysat fifteen years ago when my parents went out on date night.

A long conversation with her got me pondering about choices, opportunities and determination. The result is this article. As a celebration of ‘Show, don't tell’, here is her story in her own words.

“I was born in 1951 on the outskirts of Cairo to a rich family, a family of circus performers.  My father was a clown; my mother used to hang on the aerial trapeze, my uncle was a juggler and grandpa was the ring master. We were rich, but lacked intellect. Many members of the family were illiterate. Cursing, abandoning kids for careers and more was common within us. Our family was the sort who had it all easy. I never fit in the scene. I always felt like I was on the fringe and a feeling of self-hatred built up within me. When I hit puberty, a time at which we start getting trained for a life in the circus, our family was shocked to find how clumsy I was. I lacked acrobatic skills and I could barely jump the rope. I suppose it had something to do with the fact that I was subconsciously unwilling.

Being the disappointment that my father saw in me, I was sent to live with a distant aunt who didn’t engage in the family business. Until this point, I had received not just enough education to make me functionally illiterate, but my craving for intellect was strong. That didn’t change the fact that I was destined for illiteracy. I there met her homeschooled son, who was my age too. Since my father never paid my aunt to hire me a tutor, I didn’t have the opportunity to share his but the first day I saw a tutor walk in, I saw an opportunity so I listened at the door.

Over the next couple of weeks, I saved my dismal allowance to buy books that would prepare me for the checkpoint examination done in sixth grade, through which I could go to high school. Back then, attending school up to sixth grade wasn’t required to take the checkpoint examination. I would listen at the door to the tutor everyday and spend all night studying. I ended up passing the test with a higher score then the boy who had all the opportunity in the world.

I finished high school and went to Law School; back then higher education was free. I graduated and worked for the government until I retired two years ago after getting my Masters and climbing the career ladder up to the position of undersecretary.”

Source: Unknown

After listening to this, I was struck. I couldn’t help but wonder, where would this woman be had she had my share of luck growing up in a decent society, studying in a lavish school where my biggest worry was whether I can afford an iPad soon? It got me to look at life from a new perspective. Shouldn’t I prove to the world that I deserve the lifestyle I was blessed with?

This story will definitely remain with me for life as it stands as a beacon of hope when hope is shattered and represents a quote I have always cherished, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way”. So the next time you think your upcoming SAT, sports game or interview, will be challenging, think of her, then think again!

-Adam Ashraf

Catch more of Adam's random, insightful ramblings on his column 'Adam's Ecstasy'. You may also write back your thoughts and reflections directly to him at adamashraf97@hotmail.com.

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Pain, He Who Works Unpredictably

I have lived a life now for not too long but much to understand quite a lot of aspects of pain. Pain is not what we all think it is. Pain does not come from disasters we think will hurt us. Pain is not planned. To be clear, you cannot exactly expect yourself to know beforehand if a certain problematic situation or tragedy will sink you in pain.

People are usually called sensitive towards problems that often are not or might not be something most others react to with severe negativity. I would like to say something I tell my friends and people around me all the time. Everyone has their own meaning to any emotion. Not every lady falls for the charming, young man opposite their cubical at work. Not every man walks around seeking a female to take home for fun. So why must I get blamed for the happenings that bring me into tears and the ones which do not?

Emotion is not something that is necessarily felt with tears or laughs. I might cry if my grandfather talks about his last days but I might not the day he goes upstairs. You might fall in melancholy when your favorite singer gets injured. People will accuse you of being a dramatic, weak human, what not. But just maybe, this singer was the ‘unimportant’ reason you are still alive. The days you were almost more than half way out of your window or the days you possibly would not have gotten out of the bathroom sooner or even the days when suddenly the knife in your kitchen felt symbolic, his or her songs were there for you. The songs which contained words no other could sing better. The songs which made you smile just in one beat or melody, the songs which, word by word, sunk your heart into so many colorful feelings, that is something the accusers and criticizers will never understand.

It is our duty not to fight back the critics but imply, they are probably suffering pain as great as ours. As to defending their own heart, they have a tendency to torment others. Maybe, making others feel a little less satisfied with their life will help in making theirs’ better is what they inwardly think behind the shell of what we call innocence. Pain makes you stronger, the bigger it gets.‘You must not let pain get the better of you’ is a saying which has been heard quite a lot of times but never been clearly listened to.

For all the people suffering for whatever reason they feel, remember, this indifferent world is only testing you for your hardship and strength. Your hardship and strength is what lies deep beneath the feet of Pain that has grown stronger by time. Unleash it by walking over Pain that itself diligently awaits your defeat against him. On top of all, show the critics a good example of what they even are capable and of how they too can omit the anger and despite and indulge in joy once again.

-Iman Javed

Burger Aficionado. Crazy but Preppy Muggle. 

Heartless Angel by Jason Covert

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One Short Day...

In the life of Adam Ashraf, 20 years from now...

Even after nearly a year living in the penthouse my spouse and I bought when Sarah turned two, the panoramic view from the expansive window pane never fails to take my breath away. The sight of every skyscraper looking back at me from my Upper West Side castle in the sky continues to tantalize me. It was what drove me to move to the city from across the world to begin with, after high school, exactly two decades ago. Yet, having been raised in an urban environment myself, it was not the steel erections on their own that appealed to me. In fact, what did was the grandeur of the city with all its theaters, art galleries, fashion shows, club openings, so on and so forth. For a young writer trying to break out of the preordained shell he was fixated in with all its third world constraints, it wasn’t just a good place to be. It was THE place to be. Even when I was living with two roommates in Harlem during college, I never regretted falling for the Big Apple one bit.

My cell phone buzzes right after I switch it on, a status that only remains twelve hours a day since, unlike fellow editors at Vanity Fair, I like to maintain a good balance between career and family life. Aishwarya, my assistant, was calling to confirm the dinner and Broadway reservation that I had made for Taylor and I to celebrate our anniversary and to tell me that the babysitter taking care of Sarah was coming at seven. I wore my Calvin Klein shirt and denim Levi’s bottoms (it was casual Friday), kissed Taylor and Sarah goodbye and took my daily two-and-a-half mile walk to the Theater District. Even though the limousine could come and pick me up from home, since I hated working out I thought the least I could do was take the daily one hour walk during the chilling winter while sipping on my tall Starbucks latte.

In my office Aishwarya, the one person who knows where everything is placed more than I do, hands me over ‘The Book’, the mock-up of our upcoming issue. I flip to the eight pages I am in charge of, the Hollywood and Culture sections, contact Carrie, the theatre critique who never fails to miss her deadline and then saunter off for a meeting with Iman Ali, a longtime friend who also currently happens to be the Editor in Chief of Vanity Fair and, therefore, my boss.

Later in the day, I make it a point to catch up with Elizabeth, the editor of first novella who tells me that I’m going to have to make a trip to Paris later in the winter since an extra 500,000 copies happened to be swept off the shelf there and appearing for a book signing could only make it better. Despite my explicit instructions, Aishwarya keeps buzzing my phone so I pick up to snap at her. Only, she breaks into an animated frenzy first to deliver the earth-shattering news that an article contrasting the works of Miller and Williams I had penned for The New Yorker had just won the Pulitzer for Criticism! Considering the only time I have ever came close to winning any accolade of such prestige was when I was nominated for the ‘Best Book of a Musical’ Tony Award in 2027, this was, indeed, a momentous accomplishment! I immediately text Taylor and mentally plan to use the cash prize to take Taylor and Sarah on a surprise trip to Disneyworld during the upcoming spring break! It was time my little baby saw the beauty of it! Being both children at heart, that was where Taylor and I had had our honeymoon.

At about four, I head back to the office to interview a prospective writer for the magazine. In my heart of hearts, I was pegging lots of hope on him since he was an Ivy Leaguer. Once the interview is over though, I laugh hysterically remembering the days when being an Ivy Leaguer actually meant something. As Veronica, a good friend of mine who currently works as a guidance counselor drops by to meet me at the office, a feeling of déjà vu sweeps through my mind as I recall the time we both first met in eighth grade back in Dubai. Things were so different then. But the only things I took with me from my old life were family and friends, I even left my name behind! After Veronica leaves, some writers come in wanting advice about content, wondering if certain content is appropriate for the magazine’s vision. I smile as I see the look of admiration in their eyes, and remember the little boy who questioned if he could do any of it twenty years ago.

Later that night, Taylor and I decide to go out for dinner at Sardi’s, my favorite restaurant, and then we head to the Imperial to watch the revival of Les Misérables which opened in 2014, making it the second longest running show on Broadway, after The Phantom of the Opera. As always, the show is amazing. Chris Colfer plays the role of Jean Valjean now. We surprise Sarah by telling her about the mystical Disneyworld and she ecstatically runs around her room. Once we have finally managed to somehow subdue her excitement and tuck her in, Taylor and I contentedly slump down into our own bed, ready to conclude this perfect day.

- Adam Ashraf

P.S. The story’s title is homage to the song of the same name composed by Stephen Schwartz for bestselling Broadway musical, Wicked.

How would one day in your life a few decades from now be, if you were permitted to have it any way you like? Tweet or post #Onedayinmylife and #HASH on Facebook, or simply write to us at hashthemag@gmail.com to let us know!

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