“Good stuff,” he said, not looking at anyone in particular. “All I want is good stuff. Nothing more, nothing less. I want my little bit of sweet, and to have it more than the bitter. Way more.” Jeffrey Mistlethorpe had not yet realized the calamity of the situation he was in. It was the sort of calamity that takes time to dawn on its victim. A calamity of proportions so great that only its shadow was seen by Jeffrey.

Once, there was a moment that surrendered to eternity. Like all moments before it, this particular moment was not made to last. At least that’s what everyone thought at first. In a medley of love and hate, defeat and triumph, lies and retribution; the moment came about. It looked at the blue sky patched with fluffy white clouds and asked, “what is it that makes me so…so momentous?” The sky of course, being a sky, didn’t answer.

Ladby Larabee (which some of you mistakenly read as Lady Larabee) was an ordinary man as far as ordinary men went: he was not dashingly handsome in any sense, nor was he hard to look at; he was not talented in any way, nor was he an idiot. Ladby Larabee was simply average. His outlook on life, though, was not average to say the least. In the morning, Larabee woke up his soul with a prayer and his body with a shower.

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.

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_.

“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.

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.

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.

“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 reverence.

“Life’s not a cookie. It’s not like that, Yousif. Besides, an Oreo is way too complicated to be called a cookie.”

“No it isn’t, it’s a cookie. Looks like one, says so on the pack too.”

“Look at that Oreo. It’s a damn cake compared to a cookie.”

“It’s a cookie, Ameer,” he says.

“No, Yousif, it’s a philosophy,” I say, not looking at him, rather at steam rising from my coffee.

Yousif’s my colleague. He sits in a coveted vubicle, a cubicle next to a window. He has every right to be gung-ho. He has every right to call an Oreo a cookie. Or a philosophy.

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.

He ran as fast as he could. He took a new jogging route. Instead of the usual coastal front, he decided to head towards the village center. The sun poured down its light like melted gold, silhouetting the vehicles, lampposts, trees and structures. The air was still–there was no humidity nor breeze. He made a trail of dust on the unpaved roadside as his cross trainers struck ground. The village was smaller than he had originally anticipated.

“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.

“Fact of fiction,” the man with the funny red polka dots hat says, “fact of fiction is what it is!” “Fact or fiction?” I say, correcting him. “Fact of fiction!” He giggles and interjects nonsensical sounds into his speech. “Eeh, hee, wee-yoo! Fact of fiction! Eee-yoooo!” “Right, so, fact of fiction? What does it mean?” “Oh, so many things, so many little things, so many big things,” he says. His hands stretch in all directions, spiraling upwards and downwards.

Layal took small steps. She looked across a field of rubble, befallen houses and distressed foliage. “In that house, in that house,” she said, pointing with her arm outstretched at what remained of Uncle Sharif’s two storey mansion, “in that house my uncle, my three cousins, his wife and mother stayed. “The enemy jets flew past, not missing a single house in their onslaught. The roof caved in in the attack, crushing them as they scrambled for safety…by daybreak the rescue teams retrieved the bodies…and I…I saw…” she almost collapsed if not for Hassan, an aid worker, by her side.

There once was a boy who was constantly told how to be, how to do and how to grow up. On television, MTV told him to wear lose parachute pants, spike up his hair and lyricise suggestive words. In the theater, movies told him to act suave and to accept everything and anything as the truth. In bookshops, supermarket bestsellers told him to acknowledge the absurd. On the street, drivers rushed passed him, showing him that life had no time for quiet solitude.

Emily died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. In a rather terrifying manner involving a slippery staircase, a glass pane and high heeled Jimmy Choos. At first, Steve wanted her back. If that wasn’t possible, then he was going to join her. Still, he never felt death reach out with its claws to grapple that soul of his. Which made him wonder whether his soul fled, never to be caught, or whether he was yet to see what was to become of him.

What better way to pass a lazy Friday afternoon than Photoshopping some old travel photos? The basis for the image above is a snap I took while crossing from Dubai to the Omani border a couple of years ago. The cars, falconer, camels, jets, coffee stain, grocery list and note scribble, folds and other effects are all Photoshop magic! The original base image is this: What in the world is Wunderistan?

Last year at Caesars Atlantic City I met three girls: Chance, Fate and Faith. We played poker. Chance said, “sometimes life doesn’t give us what we want. We just have to take what we get. This doesn’t mean we’ve got no choice in our dealings. We can always take things with a pinch of salt, with reluctance or with outright contempt.” Fate said, “we might fail to see the significance of the hand being dealt to us.

Everybody thought Jeb Morton committed suicide. Yet no one wanted to believe Jeb Morton committed suicide. Jeb would never do such a thing! The poor bastard, he had so much going for him. What? Suicide? But why? Disbelief aside, Jeb knew the day was coming. The day when he would finally have the courage to control his own destiny. I’m packing up and leaving, ma! Old Man Redder used to say that we’re dying the minute we’re born.

Blurb Derivitive? Blatantly. Contrived? For sure. Fun? I think so. Have a read if you will. I began writing this while surrounded by a cacophony of text message notifications and cellphone chatter… “Books?” the young man of ten said, looking at his uncle. “Why would anyone use them when you can use a cortexbox?” “You don’t use books, Kamal. You read them,” Uncle Sharif said. “Read them? You mean like word after word, like in the old days?

_The following vignette is fiction, including the quotation. _ I looked out the window on this cool spring day, thinking of how mother used to enjoy days like this. I remembered Fridays at our villa. Mother would take the opportunity of unusually good weather to walk in the garden. “Our villa’s garden,” she would say, “go out there and enjoy it people, go enjoy the garden that’s right there waiting for you.

Riffaz had more crap on his face than a city pavement. “I didn’t know you could pierce your eyelids,” I said. Anything’s possible,” Riffaz said. His eyeballs almost dislodged from their sockets as he spoke. “Yes,” I said. Yes. That’s all. Yes, and nothing more. I didn’t know whether Riffaz realized the humor of this situation. In my ever so innocence, I have faltered to identify myself with my new acquaintance.

“It’s all about sex, you know,” said Salman as he watched the news. “What’s sex got to do with it?” Khaled said. “Y Neurons fired across the ridges, troughs and peaks of his mind’s landscape. “What the…” he said. He looked at the mirror, at his bleeding nose, bloodshot eyes and his tired face. What happened to me, he thought. Kyler Torsen could not recall where he was

The fifty-something couple had a subtle sweetness of familiar passion about them. You could see it from a mile. They’d walk together, not always hand in hand, but you knew that their heart was one. They were mom and dad. They were Mr. and Mrs. Murad. “I met her at work,” dad once said, “she was the most graceful person to walk between the cubicles.” He loved retelling the first few months of knowing mom.