The Man in the Corner
By
Zahra Fatimie
There's a man in the corner.
She decides to ignore that, setting her first-line indent to 18 pt instead. Next, she looks for double spacing—no, no, she should keep that. It's much more satisfying to do that at the end—a false sense of achievement and all that.
The man is still in the corner.
Briefly, the Girl wonders if that's even a man. No, she shakes her head and moves on, scrolling down another list of calls for submission. Horror—no, she couldn't write horror (is that something dark in the corner of her eye.) No, the Girl blinks; it is daytime. Maybe she could do a haiku, that's easy, no?
The man wears a trench coat.
She finds that to be an interesting fashion choice. The Girl wonders if he'll disappear if she turns her head entirely. So, she does (should her neck twist at such an angle—), and he's gone. The Girl blinks and turns back to the screen of her laptop.
It is bright, perhaps too much for daytime, but that doesn't matter. She could write a quick poem, something about Romeo and Juliet, three lines—that's what got Atticus famous, isn't it? Or maybe it isn't, she reflects. (She's guilty of this too, three incomprehensible lines on a twenty-four-hour story.)
The man is back.
The Girl supposes that's not a bad thing. At least he doesn't talk. They do say that hearing voices is on the brink of insanity--or is that when you're too far gone? Maybe she is, though. Ergo cogito sum didn't do much to convince her, anyway. Is it madness or human to hear voices, to exist on a plane that doesn't feel real?
The man wears a fedora.
Now this, this is ridiculous. The Girl laughs, bending over her too-short desk and clutching her stomach. She's mad, mad, and insane, and all the other words the Hatter used (that always was her favorite book.) Is he Death, she wonders, or a Grim Reaper? Is she crazy or about to die?
The man does not move.
She turns her head; he is gone again.
When the shouting starts downstairs, glass cracks and smashes on the floor and the walls. There's that telltale sound—keys, I'll be damned if I come back. Ah, and again, a thunk of an ugly wooden bowl tossed on the ground. The thing's impenetrable.
The man is behind her when the Girl stands and shuts the door. When she turns, he's gone again. And when she sits, he's back in the corner.
There's a man in the corner.
The Girl decides to ignore him.
Zahra Fatimie was born and raised in Kabul, Afghanistan. She began writing at a young age but started sharing her work in 2021. She is now nineteen years old and no longer resides in Afghanistan. Zahra posts her poetry on her social media and has been published by Coffee and Conversations, an online magazine. You can find Zahra on Instagram as @zahrafatimie.
By
Zahra Fatimie
There's a man in the corner.
She decides to ignore that, setting her first-line indent to 18 pt instead. Next, she looks for double spacing—no, no, she should keep that. It's much more satisfying to do that at the end—a false sense of achievement and all that.
The man is still in the corner.
Briefly, the Girl wonders if that's even a man. No, she shakes her head and moves on, scrolling down another list of calls for submission. Horror—no, she couldn't write horror (is that something dark in the corner of her eye.) No, the Girl blinks; it is daytime. Maybe she could do a haiku, that's easy, no?
The man wears a trench coat.
She finds that to be an interesting fashion choice. The Girl wonders if he'll disappear if she turns her head entirely. So, she does (should her neck twist at such an angle—), and he's gone. The Girl blinks and turns back to the screen of her laptop.
It is bright, perhaps too much for daytime, but that doesn't matter. She could write a quick poem, something about Romeo and Juliet, three lines—that's what got Atticus famous, isn't it? Or maybe it isn't, she reflects. (She's guilty of this too, three incomprehensible lines on a twenty-four-hour story.)
The man is back.
The Girl supposes that's not a bad thing. At least he doesn't talk. They do say that hearing voices is on the brink of insanity--or is that when you're too far gone? Maybe she is, though. Ergo cogito sum didn't do much to convince her, anyway. Is it madness or human to hear voices, to exist on a plane that doesn't feel real?
The man wears a fedora.
Now this, this is ridiculous. The Girl laughs, bending over her too-short desk and clutching her stomach. She's mad, mad, and insane, and all the other words the Hatter used (that always was her favorite book.) Is he Death, she wonders, or a Grim Reaper? Is she crazy or about to die?
The man does not move.
She turns her head; he is gone again.
When the shouting starts downstairs, glass cracks and smashes on the floor and the walls. There's that telltale sound—keys, I'll be damned if I come back. Ah, and again, a thunk of an ugly wooden bowl tossed on the ground. The thing's impenetrable.
The man is behind her when the Girl stands and shuts the door. When she turns, he's gone again. And when she sits, he's back in the corner.
There's a man in the corner.
The Girl decides to ignore him.
Zahra Fatimie was born and raised in Kabul, Afghanistan. She began writing at a young age but started sharing her work in 2021. She is now nineteen years old and no longer resides in Afghanistan. Zahra posts her poetry on her social media and has been published by Coffee and Conversations, an online magazine. You can find Zahra on Instagram as @zahrafatimie.
