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The Write City Magazine

Current Issue


October 9, 2017



by Shaheen Ashraf-Ahmed


Cyclists on the Golden Gate Bridge on Sunday

Sausage-skinned glutes and
candy colored helmets skimmer
past my wobbling wheels.
I feel no kinship —while mass
and gravity teeter
on the hard fulcrum of my seat,
the pros knife past shouting
“On your left!”,
an FYI, not imperative but
no less martial.
A moment of suspense:
at the towers all are forced
to slow down by the crowds
and the cyclists become
dragonflies among the reeds,
flitting in iridescent colors
around the bellows of families
holding hands, circling blocks
of people awe-struck stock still
in the viewing bays, held fast
by tiny boats skittering
across the blue below until,
peeling off, they whiz
and whir away, darting across the bay
in a blur, torso pressed to handlebars,
all hard, fast intent, passing past.


Dead Weight

This is my flesh. I strain the seams
of your belief, bursting your corseting
standard of beauty. I disappoint you.
Larger than life, you will not make room
for the corpulent joy of me, but sharpen
your laughter to drive through me like spears.
My being weighs heavily on your secret fears.
I stalk your nightmares wearing your face.

Each year the fad slices another inch
from the holocaust silhouette of perfection,
but I will not disappear for your sake.
Your famine-struck idols are dizzy on their pedestals,
bleating condescension. Your starving, snarling
gym-hounds are baying for blood,
but the thin person inside me screaming for rescue
has your voice, not mine.
I swallow life whole and spit the pips at you.
I have let myself go and it is glorious.


A Wake-Up Call

Your ringing pain tears us
from sleep’s loving arms.
A voice crackles over the line,
evil tones of half-heard sorrow.
The receiver clicks like a trigger
and your shoulders close around you
like a stone slab.
My fingers try to grasp you back
from your cold tomb
but your shirt is a dead thing in my hand.
Clutching the sheet, I dangle
over the widening chasm of minutes,
my mouth full of rocks.
You look at me and somewhere I hear the sharp
crack of ice and suddenly you coil
around me, under me, through me and we’re falling
breathlessly in a heavy musk of ether,
wrapping the bone-dry night in a warm, dark rush.



Shaheen was born in England and spent some of her childhood in India. She has been previously published in the Cadbury’s Book of Children’s Poetry and Tomorrow magazine. Shaheen won a national essay competition and her winning work was published in Nadopasana One, the cultural magazine of the Indian High Commission of London. She has three short stories and a novella published on Amazon. Her novella, A Deconstructed Heart, was chosen for discussion by the DesiLit book group in Chicago.





The Write City Magazine is published by the Chicago Writers Association. We welcome quality poetry, fiction and nonfiction, including short stories, personal essays, op-eds, biographies, autobiographies, memoirs, interviews, play and novel excerpts (if self-contained), plus writing tips and resources. 

Submission guidelines: Include your full name, the title of your submission, your email address, and website link (if available) plus a personal photograph and a short 150 word bio. Include the title of your piece in the Subject line. While submissions previously published on personal blogs are acceptable, we do not accept submissions previously published in other publications.We pay prose submissions $25 and poetry submissions $10 upon publication.

Prose: Submit no more than one prose piece at a time. Prose should be single-spaced, Times New Roman font, and no longer than 1,500 words.

Poetry: Submit no more than three poems at a time. Poems should be single-spaced in a Times New Roman font.

Email submission to: editorwritecitymag@chicagowrites.org. Please keep in mind that submissions may be edited.