Or Am I just Wrong? (Nora Keshk, Visionaries)

I looked up at the moon as thoughts creeped into my mind. I stood in silence all night, wondering. The stars shined so bright while I asked myself a million questions. Would you come back soon? Where have you gone? Have you forgotten me? Or am I just wrong?
I remembered the times we hugged and laughed, running in the wind while our eyes filled with joy. The day you left was the worst; I felt the pain hit me so hard, it felt like a knife stabbing me. Where have you gone? Why did you leave? Do you remember me? Or am I just wrong?
Days, weeks, months, and even years have passed since I last saw you. I've stopped the race, but I need to keep going. Where have you gone? Will you ever come back? Have you left me behind? Or am I just wrong?

The Impossible Recovery (Salma Gamal)

   Early in the morning by her work time, she walked down the gates towards her car, her silky black hair flowing as a running river and her unruffled blue eyes shining as the ray of the sun; however, they were a deep ocean of pain and sorrow. She grabbed the keys out of her messy bag and then suddenly returned them again. No turning engines or driving along the typical road to her work everyday at the same time. She is early today and she is just going to walk, killing that routine that is taking away pieces of her soul every passing day. She started wandering off the street and began looking around her as if she is a child walking alone for the first time. She tried not to remember what the secret of the breach in her eyes is, but how this may happen? It is something essential in her life now, as the air she breathes. No day comes without this reminding her of how dramatic life is. She silenced her thoughts and then smiled,a smile of those who are fooled. She kept walking until her head was about to explode.

"Why did it happen to me?", "Why when I thought that my life is completely perfect did it suddenly prove to me the opposite?", "Why did the love of my life turn out to be the source of my pain?", and "Why is society just the scale for measuring anything?"...

She collapsed by a near seat and started sobbing hardly. She doesn't want her futile work anymore, she doesn't want that look of sympathy from everyone around her and the pity feeling they feel for her, she doesn't want to rely on her parents, or even prove to everyone around her that "Yeah life is perfect and it goes on"; she just hated life, love, and everything that would turn out to be a deceiving lie by time.... She gazed at her left hand, and thought about the missing ring, her divorced husband and all the past 3 months. She started then remembering every single detail of those disastrous months. The continuous fights they had, her husband who was turning into a monster day by day, and finally the continuous hitting that caused her to lose her baby. She sank in her tears again. She is lost and taken. She is no longer that optimistic person; her personality is replaced with a void one. She doesn't know how to face that cruel side of life. She is stuck between her awfully past life and her ill-defined current one with her fractured body and soul. Why was she so stupid?, Why did she trust the belief that yeah, he is "The man of her dreams?", Why did she just convince herself that affection will solve everything?, and finally why could even someone hit and kill a specially blessed piece of him?

A lot of "Why's" struck her mind into pieces, and then she stopped thinking for a second, took a deep healing breath and then looked around her. She found nothing but some serene people who seem to be so in peace with their lives that they woke up at that early time and are just enjoying those empty streets. There is something peaceful and magical about morning times that she never felt, and probably will never feel. How she strongly wished to be as tranquil and as comforted as those people. She laughed then; hope has no way in her cracked soul; yeah, she is starving for any glimpse of light that may turn her life better to the other way, but it just seemed impossible. She wants a baby girl that looks exactly like her, she wants a loving husband that would plant a kiss on her cheek every morning and give her flowers every night, she wanted to have a house with a gigantic library and a garden so she could her share her passion of dogs and books with her mate, she just wanted to live in a peacefully loving house, a simple wish any woman dream of, but she is no longer a normally dreaming woman; she is just an isolated, depressed one whose dreams seem to be some myths of the past.

She kept examining everyone meticulously. A young couple, who seem eternally happy, staring at the sky with its glowing sun, a mum smiling with her daughter as they walk to school, an old woman by the corner of the street feeding the joyfully flying pigeons, a young teenage girl sitting in a nearby seat, reading a book, seeming to completely sink in its events, and finally a middle-aged man walking with his dog. She envied them all; they are all carrying portions of the simple wishes that would enhance her dying soul. She kept thinking about each of them and imagined herself in their places. No way! It will never happen. Then suddenly she found a dog jumping on her lap, as if it wants some pampering. She was shocked then slightly started smiling and played with that cute dog. Her harsh thoughts were vanishing as the dog kept moving and bouncing around her. Then she heard a heavenly soft voice that rang in her ears: "Ma'am, I'm really sorry if Spikey has annoyed you; he just loves to play around with everyone!"

She smiled to the unknown man, whose eyes tell that he has passed a plight similar to hers.She slightly examined him. A tall middle-aged man, with black short hair and deep brown eyes. She felt a click in her heart and then she started talking and telling him that it is okay and that she loves dogs so much. They kept talking as if they both have never talked to any human being for ages. She continued on with the conversation, talking about almost everything she loves, and deep in her mind and heart, she knew that this is the omen she is hoping for and that recovery may seem possible by the coming days……

-Salma Gamal
‪#‎GlobeScoutsMag‬

The Mad Man (Noah, Divergent)

Evening, gentlemen. Today we have a case most curious,

Of man who has apparently gone mad.
Now before I start I must remind you of the importance,
To treat this case as serious, and sad.

The man reportedly lost his sanity to "love".
Though we are all aware no such notion exists.
Yet, the man presents an argument most stubborn,
And on his so-called "love" he insists.

He claims to find a sort of gleam in her eyes,
One he cannot in any other pair.
And says it's like, I quote, "dark starry skies".
And on it, he is compelled to stare.

He says he doesn't want to lose her to "shrinks",
When we've made no such statement to his face.
After studies, it seems he doesn't mean us,
But two figures owing existence to his fantasy's grace.

The man also claims feeling butterflies in his stomach,
Though his X-rays indicate nothing of sorts,
He also does not speak that often,
As such is written down in your reports.

Now the man doesn't eat nor drink,
And says her voice is all he now needs.
His leisure is spent with pen and paper.
At times we find him writing, at times he reads.

Therefore, gentlemen, I suggest we laugh while we can.
For we deemed his case beyond repair.
And so he's to be left alone till he's gone.
And when he is, we have to seem like we care.

Take A Risk (Zahraa Modather, Divergent)

And what's life without sorrow,
Without fire or snow?
And what is it like to not suffer,
To not persist and let go?

For If fears faded away,
Life is a barren field.
Vast voids play
Making it dull without shield.

And what if emotions ebb,
If we transformed to be robots?
And what if we take the step,
Towards the sea of nothingness?

If adrenaline withdraw,
Where would actions go?
If there wasn't any gloom
How'd we ever know gratitude?

And how'd we ever taste pleasure
Without any stress or pressure?
And how would our hearts gleam
Without adhering to our dream?

Between bitter and sweet,
Between dryness and sleet
Is where we exist
And why we're alive.

Between dark and light,
Between peace and fight
Is where we grow up
In the school of life.

Why Am I Scared of Writing? (Omar El-Farouk, Visionaries)

Why Am I scared of Writing?

This isn’t a professional article,this isn’t an academic piece either.Dear reader,
the fact that you are reading this right now is only because God was willing for you to do so and I decided to allow you to read it. Of course, someone right now wants to argue about what I just said, but trust me, dude/gal with an opinion, that is right now the correctest, rightest,and absolute bestest way to say what I just said is due to the fact that I was created to choose freely …. Too philosophical for this ….. I digress, anyway.

This won’t follow any rules, as you should have realized by now, and it won’t follow a pattern.It is simply me expressing my feelings and opinions in the way I see fit, so whatever objection you might have whether you voice it emphatically or keep it to yourself,I COULDN’T CARE LESS. Because this article is for me, not you and if it just so happens that I react to your praise or your criticism, you ought to celebrate, for as I wasn’t planning on reacting in the first place.

This isn’t going to be smart, sly and/or persuasive.There are no implied meanings, hidden messages, fine print, or reading between the lines, and just any attempt on your behalf to discuss, analyze, and generally overstate the significance or insignificance of this article will only further and speed up the process of you making a complete and utter FOOL of yourself!

This article is about us and our fear of writing.
You see, dear reader, writing is beautiful; it’s amazing and, truly in every way, magical, for if reading is visiting never-seen-before places and delving deeper into minds, then writing is the creation of all these worlds and minds. To put pen to paper, or, to be more accurate, finger to keyboard  is to create for everyone a portal to feel , live, and be part of something only you had and only you saw, but  writing is scary; it is hard and demanding; it is one of the worst/best talents to have. For you revise everyone’s words and your words (which is really annoying by the way), you're describing everything in your head thoroughly to paint the perfect picture with just enough room for imagination and not enough room for flops, empty spaces or stupid direct description that leaves nothing to the senses, and once more to the imagination. Even though you are actually sitting there, staring at that blue mug ,which sits on the brown wooden table with the single shorter leg on the right, and you can count the water drops that formed on its hot surface since the AC is on, and all through, this you are thinking about your bigger plot points, your smaller plot details that will create the biggest of plot twists , your character development, and the fact that your grammar and punctuation sucks.

It is agonizing and excruciatingly painful not to forget to mention that muses are only up at 5:14 AM when you can barely keep your eyelids open. So, writing is hard, and it requires tons of reading , and not everyone is capable of doing it.Yet, even though, it’s all that; it truly is so satisfying that you are willing to go through all this to have that feeling once more when you publish something and people read it and interact with it.

Like an addict , we are hooked to publishing our pieces; we endure the pain of criticism, and we boast inside of ourselves with a hidden smile with every word of praise we get; we read what we wrote again and again with a sense of achievement, some of us remain humble, others-- it gets to their heads, but put yourself in their shoes, they have created something….. "let that sink in" ….. they have made something out of scratch, whether it was inspired or completely stolen! Yet it's theirs, and it provoked both fans and critics ,which is more than enough because children don’t care if you were correcting them or you were singing their praise as long as they got your full attention, as long as they know you care.


-Omar El-Farouk
#GlobeScoutsMag

Day 1 (Bothina Ayman,Visionaries)

Day 1

Day 1
I don't even know why I'm doing this; honestly, I see it as a total waste of time, but as long as it satisfies her. She gave me this journal yesterday and told me to write every day. 'Write what, exactly?' I asked.
No reply. I only received a raised, questionable eyebrow. How could I forget?
I grabbed her petite hand, placing it on my throat, and asked her yet again 'What do you want me to write?'
Abigail, my dear wife, just shrugged, a simple smile on her rosy lips 'Anything.' She said, 'just…write daily, will you?' She gave me a pleading smile – that smile that tinted the room with endless, jovial colors. That smile that never failed to cease the butterflies in my stomach.
I'm not a writer myself, but I couldn't say no. 'Alright.' I said, earning myself an ear-to-ear grin from my partner. –Abigail retrieved her hands before walking off, leaving me completely perplexed.

Day 2
Second day… and I still don't know what to write. 'think of it as a diary', Abigail commented.
Right. Think of it as a diary. Easy.
…
What do you write in a diary? I've never had one before and I didn't think I'd ever have one. This is harder than I thought.
That day, I entered the living room, seeing Abigail sitting on the cobalt – her favorite color – couch; She was quietly reading a book, in which I recall, that was borrowed from her sister, Carla. I took a seat beside her and I immediately asked her 'Is this really necessary?'
Yet receiving no reply. Why do I keep forgetting?! I dig up a note and a pen from a drawer beside me, writing down my previous question, then shoved the paper in front of her topaz eyes, which immediately widened in surprise. Abigail quickly scanned the words, while miming the words under her breath.
Abigail rolled her eyes disappointingly 'Yes.'
'But why?!' I pouted. She hummed questionably. I write down the simple question then gave her the paper. She read the words with quick eyes, then abruptly casted me a heartbreaking gaze. My heart thumbed against my chest, as if blaming me for saddening my frail wife.
Abigail set aside the book 'I'm not asking you to write a suicide note, Simon' her voice honeyed with distress, 'I'm simply telling you to write what's on your mind, is that too much to ask?'
Yes.
'No.' I huffed, while shaking my head for her to understand.
'Alright then.' She said, ending the argument. In the corner my eyes, I saw a smirk of victory on her lips.
And then it hit me. Right. Puppy eyes. Drama queen…

Day 3
Why did have to happen to her? Of all people, why her? It could've been me, it could've been Carla, but fate just had to brutalize Abigail.
Today, when I came back from work, I saw…nothing. Literally actually. The lights were off and it was utterly quiet. However, my eyes spot a dim light impending from the kitchen. I entered further and I hear soft sobs. I stood at the doorway of the kitchen to see my beloved Abigail, sitting on the counter, a pool of used tissues beneath her dangling feet.
Her face was hidden behind curtains of blonde hair, but I catch a tear sliding down her cheek and descended on her hand. And as if sensing my presence, her head shot up, darting swollen, red eyes at me. She quickly wiped her tears, sending me a fake smile. I approached her slowly, as I pull out a pen from my breast pocket.
Since I couldn't find a paper, I wrote on the palm of my hand, then held it out for her to see 'what did I do this time?'
Her frown shifted to a smile and a laugh erupted from her lips 'Surprisingly, nothing.'
I wrote down another question on the back of my hand 'Then, what's wrong?'
Abigail stared lazily at my hand, then pointed at her ears. At first, I didn't understand the gesture, but then what she said next haunted me: 'I miss the noise,' She gave a small pause 'which is ironic, since I never liked loud noises, but now, I want to listen to everything around me.' She looked down at her hands, clutching on a tissue 'from that annoying dog in the 10th floor to the hushed steps of ants'
But she can't.
'But most importantly, I miss your voice'

Day 4
Abigail is hiding something, I know it. She's not her usual self - apart from becoming deaf, of course. Since she gave me that journal and she's been completely secretive – hiding stuff in a small, locked box, texting someone whenever she's alone - or so she thinks - hiding the truth with a forced smile.
What has gotten into that woman?
When I finally confronted Abigail, she simply blinked at me; Was my handwriting sloppy? It was pretty clear to me.
She let out a sigh 'Yes' she stated, 'yes, I am hiding something from you'
Well, that was quick.
'However, I won't tell you'
Uh, that sounded more like her.
'Tell you what,' She smiled, as she tapped my nose with her index finger 'I will tell you, but after ten days'
Ten days? I know, for some reason that, ten is her favorite number, but I can't wait that long.
And as if she read my mind, she blurted out 'and don't tell me that you can't wait, I know you're not the patient type, but please bear with me.' She got on her tiptoes, kissed the tip of my nose –a habit I got used to – and then walked away as if nothing happened.
That woman never fails to surprise me.

Day 7
Yes, I haven't written for 2 days; a man can get busy, you know. Busy looking out for my deaf wife, that's what I'm doing. Abigail hasn't been eating nor sleeping well. She would wake up in the middle of the night, not wanting to go back to sleep, so she reads a book instead. She would tell me that she's not hungry, even though I could hear her stomach growling, proving her dishonesty.
Why is she starving herself? Why is she hidings things from me? The better question is, what is happening to my wife?

Day 10
4 days left, but they aren't even helping. Abigail, once a jolly woman with grins and smiles that would never fade from that porcelain face, became almost doll-like – hollow cheeks, skin pale as sleet, and bony figure. Words barely leave those pale lips anymore, and as much as she missed my voice, I miss hers even more.
I told her to go see a doctor, but she plainly shoved the question aside with a shrug. I mentally yelled at her for being so uncaring, even though I knew she would not hear me. I insisted, writing down with heavy fingers, but she slowly took the paper I was writing on, crumbled it to a ball, and threw it in the trash.
So, I decided not to push the subject further.

Day 12
I'm running out of words. Useless words cannot describe how heartbroken I am. What did time do to my Abigail? She keeps sinking into a endless ocean of desolation, and I am sad – no, sad isn't the right word, 'distraught' perhaps? – to say that she is almost at bottom of the ocean. I can barely recognize my darling now. I pray every day for a miracle to end her suffering.

Day 13
So tomorrow is finally the day she will tell me her 'little' secret. Damn, it felt like a decade rather than ten days. When I reminded her of tomorrow, her eyes grew wide as a plate, but only three words escaped her lips
'Right.'
Pause
'Can't wait.'

Day 14
That was not the type of miracle I expected. My darling, is that what you were hiding from me? That you were dying? Unfortunately, I found that out on my own. I found it a relief that I woke up, seeing you beside me. but that relief faded when I saw your immobilized body, your arms loosely wrapped around me, and your lips that left no words nor breaths.
Was that your 'little' secret? Why did you hide it from me? I always knew you were a wild, silly woman with mad thoughts, but I didn't think you would take it this far. You managed to hide a worthy secret, akin to hiding a corpse beneath the dirt. You left me empty, much like yourself, and lonesome. How did I manage to stand before your coffin still surprises me.
Just like you always surprised me.

As Simon was about to close the journal for the last time, he flipped through the pages expecting empty ones, but boy was he wrong. After flipping through five pages, he read…

Day 1 
He doesn't remember writing that, but then again, why would he write 'Day 1' in a random page?
But then it occurred to him – That's not his handwriting.
'Even when you're not around, you never fail to surprise me'

- Bothaina Ayman
‪#‎GlobeScoutsMag

Arwa ElGhadban,( Visionaries)

We're connected, mentally. We don't usually hug, but our thoughts do. I have my own place inside his mind, and he has a place inside my mind, too. He flirts with me saying that I have a big heart which he's scared to enter, or maybe he doesn't want to. He's fearful of my heart taking control of him. He hates addiction though he's addicted to my mind. He flirts with me saying that I'm complicated like a unique math equation, and he likes how it takes so much time to solve me every day. He's sweet; we talk every day. Last time we held hands was months ago. Last time we fought... I don't remember. He's far away, yet very close. He always asks me to stay next him while working; he thinks I provide him with some kind of energy. He doesn't like going with me to social occasions. He never liked going out anyway. He prefers staying at home, in my mind, sometimes in my soul, and sometimes in my books. After all, he exists.

- Arwa ElGhadban
‪#‎GlobeScoutsMag‬