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serhat tutkal flash nonfiction september 2025

I remember a little kid who spent his summers at his grandparents’ house.

He stayed out most of the day, but he really liked their house. He was fascinated with the backyard, a backyard without fences or anything separating it from the path leading to the mountains. He used to take a walk to the mountains. He loved that.

He spent most of his days going around mountains, eating lots of blackberries. He drank water from the river. When it was late, he came back to play football with other kids on the street. They set up two stones as goalposts on either side of the street. He thought the games were fun.

At night, he sat on the small balcony that served as the entrance to the house. He read whatever books he had brought with him from the city. Having no TV in the house didn’t bother him at all. His grandmother sometimes complained that he was wasting too much electricity, but she let him read his books anyway.

Unless it was one of those nights.

On those nights, they had to turn off all the lights. Then, close the curtains tight. And get away from the windows. The kid knew that he shouldn’t make loud noises. He knew he should act as if he didn’t exist. They all acted as if the house didn’t exist. Or the neighborhood. Or the city. Or the entire people. They didn’t exist according to official reports, so they had to act accordingly. The kid knew it was time to make himself invisible, imperceptible, inaudible.

Then, the noise started. Guns screamed. Humans screamed. Animals screamed. The kid didn’t know which side the screaming guy was on. He learned that dying men scream alike. He was scared. He was embarrassed by his fear, but he couldn’t help it. He hid under the divan. He remembered when his grandfather said, “If you recite Al-Nas and Al-Falaq, you will be protected from anything.” He had already memorized them even though he didn’t understand Arabic.

The kid started murmuring with a Basmalah, “Qul auzu birabbin nas…” Then, “Qul auzu birabbil falaq…” He repeated all the verses in Arabic. Again. “Al-Nas,” “Al-Falaq.” He didn’t understand what he was saying, but he kept saying it. The noise went on. People screamed. The kid repeated Arabic words.

The noise died down. Just like other similar nights. The kid was fine.

He planned to go on with his day after sunrise. Unless there was curfew. Curfews could last for days. He read when this happened. He never had many books with him, so he read the same books again and again.

 The night the kid violated curfew, he wanted to watch the final game of Turkish Sports Writers Association Cup between two major İstanbul football teams: Galatasaray and Fenerbahçe. He walked a couple of minutes to his friend’s house, just down the street towards the feeble stream.

After the game, he wanted to go back home. His friend’s mother told him he should stay, but the kid thought it wasn’t a big deal. He left the house to go home. Then, he heard the noise created by lots of gunshots.

His mother and aunts told this story so many times that he isn’t sure if he remembers it or if he just recreated the whole thing based on what he was told. What he thinks he remembers is that he hid behind the stone wall, terrified, waiting for the shots to stop. They were most likely just warning shots. Then, a bright light emerged from an army vehicle. The kid put his hands up and slowly walked towards the vehicle. He vaguely recalls a couple of surprised soldiers. But who knows if he just made this up at some point? He barely remembers his aunt coming from the house. He remembers returning home. He doesn’t think he knew how to recite “Al-Nas” and “Al-Falaq” at the time; he must have learned that later.

When the kid played football in that street, another kid screamed, “Tank!” Then, they took the ball and the four stones that served as goalposts and ran. They returned after the tank passed. They put the stones back and continued playing. None of them were surprised. Tanks passed at least once a day.

If you ask me now, I’ll tell you the kid doesn’t exist anymore. I’ll tell you he became a grown man.

I won’t tell you that he still remembers how to recite “Al-Nas” and “Al-Falaq.”


Serhat Tutkal is a Kurdish academic. He is currently a postdoctoral researcher funded by the Secretariat of Science, Humanities, Technology and Innovation (Secihti) in Mexico. He has a PhD from Universidad Nacional de Colombia (Bogotá) with a dissertation on the legitimation and delegitimation of Colombian state violence. He teaches courses on armed conflicts, dehumanization, racism, colonialism, and qualitative research methods. You can find him on Mastodon and Bluesky.

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serhat tutkal flash nonfiction november 2024

I prefer to be considered a particular person, although I’m from Nowhere.  Where I come from doesn’t exist. This creates a confusing situation since logic dictates that everyone come from somewhere. It looks like I defy logic. I come from Nowhere. It has been told to me many times, by many authorities, and government officials, and all sorts of serious people in their decent suits. I see no reason to doubt them. I’d rather doubt your logic.

Strangely, I don’t have a language. People where I’m from speak in a nonexistent language. It has been stated by many experts and authorities, and there is no reason to doubt them. But I also don’t speak much of the nonexistent language. I speak some existing languages, but I cannot call any of them my native language. As a result, I have no language of my own. I borrow other people’s languages. I speak weirdly with my unusual accent and occasional pronunciation errors. I guess everyone assumes I must be speaking well in some other language. I don’t. To me, every language is a foreign language. Every word I utter is borrowed. I have no words of my own.

I speak in these foreign languages in my head when I take walks. They become entangled, creating a creole language that would be unintelligible to nearly everyone else. Maybe that is why I like talking to myself. I also like walking. I usually combine these two favorite activities of mine.

If I have to move from one place to another, I always prefer to walk. I enjoy walking the most when it isn’t directed towards the aim of arriving somewhere. Because when you aren’t walking towards somewhere, it can be said that you’re walking to Nowhere. So, I know that if I don’t walk towards a specific place and I still insist on walking, I’ll eventually arrive Nowhere. And that is where I’m from. I go out and walk aimlessly, secretly hoping that I may eventually visit my hometown: Nowhere. I miss Nowhere. All these somewheres have been tiring me for quite some time now. They are very noisy and full of unpleasant faces.

I never get to visit my Nowhere though. Sometimes I find myself in Nowheres that are not exactly like mine. I may see nonpeople there, sitting on both sides of the long street that runs through Nowhere; but they won’t be sitting on short stools. That is how I know immediately that this isn’t my Nowhere. They may drink something, but it won’t look like black tea. They may speak some nonexistent languages, but I won’t be familiar with them. “I’m at someone else’s Nowhere again”, I say to myself when this happens. It’s still good to visit Nowheres even when they’re different than mine. The familiarity of Nowheres is usually nice. But not always. Not when I see an intruder, for example. The intruders are also all too familiar to me, but there is nothing pleasant about them.

The intruders are actual persons in a Nowhere full of nonpeople. There are always some of them in Nowheres, but you usually manage to avoid them. They come from somewhere, you see, and they speak existing languages. They tend to wear nice uniforms. They are hostile to nonpeople wherever they find them. They can smell us. It doesn’t matter that I’m not from this particular Nowhere. Nonpeople are nonpeople. The intruders know that. They don’t like being in a Nowhere. They take it out on us.

You can also see these intruders in existing places. That is where they come from, after all. They look at us with disdain, they can tell that we are one of the nonpeople. They know we come from Nowhere and we don’t belong here. We don’t belong anywhere, except for Nowhere, obviously. They make us feel that. They talk about their somewheres, and their somethings, and their someones with absolute confidence. We can’t talk about our Nowhere, and our nothing, and our nonpeople with the same confidence. We become silent. Our weirdly pronounced foreign words become reserved for our conversations inside our heads. Until we decide to write them down.

Let us nonpeople take long walks whenever we can. It may get us Nowhere.


Serhat Tutkal is a Kurdish academic. He is currently a postdoctoral researcher at El Colegio de México in Mexico City. He has a PhD from Universidad Nacional de Colombia (Bogotá) with a dissertation on the legitimation and delegitimation of Colombian state violence. He teaches courses on armed conflicts, dehumanization, racism, colonialism, and qualitative research methods. Find him on Mastodon at fediscience.org/@SerhatTutkal and on Bluesky at serhattutkal.bsky.social.

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zoe mahfouz flash nonfiction june 2024

Written by a person deemed ethnically ambiguous.

I know France isn’t a racist country, and I am not Arabic, so to speak. I’d like to believe that my resume, my showreel, my social media, or even my face speak for themselves, but apparently, they don’t. My mom has been fully integrated in France since she moved there as a child; yet she’s experienced systemic racism her whole life. She thought that giving me a French first name would be sufficient since I was born in Paris, white and atheist. Apparently not. In primary school, a kitchen server refused to serve me pork, said I should ask my mom if I could have some. That was just the beginning.

But France isn’t a racist country.

I started auditioning as an actress. Casting directors kept asking me about my origins, my ethnicity. I told them I didn’t speak Arabic, that I was born here in Paris, and raised in French culture. They continued asking about my origins.

But France isn’t a racist country.

They asked me to audition for a masseuse role, a Middle-Eastern-looking woman who loses her temper and starts “acting ghetto” with the customers of a five-star hotel because she “just can’t help it, it’s her nature”.  Then they asked me to audition for Fatima’s sister and learn a bit of Arabic. I could do that, right? They asked me to wear a hijab, to play a Syrian refugee. They asked me to play a Muslim YouTuber doing a DIY on how to put on a hijab. They asked me to play Samia, sitting by her husband’s side in a car before being pulled over by the police. “Hey, can you come in and audition for Suburban Arabic Girl Number Four? Basically, you’re with your homies in the subway, and you make a fuss, start yelling at people, throwing things around!”

 But France isn’t a racist country.

You can easily tell France isn’t a racist country when you walk around Paris accompanied by my mom who has dark skin. Besides the aggressive stares and whispers when we go to posh places, I have witnessed her getting pushed by a Karen’s trolly in a fancy market and followed by security guards when we stepped inside various stores. We even had a saleswoman tell my mom as she tried on clothes that she looked more like “someone dealing narcotics at the bottom of the building.” And then: “Are you going to pay cash? Wonder where that money comes from,” followed by condescending laughter. For the record, this last incident happened when my mom tried on a three-thousand-dollar coat that we bought despite everything.

But France isn’t a racist country.

It’s actually easy finding work in France when you have Middle Eastern ancestry. I’ve recently come across the most encouraging video on social media, about a Middle Eastern man who graduated as an airline pilot but couldn’t find work because of his name. A few years ago, I remember reading about another Middle Easterner who applied for a managerial position, got an interview where the employer told him he had the right qualifications, but couldn’t be hired because frankly, “no one will accept being managed by an Arabic man”. For my part, I remember when I applied for a job as a receptionist, and the recruiter pressured me to know if I had a criminal record. Because she “would find out eventually.”

 But France isn’t a racist country.

“So, tell me something: Where are you from? Really from? Oh, gee, why are you getting so cranky about it? It’s just a question! I’m trying to get to know you better! Are you ashamed of your roots? Don’t you want to act as a standard-bearer for all Arabic peoples? Stop playing the victim already! How dare you call me racist. I was about to introduce you to the best couscous restaurant in town! I bet it’ll taste exactly like the one in your country! What did you think of the movies directed by Riad Sattouf?”

But France isn’t a racist country.


Zoé Mahfouz is an award-winning actress, screenwriter and content creator. Her humor pieces have been published in Defenestration Mag, Wingless Dreamer Publisher, Spillwords Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Witcraft. You can follow her on Tiktok @lessautesdhumeurdezoe.

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claudia wair flash nonfiction may 2024

Our grandparents sit us down and teach us where we come from: Africa, enslavement, Jim Crow. Our parents tell us where it’s safe to travel and where our brown skin makes us targets. Fear infects our dreams.

They don’t talk about us much in their history books. Erasing us and those whose land was stolen. It’s hard to find accounts of those who went before us, but we know we were resilient. We know we survived.

They teach us to be ashamed of the hair on our heads. We women are pressured to straighten our hair with caustic chemicals or cover it with a wig. Our wild coils are beautiful, but they say we look unprofessional.

We are paid less but are expected to be exceptional. If we dare to be average, they call us lazy. We have no money to leave our children. All we have are stories to pass down.

We have siblings, cousins, friends who aren’t here anymore, executed for the crime of being Black. We shout the names of the dead, write them on placards, print them on t-shirts. Trayvon, Breonna, George. When we protest the murders, they call it a riot.

Sometimes we dream of better days, but those dreams are haunted by the dead. Sometimes we dream of justice, but in the end, we always wake up.


Claudia Wair is a Virginia-based writer whose work has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Astrolabe, Tangled Locks Journal, JMWW, and elsewhere. You can read more at claudiawair.com or follow her on Instagram @CWTellsTales. 

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Jassy Ez flash nonfiction april 2024

“It’s okay, we’re talking about those Black people. You’re different.”

“You can’t possibly be cousins with her (with your dark hair and brown skin); you   look nothing alike.”

“I know that you think he’s cute, but Koreans don’t go for darker-skinned people.”

“You’re so beautiful and olive complected.”

“She’s an Oreo; more Black than White. She talks White.”

“What’s up with your hair?”

“Your Mama doesn’t know how to do your hair; you shoulda let me do it.”

“Do you feel like you’re more Black or White?”

“What are you?”

“You look exotic; where are you from?”

“My Dad doesn’t know that your Dad’s Black; he thinks you’re Mexican, so it’ll be okay.”

“There’s not supposed to be a Black person in this show; it’s not historically accurate! Oh, sorry. You’re half. That shouldn’t offend you, right?”


Jassy Ez, or Jasmine Ezeb, is an English Literature instructor in New Orleans, Louisiana. She enjoys teaching World Literature to her students and witnessing their light bulb moments as they make connections between old myths and modern-day society. She has a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from the University of Holy Cross, and she was awarded Best English Student at her graduation. When not working, she likes to spend time with family and friends, explore small bookshops, and record audiobooks.

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jasmine harris flash nonfiction march 2024

My momma, who woke up before the roosters crowed and before the early birds tickled worms from the earth, was always the last person ready. As I walked by her room before gracing my spot on the couch for the morning wait, she had on her robe and was just setting the temperature of her curling irons. The third time I checked, she was scrutinizing two almost identical necklaces. Holding one to her chest in front of the mirror, then shaking her beautiful black curls to and fro as she reached across the basin for the other. 

I remember bouncing on the edge of the couch, Bible gripped tightly, as Bobby Jones’ gospel played in the background. Pink peacoat layered on top of a pastel-colored dress, ruffled matching socks, gloves, and polished shoes. Momma assured us that rather than vain pageantry, our attire was symbolism of our adoration for the Lord. When she said this, I imagined angels seated like a panel holding large boxing-style score cards in their wings and watching each of us as we entered the sanctuary. Their task: to rank our attire in order of holiness. As I pondered their nodding in approval or blushing in disdain, I spun my head from the clock to the television so quickly it appeared the hands stood still. Nonetheless, we would be late to church once again.

Throughout the washing of dishes, and syruping all of our pancakes, and ensuring each hair on all four of our heads was in place, she licked her thumb. Swiping a lingering crumb from Leilon’s face, she was finally ready. En route, I begged to crack a window as our dusty van seemed oversaturated with my anxiety and momma’s bitter perfume. The ride usually took about eighteen minutes allowing either for a nap or several minutes of my wishing my mother were a more aggressive driver. She drove as if we were floating on clouds, cranking up The Clark Sisters’ Living in Vain as we coasted. My stomach could have easily competed with the world’s best on beam — tossing and turning in and out of knots. Fifteen minutes late and probably missing all of praise and worship, I struggled to place each foot in front of the other while entering the double doors to the church. Not a single thing would be different on the program; yet I scanned its contents, feeling as though I heard an ominous “tisk” and vowing to make up what we had missed later at home. Momma said God was our everything – a healer and a way maker. And we should be grateful for all He’d done for us — life, groceries, and clothes. But we were always late.

It never made sense to my tween brain. How could she love God so much, dedicate an entire day to honoring Him, but show up late every time? How could she be so rude?  How would God know we took him seriously as we slumped into the last pew of the sanctuary? During my Saturday night scarries — what I called my anxiety-filled dreams on Saturday nights –each church member would turn around in unison, heads shaking in disgust, as we dragged in like stale bread. How many points off would we receive on the scales of good and evil? How would God know I truly cared if we missed half the sermon or praise and worship? As I pondered God’s love evaluation system, questions bounced around in my dome like pickle balls at a senior center. I soon realized I’d left my eyes open, and my head was up instead of bowed during the benediction. How would I ever make it to heaven?


Jasmine Harris is a multi-genre writer and educational specialist featured in the Hidden Sussex Anthology, Prometheus Dreaming, Syndrome Magazine, and several others. She most recently served as the 2023 Arts and Science Center of Southeast Arkansas Arts in Education Artist in Residence.  Harris focuses her writing on celebrating Black culture and community, intersectional identities, and the evaluation of popular culture. She frequently quotes her inspirations as Maya Angelou, Ntozake Shange, and Tupac Shakur. Stay updated with her work and projects through her website https://jasminemharris.weebly.com or on instagram at dr_harris.

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Richard de-graft Tawiah flash nonfiction january 2024

This tongue will never force words from a body that wants to remain shut. But I am packing in things you will need for the journey. I feel the heaviness of your secrets. Pin in strength and ask if this is what people want to help you carry. No, it’ll kill them, I say. It’s better you don’t say it. Some parts of me still believe you deserve saving. You deserve any ear that wants to listen, so I cut in. (And this is painful.)

I find you crying, and this is almost like a home I’ve lived in before. I find familiar paintings I left on the wall—stretches of red colours, begging me to stop, begging me to leave, begging me to wait. When it hurts to share, it hurts to even find solace in the eyes of people who will genuinely help ease the pain. When it hurts to share, we do not know if we want to share or not. We do not know when you have to leave because some parts of us will want you to stay.

I’ve been here before. Exactly what the others tell you. But when I tell you this is not a good place to rent, trust me, I do not say this to comfort you. I say this to tell you that there will only be a burial after a burial, a funeral with no song, and on days when you can’t let go of what is to be left gone, you will run back digging to reach the corpse of everything that burns your nose, of everything that will make you close your mouth shut while you want to vomit. (And this is painful.)

And that’s too much heaviness for you to carry. That is too much pain. That is too much for your eyes to hold in. When these words find a place close to you, I hope you hand them an axe to cut through your doors. I hope it breaks through your windows. I hope it gives you sunshine, air, and all the feels to stay open. (And this won’t be painful.)


Something New

Whatever happens in the womb of a woman is a time capsule, and I am told it’s the man who puts everything there.

He tills the grounds, ploughs, wets each side and plants the seeds. Every sweat that breaks loose from his face is water to quench his thirst for the hard work he does.

The woman holds everything in until a labour is due, and I’m told this is done with pain. Pain is the only belt one wears to create something new. They do all this with their hands and hold on until the time of harvest.

I want to ask them why they do this—I won’t say they do this for pleasure. I want to know how long they intend to love their fruits—I won’t say forever; it depends. I want to ask them if they think only about themselves when they argue. I want to know if they feel the pain they cause to other lands when they set theirs on fire. I won’t call the shots. I won’t say the children; the fruits and the farmlands have a lot to say, a lot to ask, and a lot to know about what happens during the farming season.

I’ll be quiet. I’ll have my peace. I’ll let them wonder what their pain does to us.


I Am Nothing But Rust

People perceive I have the strength of a wall, and anytime they want to build trust, they use me as a pillar. In their conversations, they mention my name as a verb. A sure ticket to get the work done. An assurance. A soothing tap on the shoulder, the blues in their skies. The star that waits beside the moon.

The wind comes knocking, and I’m supposed to hold still, bleed where I am cut, and break the mouth that wants to shout this pain away into smiles because I can’t afford to let anyone down. And imagine if we wore our intentions like handbags. I bet people would really see how often I give up.

How often I tire of being a punching bag that sleeps over and over every night for another round of training because it needs to be there for others and not itself.

I’m that thing that will fit in every bag. Like a comb or a perfume, or anything that stays to be used.

And they say the value of a thing is in its usefulness, but what they don’t say is that every useful thing must be treated with compassion for it not to lose its colour. And here, I’ve lost my colours, and I am nothing but a rust writing you a poem. I am nothing but rust, reminding you to give me back my shine.


Richard De-Graft Tawiah is a creative writer, spoken word poet, and LLB graduate from Central University. He is a 2022–2023 Nadèli Creative Cafe Bootcamper. He’s fueled by his passion for words and the change they bring. His journey includes volunteering at the Foundation for Educational Equity and Development where he channels his love for community service through literacy and youth empowerment. He also volunteers at Nadéli Creative Company on the Book of the Month Team. His works are published and forthcoming at the Global Writers Project, Ghanaian Writers, Nadèli Creative Company, and elsewhere. Find him on instagram at richydegraft, on Facebook at Richard De-Graft Tawiah, and on LinkedIn at Richard De-Graft Tawiah.