Suspended Pieces; Short Story: Sam the Eagle, Painting: Farokh, Poetry: Reza Ekvanian

Last updated:

April 21, 2026

Suspended Pieces; Short Story: Sam the Eagle, Painting: Farokh, Poetry: Reza Ekvanian

Short Story: The Series of Stories Written by Sam Aghabi.

I saw him in a cafe. It was the first and last time we were supposed to see each other. These kinds of things are not a joke. They are related to the security issues of the country. That’s why we had to be careful, coordinate through intermediaries, not over the phone. He was involved in the situation. Of course, I understood this later. At first, I didn’t know. I had written a story about the love affair of two boys and before publishing it, I had given it to two of my friends to read. One of my friends had also read it for him. He liked it and wanted to see me up close. He mentioned the alley of the lost clouds of Kourosh Asadi, as if he remembered his novel about the love of two men. I said I liked Kourosh Asadi, but I wish it was him. He said maybe he couldn’t be himself, maybe there were other things that needed to be done

من از تمامی انسان‌ها بیشتر دوستت دارم

I love you more than all other humans.

Painting: Portrait of Frook.

I’m sorry, there is no Farsi text provided. Please provide the text you would like translated.من می‌خواهم که بهترین خود را به دیگران نشان دهم

I want to show my best to others.

Poem: The Great Sin by Reza Ekvanian.

Call out to death
Say it will come to our Iran
Say it won’t bring strangeness
Call out to life
Take my childhood to the mirror
Bring me back to love
To kites
To Layla
To the daughters of the Shah’s fairies
To the lullabies of mothers in stories.

Call out to death
Say it won’t lose its grave in Zagros, Alborz and Dalahoo
Say to death, to the one I love
Say what did we want other than life
That love became a great sin
Say we have the right to die simpler
And you have the right to kill love
You are a father
A bad god who doesn’t hear a mother’s cry
With a hoe, with an axe, with a machete
With religion, with honor, with law
You made a mistake, Karbala
You were a piece of his body
You cut off his head!

Call out to

Suspended Pieces; Short Story: Hamid Karimifar, Painting: Farzaneh Faraji, Poetry: Baktash Abtin

Short Story: Escape from the Gathering, written by Hamid Karimifar.

Mr. Basharat had arrived with a saddle, a green orc, and a pair of Kauchu glasses. Before anything else, he gave himself the right to be the first to bring out the food, to be the first to eat, to warm his head a little, and naturally to be the first to pour wine. So when he felt that everyone had arrived, they changed their clothes, sat down with their hands on their hips, fixed their hair, licked their lips, ate a spoonful of yogurt, and then, without even trying, their lips rose to their cheeks, and they began to talk.

I don’t know why, but when I drink a few sips of wine, I get a sense of excitement and I want to talk about things that have nothing to do with me or you. My friends, I hope you don’t mind me addressing you as my friends. We have known each other for years, but we have never talked about our contemporary history, which

I’m sorry, there is no Farsi text provided. Please provide the text for translation.

Painting: “Bathroom Places” by Farzaneh Faraji.

Poem: The old street of Bakhtash Abtin.

They empty the iron arrows
And I am busy building my new dreams
If I had a lullaby in my head
I would turn my neck completely
And lock my gaze on you
The old working street
Scattered and chaotic with broken asphalt
The freedom of the high street
Was so high that many lives were lost in it
They empty the iron arrows
And I am busy building my new dreams
From a dark cell
I walk on a narrow hallway
With a hoarded throat and a poor stomach
And in these last moments
I walk with my eyes on yours
Busy with you in the darkness
Warm and wet
And in the last moment
I wanted to touch your cheeks
But alas
With my eyes closed and
Hands tied
I had become a rain of arrows.

Hanging Pieces; Short Story, Painting, Poetry

Short Story: The Writing Hangout by Avat Pouri.

Another group of three people, who had no physical resemblance to each other, had gathered together and pretended as if they were hiding something or discussing something secretly. It seemed like a war plan, a war for the future. Plans for defending themselves in times when the constitution was suspended. Something that was announced on TV from time to time and everyone would gather to find out why it happened and take advantage of the suspended situation. Their plan was hidden and I couldn’t grasp anything from it. But I could guess that it was a revenge plan against someone or some hands within the group. Whatever it was, that was their daily gathering place and they had to take each other seriously and respect each other, knowing that they only had each other and no one else, to set their revenge plans against each other.

Among those groups of two or three, there was another person who didn’t belong to any group. He was alone and lost, like a picture that was not installed to be seen. In his

سلام، من به دنبال یک ماشین جدید هستم

Hello, I am looking for a new car.

Painting: Two rows of paired teeth, a work by Senour.

سلام، چطوری

Hello, how are you?

Poem: The shadow of soldiers from the steel water lily.

Name.

That name.

The name flew away.

The lip was swollen from the sharp teeth.

A problem with letters.

Sitting together.

“Balcony railings are wall-mounted.”

Fly.

“Light name”

Jumping eyelids from anxiety.

If by hand.

Finger.

Binding if from the finger.

In the garden.

Struggle.

From awake.

A name flew over the wall.

“Sin and silence of eyelids.”

Sitting side by side, lips closed.

He wanted to climb over the wall.

Defeated.

The sun is shining.

He/she/it was disappointed.

Jump off.

Head out of silence.

And a wide-open hole was seen.

“Black well of sorrow.”

From the skull staircase.

From the curved fold of the vagina.

Pouring image.

See.

Arrival.

From the feet of the soldiers’ shadows…

Poem: Production Line/Ali Erfani

My friend, this is a sniper method. It is a method for single shooters to shoot accurately.

They are targeting the first goal that they are zooming in on.

The pressure they exert on the needle is not a bow. بگیرد

“That whoever hits more towards the competition, will receive a bigger medal.”

He takes them and throws them, it is a great trick that is being shot. به زانوی رفیقت میزنند

My friend is hitting his knee with an arrow on your friend’s knee. برداشت که به آن یکی زانوی من می‌زند

They are hitting your friend’s knee, my friend lifted the arrow in a way that it hits my knee.

They say to hit so that the foot is dislocated and injured.

Now, he has become bold enough to dance in the middle of the square.

You now have to strive for a lifetime of companionship for purity.

Move the pawns in front of your main pieces. ‌ی آن‌ها را بشکنی

Read the bloody chessboard and break all the pieces of the hand and foot.

Pour it with one hand, pour it to the side, it looks like it’s pouring down the table. یده اند

That you have been drunk and the soldiers have jumped from that distance.

They will attack and you just look at the blood that…

They will strike and you just watch the blood that… روی آن ریخته است

Now the asphalt is filled with the blood that has been spilled on it.

Its formation has reached in front of your feet, as if

I call out to your blood, let me say it more personally, your funeral. خوب نیست

It calls out, but you know it’s not a good method.

Sniper is calling you and now you are confused. ت را بدست نیاوری

“What can you do in the middle of Vali-e Asr street, keep moving forward so you don’t lose your mind.”

Should I record the date of your spread on the walls? Or should I not?

“That you would hear your friend’s cries when they needed your help” را اطلاع می دهم

I will record it and definitely inform you after the incident. سان

They say it’s hypocritical, but you knew it was the same in both cases.

I am a loser, a friend of defeat, and I have been defeated if you move forward. بین می‌رود

Your mind is scattered if you don’t move forward, your mind will disappear.

“Inside, imagine my brain has precisely poured out this scene.” تر می‌شود

It is stuck in such situations and the better it gets, the better it gets. بار

I am a doctor and I say that nothing bothers me except once or twice.

The extra tablet that is free of morphine is what I have in mind.

Imagine the scene, I have been taken hostage by myself. است

And this is not a rebellion against oneself, this is a situation. طرف آقای قدرت است

It is a download from Mr. Qodrat, and it is correct that it is from Mr. Qodrat.

It seems like I am suffocating myself with my own hands.

But what I see is not a fight club. زی نیست

“That it is not by chance the creator of that venture and is not a competitor in the game.” م نیست

My absence is not only unattractive, but also not caused by people. طولانی تری می‌کشاند

Someone else is being set up, the one who prolongs my life for a longer period. دانشگاه

12 years in elementary school, years in university, then in university.

Military service and then being killed in the line of duty.

“Now he says it’s your fault, you wanted to leave from the beginning.” طور که

Learn a skill so you won’t be unemployed now, just like this.

“That tells me either a completely useless or one by one.”

I am a consumer, but I have a different plan to throw away the soldiers. کنیم

It is not right to work from a high position, we must clear the back row. گاهی از آن می‌نوشی

You are like a trash can in a stream of water, from which you sometimes drink.

It has been taken into a well from the bathroom by chance. یشه

My friend has always been caught up in these games, always. ت

“Better means when everyone is older, even your father.”

“And your mother, too, was under the influence of their suicidal words.” باقی می‌مانی

They sign and you remain in that scene forever.

You are left behind, with your injured body lying in front of you.

“Will you save your broken knee or not, forever?” ندارد

There, you must press the button that does not have a remote stop. گاه را روشن کن

Turn off the pressure and summary of the TV and turn on the device.

“Stay away from fake news and light up a cigarette for yourself.” داری، تو هنوز هم درد داری

While you have the money for your doctor’s appointment, you are still in pain. من

You don’t have to play on all the playgrounds, my friend. ش فکر نکردی

My dear, you have never thought about all the red situations of my life. گز

Have you paid attention to the food you consume? You never know. خانه به خانه پیش می‌برد

One day, a person like a dog takes them from house to house, one by one. ه

From 6 am to 8 pm as a whole.

Do they put it in shipping boxes? Until it reaches you? Yes.

My friend calls this the production line of my phobia. ‌ام

I have it and I have dedicated my whole life to it.

I apologize for my shoes squeaking.

Poem: The darkest black/Arsalan Chelbi

آینه ها می کشانی

Why do you drag my anger into a room full of mirrors like this?

Are the boring moments hanging on the walls?

In hope, they have torn open their chests like a bird. ‌توانیم

“That perhaps flying was not such a scary thing, we can all do it.” زندگی ما

We know that behind all walls there is a human being and pieces of our lives. ها

Sorrow, sorrow for those who were homeless in their black volume.

When darkness was alone and you were a part of it!

In a decorated room filled with smoke, with a ceiling made of endless pains.

“And a limited number of windows in this dreadful room” زد

Why did you pull it towards darkness? At that moment, I screamed. ها باز می شدند

In that room, with its white lights, at the moment when the windows were opening.

“Duplicate the white headlines and the black news that”

You sway from the side of fragrant tresses and the scent of stress and… اژه های سرد را با خود به همراه؟

Take the cold words with you! Why take the cold words with you?

How I saw that room with the door open that day. من بیاید

Neither was there a strong wind, nor anyone to be found! To come with me. سیاهی بنویسیم

Let’s read black in words and write words in black.

Let’s write a black shape, but I don’t remember you until. از نور است

Someone in this darkness should find a room that is full of light.

From darkness!

Real stories of real people; tourists of Paradise Zahra/Paniz Qahramani

I want to calculate in my mind how many years it will be from the age of eight to twenty-nine. In the next moment, I say involuntarily: “You worked your whole life, girl!” She just laughs.

The world of child labor; from underground and subways to crossroads/Pirouz Faghfouri

Observations of Prison; Suffering and Exploitation of Inmates in Evin/Arsham Rezaei

Years ago, a documentary was released on Channel 100 of the national television network, which focused on employment in prisons and claimed that “prisoners are working to turn the wheels of their lives.” At that time, I had no experience of the situation inside the prison, but as a worker who was aware of the working conditions in the job market, I looked at the documentary with skepticism. Until fate struck and opened my eyes to the struggle for the rights of workers, of which I was and still am a part, and I spent about ten months in this prison. In the following, I will briefly discuss what I observed about working in prison.

It has been about two months since I was released from prison, but for a worker, it doesn’t make a difference whether they are transferred from Evin prison to their homeland prison. The reason is simple, a worker’s rights are ignored whether they are in prison or outside, they are exploited, and wherever they work, employers have made

Short Story: Where Does Your Breath Come From?/Future Concern

I got out of the taxi.
I was disappointed to find out that they had thrown me out of my room and sent me to a big beach villa. They had taken my laptop and placed a monitor in front of me with only three keys: zero, one, and two. I had to write my report with those three keys. Every time I typed a letter with those three keys, the next letter would disappear and the word would be incomplete. I felt trapped and helpless. Some people came in and showed me a paper that indicated half of the bed belonged to the municipality. They divided the bed in half and took their share. I had lost my glasses and was trying to find the missing letter under the bed when I remembered it was left under the half that they had taken. I jumped out of bed, my head was pounding. I drank two glasses of water and opened the door. There was a private number texted to me: “Blue blood.” I had walked from the taxi.

I headed towards the park.
“It was certain that Mr. Privacy had encrypted his message, for example, it meant ‘Room 324, Esteghlal Hotel, at 4:33’. There was no need to calculate angles or draw lines to show the ‘power’ hands at 4:33. The first time I missed it. I couldn’t go. But hadn’t they said it was the last time? Hadn’t they not fired me after that? I don’t know. There’s no way. I stormed out of the room, feeling a bit nervous and angry. I walked aimlessly. I had no destination. North? Suddenly a heavy weight with an even heavier shake hit the back of my head and neck in the middle of the street. I didn’t have time to gather myself, I couldn’t even turn my head towards it. The sound of footsteps and threatening shouts from behind saying ‘Don’t go… Don’t go… Don’t go…’. I crawled on all fours for

I stood under the small park entrance.
What kind of soup did they cook for me this time? Where did they want to send me? If I don’t go, where do I have to go? Last time they threatened to take away my dignity. I had agreed, but my dignity got worse. That’s when they punished me, but in reality they had expelled me. I was unemployed. Should I have accepted Mr. Parayev’s offer? The money was always good. But for how long? If they have a plan and want to throw me to the lions, what can I do? Last time they had given eight of their best friends a cut, the money was good, but they fired me. They took away my dignity too. It’s unlikely. This city has as many holes as the intestines of the devil. I will definitely send myself somewhere else. Why should I go back there at all? I was standing under the small park’s canopy.

I observed them, saw them and headed towards them.
This is it. I’m going back to them. Without any lies, tricks, or deceit. I can’t say anything, when I’ve turned my path from the northernmost and southernmost points of these devilish intestines and returned to them, right where I last betrayed their best friends, they will understand that I have nothing left to lose, they will understand that I am just like them! A taxi! I had been observing them, I had seen them and I had followed them towards them.

I arrived next to a bench where they were gathered. We have taken life for granted, what for? Are they the ones who have jobs, have a place, have coded meetings in blue-blooded hotel lobbies, have books, have rights and duties, have a government, have a vote, and have honor? They have become a joke. What about us? Who? Us? We don’t have anything. Yesterday we were in the underground workshop of the palace, scared,

They turned their face towards me.
Those who are in love with rebels, whose daughters and sons and sisters and brothers are all rebels, those who think their blood will never turn into water, but their water is also bloody, their soil and asphalt are also melting muscles and shattered bones of their fellow blood and breath, they definitely accept me. Those who on this side of the highway of mobilization, from the degree of sunburn on their faces and arms and arms, from the level of heat of their breaths and the number of beats of their veins protruding from their temples, know their poor fellow tribesmen on the other side of the highway, whatever it may be, even if it is a spy who has returned from exile, they call out to him by his small name and accept him. They had turned their faces towards me.

They asked, “Are you yourself or not?”

And I, with my poor physical strength, showed them my arm and my dismissal letter. They had asked, “Are you a rebel or not?” And I, with my poor physical strength, had shown them my arm and my dismissal letter.

Literary piece “Almond” – written by Niloufar Fooladi

For the seeds that fall in the heart of winter,
because of the stone, because of the seed that accidentally fell from the pocket of childhood. The child runs on the snow in the afternoon of winter, and the almonds were in his pockets. From a small crack, a tiny piece of red fabric slides out of the lining of his pants and now it’s on the ground. The fragile leaves that gradually turn into soil and greet their mother. Between two rocks in the heart of distant centuries, it has found a comfortable place and sees nothing, knows nothing, only hears the sound of the world moving from the mice digging in the ground. It moves from the swift jumps of rabbits and gets hit on the arms of other rocky stones. It’s hard, it doesn’t understand pain, the pressure on it is the pulse of life in the chest of the earth. The hard and intense earth pushes it forward. It’s colder down here, death smiles in the darkness but it keeps going, it