The Persistence of Hugs

by Yashar Seyedbagheri

crushed lemon

I try to hug the world. Proclaim love from cathedral steps, on buses, at movies.

No one accepts.

They call me a pervert. Asshole. Shove me.

I’m thirty-two. I’ve only been known by nicknames, guttural and precise. Dumbass, motherfucker, piece of shit.

I strive for one full hug. The police don’t understand the need either. They think I’m nuts.

They can’t take it all. With each attempted hug, I inhale fleeting perfume, sweat, pot. I feel rough arms, slender ones. They transmit stories I can only imagine, of communion and spouses and children.

I carry these images.

They won’t take those.

About the author

Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story, "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart.  Yash’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, 50 Word Stories, and Ariel Chart, among others.

 

21

by  Yashar Seyedbagheri

honeyed milk

My sister’s 21 years older. She’s 37. Often jokes I’m the milkman’s son.

Nancy calls me Saint Nick, says I’m too giving. Nicknames me dummkopf when I trip.

I love her energy, when she jokes about my clothing or love of Debussy. She’s an Elvis-loving newspaperwoman. 

Yet, the banter lacks that natural rhythm, that give-and-take. We didn’t grow up playing or fighting together. But Nancy says age is arbitrary. 

I wonder if she feels self-consciousness. Especially when she calls me little brother, accentuating the words.

I just banter. Call her sis. Joke that she’s my secret mother.

It’s almost believable.