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      • ILLUSTRATED COMMENTS ON THE APOPHATAPATAPHYSICAL METRICS OF COSMIC HUMOR by edo strannikov
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      • NEVERENDING KNOT by Jodie Dalgleish
      • LEARNING TO WALK by Jodie Dalgleish
      • OVERSOUL by P.S. Lutz
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      • MAP OF MEMORY by Jesse Schotter
      • BISMILLAH by Abby Minor
      • MICROMORTS by Veronica Tang
      • LOVE LETTER TO LANGUAGE: AN ABECEDARIAN by Saramanda Swigart
      • IF YOU WERE ALL WATER by M. Ann Reed
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      • CONTRA FORMALISME by Leland Seese
      • DRUNKEN MAN ON A BICYCLE by Dan Butterworth
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      • SYLVANUS, BARD by Marc Lerner
      • THE LOOKING GLASS OF ARTHUR GORDON PYM by Frank Meola
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      • INTIMATE THINGS by Laylage Courie
      • A SERIES OF PUNCTUATION by Hajar Hussaini
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      • BLUES ON RED by Elie Doubleday
      • MY FICTION: REMEMBERING 50 YEARS OF WORK by Richard Kostelanetz
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      • ENDNOTES FOR AN ALLOCUTION by Peter Freund
      • UKEMI (and other poems) by Nicole Vento
      • MEMORANDUM ON DESIRE by Laylage Courie
      • THE HOLYWOOD DEUTERONOMY by Jim Shankman
      • AT THE MAD HATTER-MARCH HARE ART GALLERY (and other poems) by M. Ann Reed
    • AZURE Volume 4, Issue 3 >
      • THE MACHINE, STOLEN FIRE, and PERFORMANCE by Vivek Narayan
      • FIRST FRUITS by Stephen Massimilla
      • ONCE UPON A TOMORROW-TIME by Christopher Routheut
      • YIELD LIGHT OF WAY by Ken Goodman
      • SEVEN TALES by Sara Streett
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      • THE PUNCH-CARD CIPHERS by DF Short
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      • THE KEY TO DREAMS by Sean S. Bentley
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      • STAMPING THE DEAD by Habib Mohana
      • LEGS by A. Joachim Glage
      • I THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX by Heikki Huotari
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Back to AZURE (Volume 4, Issue 1)

Stamping the Dead

By Habib Mohana
Picture

It was an unwritten law of the land that no dead person was to be buried until his left buttock was properly stamped with royal seal by the officials in the capital. Those who buried their loved ones without royal approval were punished severely—the buttocks of the guilty bereaved relatives were publicly branded with a red-hot iron—and the dead were disinterred and denied proper burial for good. The exhumed corpses were hung high above the gates of the capital for everyone to see and learn the intended lesson. But it happened very rarely as the people of the kingdom were very docile, patriotic and law-abiding.
         The ceremony of stamping the deceased’s left buttock was held only once a year; that day was honoured as sacred and it was a public holiday. The subjects—men, women, children—would bathe, don their best attire and converge upon the royal parade ground where the ceremony was to take place.
           The subjects were strictly forbidden from keeping their deceased at their homes for more than an hour. The moment someone was at peace, the bereaved strapped the dead on a makeshift stretcher, loaded the stretcher on a donkey, camel or mule and set off for the capital. Chanting devotional songs, they trekked for days, weeks and sometimes months before they reached their destination. Upon reaching the capital, they placed their dear departed before the dark and formidable gate of the royal palace. Here, through a slit, the attendants handed in the registration fee and the dead received leather registration cards. Then the guards would point with their shod feet to the parade ground where the bereaved were supposed to place the bodies.
         Only a few were exempt from having their left buttocks stamped when they expired. The exemption list was kept top-secret but the subjects conjectured, in whispers, that it included members of the royal family, top-brass generals and high priests. In the kingdom, this convention was enforced more strictly than other laws. For instance, crimes like theft, rape, kidnapping and even murder were not taken half as seriously as the stamping of the dead. Those who criticized this convention, no matter how secretly, were given an open-hearted choice between being roasted alive over glowing coals or being fried alive in virgin olive oil.
          The citizens of the kingdom would dwell upon this time-tested tradition—the stamping of the deceased’s left buttock—for hours at homes, in cafes, in offices. Compared to this topic, all other topics were considered frivolous and not worthwhile. They held weekly international seminars in which a galaxy of intellectuals delivered longwinded speeches on the beauty and philosophy of stamping the deceased’s left buttock. The emotional audience listened, eyes liquid with devotion. The prestigious newspapers of the kingdom carried daily features on this subject, scholars would write highbrow theses and poets would compose epic poems about this theme. The best poem would get the biggest national prize and the author of the winning poem was spared, at his death, the trouble of getting his buttock stamped with the royal seal. So it was the innocent wish of every selfless poet to write the best poem.
        The kingdom’s citizenry maintained that it was this golden law of stamping the deceased’s left buttock that had kept them united throughout the centuries. Otherwise, they were an insane collection of different sects, races and linguistic groups.
       The origin of this time-tested tradition was lost in the mists of time. Different philosophers gave different reasons for it, though they differed but never bickered or fought over this thing. They said, ‘All are in the right as long as they follow and respect the custom of stamping the deceased’s left buttock.’ Sometimes differences emerged as to which buttock of the dead was best to be stamped. Some thinkers reasoned that it should be the left buttock while others maintained that it should be the right buttock. Others differed about which spot of the buttock was to be stamped. Some were of the opinion that it should be affixed right in the middle, on the cheek of the buttock, some contended that the stamp was to be affixed a little to the left, whereas others believed that the stamp was to be impressed a little to the right. When the debates reached a crescendo, the high priest would intervene and the differences were soon resolved amicably. The public was ordered not to discuss this topic for ten years but hardly had the deadline passed when the savants would again reignite the debate. Before the argument could reach a dangerous pitch, the royal priest would interfere and settle the matter in a pleasant way.
        The people kept dying throughout the year and the dead bodies kept amassing before the royal palace. The corpses would fester and rot, the stench was unbearable and clouds of flesh flies droned. The corpses would leak smelly, yellowish, red juice through camphor white shrouds and the ground beneath them was wet and slippery with the body fluids. The king’s officials would ride out of the palace and lecture the bereaved about the health benefits of the stench the dead bodies emitted. They commanded the bereaved not to cover their noses against the stench as it was disrespectful to the dead. ‘It will hurt the souls of the dead,’ they sermonized.
        Squatting around the dead loved ones, the attendants shooed away the buzzing flies from the corpses with hands or caps and chomped the bread they had brought with them. But soon their victuals were exhausted and they begged other attendants for remnants of their dinner or went to the city for this purpose. At times all the attendants would run short of rations and they would flood the streets of the capital to plead for scraps and crumbs. The big-hearted residents of the capital never turned the hungry attendants away from their doorsteps empty-handed. The starving attendants had hardly turned the corner when the stray dogs sneaked into the parade ground to lick the yellowish red juice that had trickled from the corpses.
         At noon, the bereaved were directed to move the dead bodies to the cool shade of the ancient trees that lined the boulevard in front of the royal palace and in the evening they were bidden to shift their lifeless charges to the grassy ground that stretched at the back of the palace. Every morning the attendants were required to wash their dear departed and bring them to the grassy assembly ground before the right wing of the palace. The musicians blared rusty trumpets and pounded on huge drums while the bereaved propped up their dead relatives and raised the corpses’ stiff right hands to salute the king, who ghosted along the curtained balcony of his palace. Some attendants believed that they saw the king, some argued that they did not see him while others said that they were not sure.
        The people of the kingdom, especially the nobility, would carefully keep record of this stamping business in bulky registers. The aristocrats would proudly tell that their ancestors’ buttocks were lawfully stamped for twenty generations without fail. More righteous and high-minded people would wonder, in their moments of solitude, whether the buttocks of their forefathers beyond twenty generation bore the royal seal or not. The mere thought of this wrongdoing made them so upset that they could not tell whether they had eaten their meals or not; at night it gave them nightmares. Then they would consult a scholar who was an authority on the buttocks-stamping business. The scholar, after taking his hefty fee, would advise them on how to atone for the crime of their distant dead ancestors whose buttocks had not been stamped with the royal seal. The scholars would advise some people to do charitable work. Others they would advise to bare their buttocks and sit down on a platter full of scorpions, and others they would tell curtly to let themselves drop down a precipitous cliff that, for the convenience of the public, was constructed next to the palace.
          The subjects of that land had three bulky dictionaries of swear words but the worst of all pejoratives was to call someone, ‘O, the seed of the father who was buried with his buttock unstamped.’
          Just one day before the stamping of the dead’s left buttocks, the bereaved were ordered to go to the clerks and request them to write an application to the King for permission to get their deads' buttocks stamped. The aged and disheveled clerks sat on threadbare, empty gunnysacks under an awning before the royal palace. The clerks—who were experts in writing such applications—were deaf and half blind and the bereaved would spend hours explaining to them the purpose of their application. Fortunately the clerks had assistants who would jibber into their masters’ hairy ears and the clerks’ muddy eyes would brighten up. The bereaved would pay a heavy fee to the pen-pushers and their helpers and then submit the application to the High Clerk.
           Early next morning, flourishing the royal seal in his gloved hand, the High Clerk would sail out of his office. The murmuring multitude then fell silent and bowed down their heads. The High Clerk ordered the bereaved to turn their dead on their right sides so that the deceased’s left buttocks were up and open. But first the relatives of the dead had to submit stamp tax for the royal seal. This tax was the highest and the most respected of all taxes in the kingdom.
         In less than one hour, after the High Clerk had stamped thousands of dead, the bereaved were so relieved and happy that they would yell with excitement and fall into chanting. In their songs they would eulogize the benign king and pray for his health and long rule. They would hoist the freshly-stamped deceased on the backs of their draft beasts and turn their feet towards their homes. Then they would bury their dead and for months tell their neighbours and friends the stories of the king’s hospitality and benevolence.
        However, a revolution was brewing inside the palace’s thick mossy walls. The cause of the revolution carried no economic, social, religious or political motives but it was something personal. The youngest of the four grandsons of the hoary king once asked his grandmother, ‘Grandma, tell me who will be king when my grandfather has passed away? ’
       ‘Your elder uncle.’
       ‘And who will be king when uncle is no more? ’
       ‘Your father.’
       ‘Who will be king when father has gone?’
       ‘Your elder brother.’
       ‘And who after my elder brother is dead?’
       ‘Your second brother.’
       ‘And who will be king after he is at peace?’
       ​‘Listen darling and listen well, you are not going to become king if the entire clan is dead and buried.’
        Upon hearing this, the young prince went berserk. For days he brooded in darkened corners of the palace, skipped meals and scribbled missives to his confederates. Before long, with the help of his confederates, he slaughtered all the living creatures that happened to be inside the palace except a superannuated mare, a young Dalmatian and a wizened octogenarian minister and declared himself king       
       Though not averse to spilling blood when there was need for it, the new king was peace-loving and a man of modern world. He believed in equality, justice, reforms and good governance. Early in his reign, he signed a decree, ‘From now on the right buttock of the deceased will be stamped with the royal seal instead of the left buttock.’
        The public was overjoyed with this groundbreaking reform and they brought fruits, flowers, honey and mushrooms to the king.
         The new king was benign and sagacious and his subjects were happy and prosperous under his reign.
        One fine April morning the people congregated under the moss-clad walls of the palace and started shouting unintelligible things. The sight of such a huge gathering sent ripples down the new king’s spine. He was on the verge of ordering his sentries to shoot a volley of arrows at the crowd, when his dumpy little minister toddled into his bedroom. ‘What is it?’
       ‘Sire, the public is so happy and satisfied with your rule.’ The minister kissed the hem of the royal robe.
       ‘If they are happy and satisfied, then what are they shouting for?’
       ‘They are not shouting in anger. They are shouting to get a small favour from your magnificence.’
       ‘Tell me what they want.’
       ‘They wish that from now on, both buttocks of the deceased be stamped with the royal seal.’
       The king scratched at the one-night old stubble on his square chin and said, ‘Go, inform them that their wish will be honoured.’ 
​
Habib  Mohana  is  an  assistant  professor  of  English  at  government  degree  college  No  3,  D.  I. Khan.    He  writes  fiction  in  English,  Urdu  and  Saraiki,  his  mother  tongue.  He  has  four  books under  his  belt,  one  in  Urdu  and  three  in  Saraiki.  His  Saraiki  novel  forms  part  of  MA  Saraiki syllabus  at  Zikria  University  Multan.  His  short  stories  in  English  have  appeared  in  literary journals of India, UK and Canada. In 2010 and 2014 Pakistan Academy of Letters awarded his Saraiki books the Khawaja Ghulam Farid Award. He was born in 1969 in Daraban Kalan, a town in the district of Dera Imsail Khan, Pakistan.  His  Urdu  book  of  short  stories  with  the  title  of  ADHORI  NEEND  won  the  Abaseen award from the Government of KPK. He is looking for a publisher for his novel The Village Café.

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  • ABOUT
    • Our Literary Aesthetic
    • Staff >
      • Writings by Sakina B. Fakhri
    • Contact Us
    • SUBSCRIBE
  • CONTESTS
  • AZURE: A Journal of Literary Thought
    • AZURE Volume 8 >
      • ALMOST STALE by Nathaniel Calhoun
      • CUCUMBER SALAD by Michael Pearce
      • PRACTICAL MEDICAL ADVICE FOR FEMALE SUBJECTS OF THE CAPE COLONY by Karen Jennings
      • PLAN B and others by M.B. McLatchey
      • IDIOSYNCRATIC ICONS: A MANIFESTO by Richard Collins
      • THE DARDANELLES (HERO AND LEANDER AT 60) by Greg Sendi
      • AN APPRECIATION OF THE SCHOLAR, ADALBERT by Vincent Mannings
      • ONE PARTING, YIELDING LINE by M. Ann Reed
      • THE RIVER FISHER'S DAUGHTER by Kirk Marshall
      • BEYOND THE GREAT HORIZON WALL by Kenny Kuhn
      • BLOOM by Michael Gessner
      • SOMETHING, I KNOW NOT WHAT by Ray Corvi
      • OF BUTLERS AND SPIES by Austin Barnes
      • WHAT THE FIRST GOD SPOKE I THINK WAS SUN by Richard Hague
      • SEELENKNARREN by Lorenz Poeschl
    • AZURE Volume 7, Issue 3 >
      • DECEMBER 25, 2022 by Aletha Irby
      • A SUMMARY OF 'A BRIEF HISTORY OF NASOCARPIA' by Peter Arscott
      • CARRYING CAPACITY by Charles Byrne
      • THE MUNE MONOLOGUES by Thomas Townsley
    • AZURE Volume 7, Issue 2 >
      • VARIATION ON A THEME & POSE POEM by Norman Minnick
      • THE MAP OF YOUR HANDS UNFOLDS A DOVE by Vikki C.
      • HISTORIES OF THE BEARD by Richard Hague
      • ILLUSTRATED COMMENTS ON THE APOPHATAPATAPHYSICAL METRICS OF COSMIC HUMOR by edo strannikov
    • AZURE Volume 7, Issue 1 >
      • ORANGES by John Moody
      • THE LACONIA by Wendy Webb
      • BREATH OF THE TEXT by Jeremiah Cassar Scalia
    • AZURE Volume 6, Issue 4 >
      • TO THOSE FOUND DEAD IN CHIMNEYS by R.W. Plym
      • WHAT TO EXPECT OF LIFE by Steven G. Kellman
      • IF IT WERE DRAWN by Jessica Reed
      • BLOOD IN THE ORCHIDS by Amanda Kotch
      • CORNELIUS RADHOPPER by Peter Arscott
    • AZURE Volume 6, Issue 3 >
      • ANIMAL INHERITANCE by akhir ali
      • THAT DUDE DERRIDA by Daniel Klawitter
      • FLAT-EARTH FRED by Phil Gallos
      • THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING SEMICOLON by Orana Loren
      • MY BALDERDASHERY by Eric Paul Shaffer
    • AZURE Volume 6, Issue 2 >
      • MIRROR by Joshua Kepfer
      • CUE FALLING PIANO by D.C. Weaver
      • ANTON AND THE ECHO by Cristina Otero
      • THAT WHICH WE TRULY DON'T KNOW by JOACHIM GLAGE
      • CONGRATULATIONS by Alan Sincic
    • AZURE Volume 6, Issue 1 >
      • NEVER, NEVER LAND, MY SHIP by Mark Pearce
      • THE SMILE OF MONA LISA by Fatima Ijaz
      • OUROBOROS by Esme Sammons
      • THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA by Margaret D. Stetz
      • SNICKER-SNACK by Bruce Meyer
    • AZURE Volume 5, Issue 4 >
      • THE OWLET AND THE TURTLE by Greg Sendi
      • BRACTS and other poems by Nathaniel Calhoun
      • ANSWERS TO NON-EXISTENT QUESTIONS and other poems by Kevin Griffith
      • NEVERENDING KNOT by Jodie Dalgleish
      • LEARNING TO WALK by Jodie Dalgleish
      • OVERSOUL by P.S. Lutz
    • AZURE Volume 5, Issue 3 >
      • MAP OF MEMORY by Jesse Schotter
      • BISMILLAH by Abby Minor
      • MICROMORTS by Veronica Tang
      • LOVE LETTER TO LANGUAGE: AN ABECEDARIAN by Saramanda Swigart
      • IF YOU WERE ALL WATER by M. Ann Reed
    • AZURE Volume 5, Issue 2 >
      • CONTRA FORMALISME by Leland Seese
      • DRUNKEN MAN ON A BICYCLE by Dan Butterworth
      • WOLF TICKETS THROUGH THE FERAL WINTER by Kirk Marshall
      • SYLVANUS, BARD by Marc Lerner
      • THE LOOKING GLASS OF ARTHUR GORDON PYM by Frank Meola
    • AZURE Volume 5, Issue 1 >
      • INTIMATE THINGS by Laylage Courie
      • A SERIES OF PUNCTUATION by Hajar Hussaini
      • ROT AND GLORIANA by Laurel Miram
      • BLUES ON RED by Elie Doubleday
      • MY FICTION: REMEMBERING 50 YEARS OF WORK by Richard Kostelanetz
    • AZURE Volume 4, Issue 4 >
      • ENDNOTES FOR AN ALLOCUTION by Peter Freund
      • UKEMI (and other poems) by Nicole Vento
      • MEMORANDUM ON DESIRE by Laylage Courie
      • THE HOLYWOOD DEUTERONOMY by Jim Shankman
      • AT THE MAD HATTER-MARCH HARE ART GALLERY (and other poems) by M. Ann Reed
    • AZURE Volume 4, Issue 3 >
      • THE MACHINE, STOLEN FIRE, and PERFORMANCE by Vivek Narayan
      • FIRST FRUITS by Stephen Massimilla
      • ONCE UPON A TOMORROW-TIME by Christopher Routheut
      • YIELD LIGHT OF WAY by Ken Goodman
      • SEVEN TALES by Sara Streett
    • AZURE Volume 4, Issue 2 >
      • THE PUNCH-CARD CIPHERS by DF Short
      • SHE WAS THE FIRST TO GIVE A TOAST by Kelli Russell Agodon
      • HABLU L-WARIDI by Jesse Hilson
      • THE KEY TO DREAMS by Sean S. Bentley
      • SOFA, SO GOOD, SORT OF by Remy Ngamije
    • AZURE Volume 4, Issue 1 >
      • STAMPING THE DEAD by Habib Mohana
      • LEGS by A. Joachim Glage
      • I THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX by Heikki Huotari
      • LUŽÁNKY by V.B. Borjen
    • ARCHIVES: VOLUME 3 >
      • AZURE Volume 3, Issue 4 >
        • TALES UNSUITABLE FOR CHILDREN by Devon Ortega
        • WAKE UP by JayJay Conrad
        • AMONG THE MEN IS APRIL by Logo Wei
        • SWEET by Melinda Giordano
        • BLACK ROSES by Osamase Ekhator
        • MEET ME TONIGHT ON METAPHOR STREET by Vivek Narayan
      • AZURE Volume 3, Issue 3 >
        • MENAGE A TROIS, WITH HORSE by Don Dussault
        • THE BLACK by Ben Colandrea
        • BLUE SKY LANGUAGE by Christien Gholson
        • UN DETECTIVE VIEJO by Franco Strong
      • AZURE Volume 3, Issue 2 >
        • THE CLEANSING by Linda Dennard
        • SHUFFLE by Debbie Fox
        • DID YOU FALL OR RISE FROM THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING? by M. Ann Reed
        • THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE PORNQUEEN by Omar Sabbagh
        • KIGALI MEMORIAL by Carlos Andres Gomez
        • PANTOUM OF THE MEAT by Ouita Rogers
      • AZURE Volume 3, Issue 1 >
        • HOW TO WRITE A BIOGRAPHY by Joanne B. Mulcahy
        • PROTOCOL NINE-NINE-NINE-NINE by Kenneth Hanes
        • LESS' MORE by TWIXT
        • POINTLESS MR. PROBST by Beatriz Seelaender
    • ARCHIVES: VOLUME 2 >
      • AZURE Volume 2, Issue 4 >
        • SYLVAN PASSAGES by Dan Wood
        • SISTER ALONE by Janet M Powers
        • CENTURY 2.1 by Alan Flurry
        • CLAIMED BY THE SEA by Sam Reese
      • AZURE Volume 2, Issue 3 >
        • CROSSHATCHING by M.K. Rainey
        • LULLABY by Barbara Daddino
        • HOUSEMOUTH (and other poems) by Anhvu Buchanan and Brent Piller
        • THE RESIDUE IN PUBLIC TEA AND COFFEE CUPS by V.B. Borjen
        • SYZYGY (and other poems) by Malorie Seeley-Sherwood
      • AZURE Volume 2, Issue 2 >
        • DRAGONFLIES: A DISCOURSE ON ANXIETY by Lara Lillibridge
        • AND RICHARD BURBAGE ALSO HAD A SISTER by Freya Shipley
        • THE WATCHERS by M.K. Rainey
        • JAZZ INTERACTION WITH SYMBOLS by Sarah T.
        • SPIDER (and other poems) by Natalie Crick
      • AZURE Volume 2, Issue 1 >
        • ECHOES by Daniel Freeman
        • MAPS by Susan Brennan
        • EDGAR'S FATHER'S MAGIC WORDS by JWM Morgan
        • LOCKJAW: IN TWO ACTS by James Blevins
        • WHAT THE LIVING DO by Susan Wadds
    • Archives: Volume 1 >
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 10 >
        • SUSURROS DE RECURRENCIA by Franco Strong
        • THE OLD MAN by Sarah T.
        • PERMUTATIONS by Laura Cesarco Eglin
        • WORLD PEACE 3 by Gustavo Alberto Garcia Vaca
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 9 >
        • LITTLE GHOST by Danny Judge
        • THE LAST ALLUSIONIST by Sakina B. Fakhri
        • CHURCH by Diana McClure
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 8 >
        • DEVIL IN A BLUE DRESS by Nancy Flynn
        • WHAT I COULDN'T SAY by Erika Ranee & Diana McClure
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 7 >
        • BRASS TYRANT AND THE AMERICAN THIRST by Kirk Marshall
        • LADY KILLER by Monika Viola
        • THE RIBBONS by Ferguson Williams
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 6 >
        • AURELIA: A BALLET IN PROSE (ACT 2 - Part 1) by Sakina B. Fakhri
        • NEW AGE UNCAGED by Frank Light
        • IMMIGRATION/INTEGRATION by Jaret Vadera & Diana McClure
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 5 >
        • THE TRIALS OF TOBIT by Joseph Lisowski
        • LIKE MANY GIANT FOOTPRINTS (and other poems) by William Doreski
        • AURELIA: A BALLET IN PROSE (ACT I) by Sakina B. Fakhri
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 4 >
        • WARDENCLIFF by Barbara Daddino
        • BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY by Reg Darling
        • AURELIA: A BALLET IN PROSE (LIBRETTO) by Sakina B. Fakhri
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 3 >
        • LAWTON, OKLAHOMA by Mark Lawley
        • TWEETY BIRD'S GRACE by Diana McClure
        • CONTAGION AND THE DINNER GUEST by Sakina B. Fakhri
        • ON POETRY AND PROSE by Sakina B. Fakhri
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 2 >
        • TWO MICE IN A BLACK BOX & THE DECONSTRUCTION OF LANGUAGE by Sakina B. Fakhri
      • AZURE Volume 1, Issue 1 >
        • CHARACTER SKETCHES by Diana McClure
        • SEASONS ON A GRAVESTONE by Sakina B. Fakhri
        • COCKTAIL PARTY by Diana McClure
        • DESUETUDE by Sakina B. Fakhri
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