Tag: Yash Seyedbagheri

Two apples - one red, one green, vaguely metallic - sit alone in a grainy fluorescent refrigerator. by Alabaster Rhumb for "She Left the Apples."

“She Left the Apples” * Fiction * Yash Seyedbagheri

aromatica poetica June 11, 2020

When Mother left my sister Nancy and me, she left the apples. But she took the typewriter, hi-fi, Sinatra records. She even took the leftover meatloaf. She took these things with precision, as if her moment was passing, all too fast. As if she needed to rush into the world and things wouldn’t wait for her. I was twelve, Nancy sixteen. But Mother left the apples. She hated them. Too domestic. Mother encouraged us to stay healthy. She promised a …

A portrait of Tsaritsa Alexandra Fyodorovna in a gold frame sticks out of a rusted green dumpster alongside a pizza box and trash bags outside sand-colored stucco apartment buildings.

“Dumpster Lives” * Fiction * Yash Seyedbagheri

aromatica poetica May 6, 2020

I like sorting through the dumpster behind my apartment every night. I inhale possibility and pungency, moldy cheddar cheese, dying pizzas. I examine discarded items with tenderness, even if I must crane my neck. There are boxes for flat screen TVs, crumpled cartons of Bud Light, blue and white arresting my eyes. Old newspapers. Styrofoam and crumpled cardboard. Discarded garbage cans. But there’s also a crumpled joint or two and a couple Michelina’s TV dinners with their soothing green boxes. …

A lurid red table-clothed table topped with assorted booze—Long Island Ice Tea, Mud Slide, White Russian, margarita--and some empty glasses, one tipped over as is one of the stools, with a neon yellow 1963 Wurlitzer jukebox lighting the dank room.

“Booze” * A Prose-Poem by Yash Seyedbagheri

aromatica poetica March 10, 2020

Booze beckons beneath the sun’s cheerful vast skies. It is a Tuesday, boozeday, perfect day for booze, the skies the brightest shade of light blue one can imagine. The week is nascent, full of hope, lacking the chaos and screaming faces of Friday, cynicism depleted. But one drinks only in the evening, when obligations take flight, when one is alone with the night, a vastness before one. One can drink when the shadows begin their dance and streetlamps flick on, …

Botanical drawing of Humulus lupulus = hops – mug of beer = clinking beer mugs emoji. By Alabaster Rhumb for Yash Seyedbagheri fiction.

“I Like Beer” * Flash Fiction * Yash Seyedbagheri

aromatica poetica November 8, 2019

Nick thinks of beer. No, he dreams of beer. Hungover, ghost of six beers past churning in his corpulent stomach, that word sings, beer. Beer. En route to classes, a graduate student he thinks about beer. He conjures the amber ale of 90 Shillings, the bitter sour of a La Folies from New Belgium. He tries not to conjure beer, but after another lecture from his father, full of dissection, bad son, weak, too artistic, the beer calls. Drink me, …