WORDSMITH Issue 1

Downtown
Constantine

Algeria

Algeria

Constantine



Algeria



Meet the

photographer

Borhan Tabet is a first year Biology
major student, he teaches Photography

at the Audio-Visual program at the
Univeristy of Mentouri Constantine, he
aslo holds a photography session at the

American Corner Constantine, he
works at a graphic designing company
in Constantine, he loves going hiking,
camping and making video volgs on his

YouTube channel!

Nice Harbor, France



Central Park, New York City, USA

Lake Mendota, Wisconsin, USA



Le Sauze-du-Lac, France

Paris, France

Japanese Beetles
Madison, Wisconsin, USA

Meet The

photographer

Hiba Baaziz is an Algerian microbiology P.h.D
student, currently residing in Marsielle, France.
Aside from immersing herself in her scientific
research and attending conferences, she loves to
capture nature's beauty and the little untocied

things in photography
Hiba was also a teaching assitant at the university

of brothers Mentouri, Constantine.

Portrait of refugee:  
During the realisation of an astrophotography project in Tamenrasset,

I stumbled upon a Malian refugee, not so comfortable to talk to me;
his expression was more than more than enough for me to make an

editorial with. 24th of December 2013, Tamensrasset Algeria.

Portrait of a saillor Collo :
In the quest of expressive faces during

a personal portrait project I found
myself in a dock searching between the

re-entrant boats into the Collo’s old
port… And what’s more expressive of a
sailor’s face getting back from the sea?

22nd of July 2017, Collo Algeria.



Passerelle de Perregaux Constantine at
night (Mellah Selimane)

One of the oldest bridges in Constantine
“Kantert essansor”, Captured during a
personal project of the most iconic
bridges of Constantine called
“Constantine at night”. (Contribution to
my hometown) 15th of April 2015
Constantine Algeria.



The Geminids meteor Shower:
The Geminids are considered to be one of the most

spectacular meteor shower of the year, with the
possibility of sighting around 120 meteors per hour
at its peak, this one is captured over the iconic pique
la Perine in Tamenrasset, the picture counts more

than 11 falling star.

‫الفرقا‬

Approaching this old man on new year’s eve, I
found him so angry about what’s happening,

the residents was getting moved into new
houses, compelled, 1st of January 2013,
Constantine Algeria.

“Angry, sad and helpless was this man when I
tried to talk to him, to a better place they
taught they’re

Moving him. But he just wanted to be home, to
where the buildings were too old to carry on
as was he..”



Meet the

Photographer

Djarri Abdouldjalil
Born in 1993, Algerian, Constantine based
photographer, purchasing a master degree in
Computer engineering, Abdouldjalil is persuaded
that understanding new technologies is a key for
keeping up with modern photography. Since the
age of 17 Djalel as nicknamed has been working as a
freelance, starting with an international magazine
and from personal projects to working on

photography as a part time job.



Featured

Poetry

December in Cambridge

Iris Orpi

“There’s something people didn’t
tell me about snow,” he said
that morning, blanketed in white,
his first winter in Massachusetts
as a Fulbright student. “It has
a sound, a soft patter like rain,
only smaller and more quiet.”

I thought it was less a sound
than the act of deleting
a sound, purple feather
balanced between catching
your breath and the next slow
exhale. Rustle of velvet
drapes in a theater, alive,
crouched in wait for the world
to begin. Cast of
a yearned-for love
in a plaster of bright and
blinding before it hardened.
Nano-currencies of sky
on installment. The unraveling
of virginity, in reverse.

Aleph, full wingspan,
muse preoccupied on
a speck of light,
right before thought
touches paper.

The Design in which we
Intertwine

Iris Orpi

I. II.
Coexisting, an erasure poem, Coerced confession, exit wounds
wash of black and unwanted phrases edited to the point of bruising
sent back to the chaos, postmortem revelations
strangers and intention’s the future trying coexist with the past
second cousin once removed on a scaffolding of eyes wide open
forming new allegiances faith ripped open
across the muffled void and bleeding on the carpet
band of harvested meanings violation unbound like a drawn weapon
trying to evoke new colors mezzanine floor of acceptance
prejudices smashing against half-truths in the half-light
the desert of white margins sensibilities spattered in
power of a pronounced absence the place where the other shoe fell
forcing a connection chalk outline
a negotiation of thirst for answers,
an inhospitable environment then the answers
with invisible, deft stitches
suggestion of emergence after
surviving a surgical purge

III.
Co-dependence, shifting sands
unreliable maps to mark the oases
temperamental winds
mirages
of the once loved
rendering confessions into finer parts
that they might fit into an hourglass
insurmountable realities
in three-minute increments
a comfortable drowning
we get ever closer to the water
if the water doesn’t find us first

Connoisseuse 

Iris Orpi

I’ve tasted you with my mind

feasted on the plot hole,
the Deus ex machina of being here,
the sacrament of knowing you
and the profanity of loving you

I’ve bitten the lyrical sky then I would speak you
of the possibility of our karmas colliding, over the restlessness of my remembering,
of sharing pleasure and pain with you, summon your echoes like strands
citrus notes of your baritone dripping of an indelible summer
from the edges of my mouth. from love’s dissonant winds.
We never touched
All my five senses know you, but you left a trail of kisses on my walls
have tapped into the bold flavors and a lunar crater on my flesh
of holding silence while you
sit across from me evoking the sun from that one al fresco brunch
like dark chocolate and cayenne. on the outskirts of Marrakesh
hungers rippling over the mosaic
I’d definitely recognize you and tracing the gold leaf on the rim
if I saw your face in a poem of the glass like the quiver of fingertips

where one of us waited
while the other came
to a deeper intimacy with time
tasting dreams of you with my mind

as you placed the exquisite secrets
of your lips on the back of another’s hand.

Red Wine Stains on the Edges of Things

Iris Orpi

Ardently, even as the familiar passions
the way the earth woven in fever patterns
makes love to the promise of freshwater sweetness
of summer and brocade gold
and conceives grow threadbare and
a ruby sky— run with the cold feet
of an untamed winter,
I’ve loved you
we are caressed
even as the folds of silence by a binding future
descend on the lips and a certainty
of the kiss unkissed, ordained by years
the serenade hushed by sleep and sharpened by visions

even at the bottom and I will love you
of the falling dream,
the landing pages to the mellow renditions
of blind faith leaps of what had once been
and the clockwork morning so vigilantly kindled
softly stirring
to the fading echoes
even as we consign our fates of our untold darkness
to the fraying horizon
where cast-out light to the turquoise memories of the sea
breathes its last
and the pieces to the warmth of strangers
of its broken heart and their foreign prayers
land at the feet of both whispered in the darkening twilight
the innocent and the guilty
like fog in the city to the end.

El Nido Nocturne

Iris Orpi

All things known and seen, then, I found them at the bar,
walked into nightfall. the newlywed couple
The sun didn’t feel from Russia,
like the sun, somehow, who traveled all the way here
in context with the days like pilgrims.
that held it. I nodded at them without a word,
I was granted only forgave them for being
a strip of horizon the third pair of honeymooners
for view, to hold up the line
through the narrow inlet at the breakfast buffet
our boat crossed this morning, because they
the day before couldn’t stop kissing.
to bring us here, I waited for them to leave
flanked by forested boulders and retreat to
with jagged faces. the privacy of the love
Everything felt new they came here to make,
and lost at the same time. then resumed my
We didn’t expect to be nocturnal wanderings,
followed by the sun, a forgotten fugitive.
but it was there, The shapes of hunger hissed
and it set, despite and slithered in flashes
our collective will across the sand, as I
to escape everything that circled the shore in search
reminded us of reality. of cell reception, or
On El Nido any other incongruous sign
descended in all directions that the night could spare.
a night as black as ink By the time
with the opacity of the call came through,
a decaffeinated dream. the tide was up to my ankles,
I stayed out after hours, and I was waist-deep in emotion.
in case the missing moon First I heard hello,
needed a confidante. then, why are you crying.
I said, this place is beautiful,
then, I wish you were here.

The Place where All the Important
Questions Gather

Iris Orpi

I had a dream that the city of my childhood
was on the far edge of a flat world,
cups of warm tahô, Bulul statues,
and jeepney dashboard calligraphy
on the conveyor belt of careless,
noncomittal remembering, falling
past the place where everything ends
and dissolving in the ink black between
stars as cold as ice and spattered strains
from the violin of Erich Zann,

and I was standing at starboard on a change
relentlessly sailing against the current
and watching parts of myself disappear,
neither protesting nor surrendering,
but instead acutely feeling the whipping
wind on my arms and the salt in my eyes
and preoccupied with deciphering
the intentions of the tide as it pulled away
from the heavy wisdom of the shore. 

Meet The Author

Iris Orpi was born and raised in the
Philippines, who resides now in Chicago,
Illinois.  She is the author of the novel The

Espresso Effect (2010) and the book of
compiled poems Cognac for the Soul (2012).

Her work has appeared in dozens of print
and online publications around Asia, North
America, and Europe. She was an Honorable
Mention for the Contemporary American
Poetry Prize, given by Chicago Poetry Press,

in 2014.

Nove 

Khadidja

In this barren land, only the dead lie,
Whilst the skies cried and cried,
Whispers of the dead linger—
Carried by the wind, by the cloud;
by the mouths of those who don’t shut up.
Only grief befalls those who witnessed the
fallen,
They fell like flies when you swat them too
fast; too hard,

The sky and its canvas mix an unusual color,
Those orange hues mix with crimson red,
Yet, the only thing the grievers see were the
tear-eyed,
Often blinking too fast—
As they are blessed with a portrait of gunfire
and wails.

mber

Boulahbal

The soldiers cried out the cause: in the name
of peace!
They called it tyranny, they called it its last
day,
Alas! Cried they in the name of a pitiful plea,
And then, only then, was the barren land set
free,

That day of November signaled with a bright,
blinding flare,
The day they celebrate even to their last
chipped nails,
The flag rode high; their hopes breathed in
the final try,
The promised land no longer belongs to an
undeserving owner;
The prayers, pleas, cried, and wails were
answered.

The Ha-Ha Man

Khadidja Boulahbal

That glistening tool swept you off your In a bed of lilies, again, you’re sprawled,
feet, Stitch by stitch, they tickled you.
Winding you up; there goes the heat. The smile on his face never faltering at all,
Acting with a horrified expression, Creeping up with his pearly whites, said he,
As my tool glistened once again. ‘Ah! What a disgrace.’ Never letting the Ha-
ha man be.
On the mattress you lay, In that crimson, Maniae’s cliché free,
In the tattered dress of lilies, The story written, concluded a pay.
Hera1 nursed him with her silky white
droplets, The Ha-ha man merely stuttered,
But, you, the Ha-ha man, in Maniae’s2 bed Meeting Lyssa, merely his heart splattered.
lay. Compassion took refuge in his ribcage,
And I, a sister, Lyssa3, to you merely Deceiving plots and plays, as no longer did
observe, he rage.
Pondered I, if brother, gave you a platter
of what you deserve.

The stakes are high when you play a game, Instead of hide and seek, he prayed for his
As the cats and mice chase all the same. heart; peeked,
As they ran; ran, the prey was hunted Surrendering to his desires; its pleas,
down, Mistaken for a heart is a terrifying disease.
An offering it became, as scene one was The Ha-ha man fell to his knees,
done Taking in his surroundings, his fancies,
The playwright dropped the pen, gave up Mistaken, again, now for a gruesome face,
with names; Was his love, Lyssa, and the bleeding cage.
You and I, faded, like forgotten pages,
We played, we acted; we welcomed the A wicked smiled adorned his Frankenstein-
end. like face,
The story faltering, as a heartbeat, but
Bloody and sore, on the very day I abhor, keeping its pace.
Came the vermilion pool, stretching, Splatter, splatter, there goes your crimson
And you, like a fish, barely, stretching. blades,
Maniae’s smile sewed on wide; patched in, Ye eyes, like the story, drew the shades.
Wondering if how it feels to rape, Now, clean your droplets I shall do,
Ye veins from your nape. How would Lyssa react if she were you?

That glistening tool swept you off your feet,
Winding you up; there goes the heat.
Acting with a horrified expression,
As my tool glistened once again.

Giddy children he and I were,
Cupping our faces; talking in hushed purr,
We giggled and laughed,
Playing the blame game, or were we just mad!

1. Hera is the goddess of women and marriage in
Greek mythology. She is characterized by her
jealous and vengeful nature.
2.  Maniae is a spirit or a group of spirits that
personify insanity and madness. They are linked
with Lyssa.
3. Lyssa is the spirit of mad rage, frenzy, and
rabies in animals.

Meet The Author

Boulahbal Khadidja is an aspiring, Algerian
writer. Khadidja was born on 3rd of January,
1997. She lives in Constantine, Algeria. Now,

she is a 3rd year student in Mentouri
University 1. Khadidja is specialized in
English in that university. Aside from that,

she works as a writer and editor in
AnimeVersa, as she writes articles about
anime. Khadidja has written 14 short stories,
so far; she is experimenting with plays, too.
She also wrote poetry, which was what she
originally intended to write ever since she

was twelve. 

Appe

Zineb 

I indulged in sipping liquid
candy from strangers,
White sugar
It tastes so good but it’ll
leave starving
After an insulin injection—
The beauty of sickness,
Your immune system fought
for you
And lost the battle
But the war is just on
You Vs Life—
This appetite
That desire
The shivers after a mental
breakdown,
Is it because I didn’t have
breakfast
Or because I failed the day?

tite

 Laadioui

The beauty in sickness
Is like finding pearls
In your own shit,
It was all inside you:
The shit, the pearls
The sickness, the
beauty…
Some creatures scratch
The futility out of life,
And I sit paralyzed
Embracing my false
appetite,
The aches are nothing
But symptoms of
existence,
The pain is just a cult’s
daily ritual—
And I can’t step out of
my body
Until my appetite is
either
Denied or reached. 

God is a writer

Zineb Laadioui

A divine worrywart
Little details I cry about
Singing along with Pink Floyd
Trying to remain strong and
bold
God is a writer
I am God
I write about what haunts me
Unfamiliar faces engraved on
the apple’s tree
God is a writer
I have a godly writer in me
Telling me to kill people
Give them diseases
And curse the love that never
ceases
Bad God, viciously omnipotent

Worshiped by words
Prayed to
I bless everything I do
Because I’m evil, yet I’m good
I create lives and destinies
I burn buildings in big cities
And still, I’m dwelling in heaven for
eternity
On my throne, I sob along Remember Pink
Floyd’s song?
That’s my mantra Sacred anthem
With wine and candles
It’s 3AM, I’m still at my desk
Productively complaining on paper
And God knows –I know-
That in my temple
I breathe life into my pieces
And watch them grow

Meet The Author

Zineb Laadioui is a writer on the go, lover of art and
student of life. Born in Morocco, Casablanca the 8th
March 1998 pursues her studies in English Literature
at Faculty of Arts and Humanities Ain Chok, Poetry
reader at COUNTERCLOCK LITERARY magazine,
alumna of the international writing program;
between the lines and the Aileen Getty school of
Citizen Journalism, and instructor at
Rabat/Casablanca American schools. Published in 2
anthologies: BETWEEN THE LINES anthology and
THE THIRD WORD PRESS's A HOUSE OF MUSIC
AND OTHER STORIES anthology, and featured in
the Tunnel magazine.

The City 

Aladdin 

In the city of cold I am writing,
As my words tremble with fear ;
Long have I stood here waiting
For ashes and hearts to appear.

Dear reader feast your eyes  
On the Demon’s tasty bread,
A place named sinners’ prize
Hail to Kryo city of the dead

Shed tears of crimson blood,
For chastity is alive no more;
Righteousness fell with thud
Here, thou shalt find but sore

Doors of my city beam with dark,
Her streets are covered with gold,
Roads of thorns and a shining arc,
All nurturing an evil of stories untold

Old and alpine walls killing the
moon,
In my city heartache is ancient as
night ;
screams of the broken are a lost tune
Feeding prayers for the Demon’s
might 

Of Cold

Aladdin Bouhamla

 bright days are here never,
And mist is suffocating the air ;
Kryo is lost in the night forever,
For this city of cold is hell’s heir

Err is human; virtue is demonic,
And so sinners here are saints;
I laugh at them for it is ironic
When a painter dies of what he
paints

Faints he who sees their faces
For they are hideous and odious;
Lost their  souls  in many places,
In the world of masks they killed us

Thus, here is a word to never be
forsaken
Beware mortal, for all that is will
burn
And remember out of dust wast
thou taken
And unto Kryo shalt thou return

To Be depressed Like Me

Aladdin Bouhamla

 The priest had no hesitation, no doubt

I gently killed a cigarette that I was smoking; On whether he should abandon me or not,

Sat down on the crimson dusty chair. So he gave me the mask then threw me out;

My blind therapist then started talking And that divine mask was the beginning of my plot.

“You smell of depression, but not like I care”.

On to the cursed streets I have returned;

On my knees I crawled and cried: My hands were cold, red and muddy,

“Have mercy on this poor lad! With a lesson, in a hard way, I learned:

Depression is eating me from the inside This world is a cruel place for a dead body.

And the unspoken silence is driving me mad “

All of what I can remember

And in the church by the river not so far away, Are the eyes of people passing by?

The demon priest was waiting for my confession; It was on the first night of a dying December;

He likes it when sinners visit his church to pray, Their looks were empty and I don’t know why.

And be a good sinner, I sadly gave the right

impression. Do they know what it is like,

What it is like to be depressed like me?

“Speak my child and do not be afraid, To just be a lonely grey shrike,

For I can see darkness blooming on your face; Feeding from the frozen thorns of a cut off tree.

I can see the blood dripping from your blade

Start your confession, feel the serenity of this As I stare to them, I wonder

place”. If they ever felt sad and sour,

If they ever rawer with the thunder,

“Forgive me o father”, I said Before they faint and lose their power.

“For my soul is rotting from within;

My limbs are cold, my heart is dead, If they ever suffocated inside the black,

And this silly sad smile became my sin. After life stole their bright away;

If the night hit them with a smack,

Lost, as I wondered the streets day and night, That they couldn’t live another day.

Hunted with the thought of punishment and

test; If they ever felt agony blooming inside their chest

I am but a thing of man, who lost its fight, That their ribs started to clack;

Because after all father I did my best.” If they ever heard the voices, and thought they

were possessed

Banged their heads against wall till it started to

crack. 

If they ever hugged a pillow at night so bad
Then waited for it to hug them back ;
If they ever forgot about the last smile they had,
That their face became a forsaken shack

Hallowed are the wounded,
For their flesh shall grow back together;
Damned are the scarred, for they are excluded
From life and love yesterday, now and forever

“Look at me good sir! Look at me madam! ”,
No matter how hard I shout, I’ll always be ignored;
After all I am no longer a son of Adam,
Ever since I declined the crown of the Lord.

To wonder the streets, till the end of time
With my mask of a smile, that is my trophy,
Burdened with the shame of my crime;
In this fiendish city, with my cigarettes and coffee.

Meet The Author

Aladdin Bouhamla is a young
writer.He started writing

poetry since the end of 13, and
didn't stop ever. Also, he is

student at Mentouri University
Constantine.wize words by
Aladdin :" food is good",

"stupidity is a choice", "we are
all dying anyway". 

JUNK AND TREASURE

Rollin Jewett

Every now and then

I go through my “junk drawer”

and choose the things I want And here’s a handsome button
or don’t want any more. It’s green and smooth as jade…

Now, here’s a rusty key It came off of a jacket
that fit an ancient clock that I wore in seventh grade.

and when the key was turned And here’s a magnifier
the clock would go “tick-tock.” to look at ants and flies.

And here’s a perfect stone, It has a tiny crack in it…
so round and smooth and hard. but it still magnifies.

Can you believe I found it And here’s a little ribbon
right here in my back yard? that’s made of satin lace.

And here’s a little troll, I got it at a Spelling Bee
his hair is blue and white. for winning second place.

And don’t his eyes look almost real…I’ll take these things and others
so shiny, big, and bright? and put them in a crate…

And look, what’s this I’ve found? and leave them for the children
A little soldier boy… outside the garden gate.

To think I played for hours For I have kept them many years
with this simple little toy. and now I set them free…

And here’s a foreign coin I know they don’t mean anything
my uncle sent last year. to anyone but me.

I tried to spend it once… But though they might seem useless,
but they won’t take it here. they still could hold some pleasure…

And look, what’s this I see? For what I now consider “junk”,
A seashell from the shore. a child may view as “treasure.”

A crab once lived inside it…

but doesn’t anymore

Serendipity

Rania Chekhiel

I was by the window seat,

Fiddling my porcelain fingers and my

feet.

It was supposed to be a sunny day.

I guess the sun just wanted to sway

away.

Out of nowhere, it started to rain. Your name came up, that day, between the

Drop after drop, the rain draw me a lyrics and along with the scandals.

frame, in which I decided to craft my tale My heart pounded, as my eyes flooded.

Facing the white screen, the light I raced the rain. One drop from sky,

pierced my loose eyes. And a waterfall out of my eye.

Four letters sought for my graved soul,
My fingers fiddled and moved orchestral Fetching between my heart and the fortified
on the torn keys.
wall.
I have heard noises, chatters, but mostly

blabber. I tried to utter my feelings, but they were
They said my name, along with many manipulating.
letters. My words attempted voicing. “Gosh! They

I had my headphones plugged in, aresuffocating.”
Looking for me, you were lost.

Facing the white screen, I was mind You asked my friends, but none dared to
blown confront.
"She did this and she does that," my You thought I was still your hope.
fingers had flown. Probably I was, but I guess “Nope.”
Some defended, whilst other were there The sun creped its way between the gloomy
to moon. clouds,
Running out of proofs, out of reasoning, As the song was at its last lines.
or maybe out of subject, The rays tickled the freckles on my cheeks,
For silence was all that governed, thus I And I felt freshly on fleek.
was merely an object.  It is a sunny day, after all,
And I'm over you, once and for all.

Fiddling my porcelain fingers, I started
typing.
Letter by letter, I was deciphering,
The whole scene, the whole play, and I was
constructing.
The truth is lucid, and, now, I'm theall-
knowing.

Industrial Parts

Bill Moreland

 1.    The Man

Josef's haircut was a fury brown burr. The machinist serves both ends of the bullet.
With a red, greasy rag he wiped the plump,

shaved, baby porcupine In broken English, that Kraut cursed the
that is his fat neck. Filipino kid on the hi-lo;
Muscle memory slapped the levers of the

lathe, Pineapple!  Haul your ass and put doze
adjusted his chuck, castings on der pallet dere, shtoopid.
tugged his nuts inside his briefs,

and transformed metal razor shavings into Through his reach, feeding his machines,
motion and commotion,
a spiraling bundle of steel wool Josef conducted a metal on metal
that dropped around his oil soaked
Sears and Roebuck cutting choir

steel-toe boots. which sang,

In the foundry trays there are, bathed Oy yea Oy yea Oy yea,
in the thick sickening sweetness of oil,
tiny precision parts, funneling and from it
somewhere to assemble itself into some arced yellow sparks,
whole completed something. trailing blue smoke
comet flagellum
The cutting tool’s blue-hot chamfered tip which either singed pockmarks on his face,
held steady. stinging,
Twenty times for every one ‘Mississippi’ or they evaporated altogether.
speeding alloy metal bits turned,
and cut, threaded to tolerances of The operator and the operation:
one ten-thousandth of an inch. there is magnificence in this ugliness,
Twelve rapid-fire machines and each
punched out eighty-six thousand four has a casual audacity.
hundred screws,
per shift,
for armaments
or precision surgical instruments.