Issue 2 Digital Issue
Surah 1
By Albert Abdul-Barr Wang
# 1 — Al-Fātiḥah — 1–3
[Frame 001: Opening Dedication.]
In the name, a hatch cycles open on a pressureless corridor and the breath writes itself across the visor like frost,
heartened by the old syntax of mercy, I run diagnostics on praise as if praise were dark matter,
everywhere implied yet stubbornly unobserved, and through Metropolis of chrome the vow moves
like a train with no conductor, of turbines.
«ٱلرَّحْمَٰنُ» — the All-Merciful, and the invocation behaves like a zero-day patch to the soul’s firmware—
[Voiceover: calibration subroutine; adjust compassion thresholds; re-index every starfield by tenderness before proceeding]—
so the mouth opens not as a door but as a decontamination lock, vowels scrubbing the hull
while consonants flicker like status LEDs.
Praise be, and the universe answers in spectral gradients—nebular blues, Pantone 1585 C at the rim of a dying sun—
while the title “Lord of the Worlds” compiles across parallel instances, countless shards of habitat and archive,
each one a patient server rack humming with stored winters; with Shannon of entropy
the sentence tests its own checksum of awe, of recurrence.
[Frame 002: The camera drifts over a mat that speaks—fibers recounting footfall data, dermal salts,
the astronomy of entry and exit.]
The Most Gracious, the Most Merciful—redundancy as design, not error—
like twin coils around a ship’s spine, spinning up artificial gravity
where meaning might otherwise float away, and «ٱلسَّبِيلُ» — the path,
suddenly renders as a corridor of spectral whites whose walls remember every pilgrim’s heat-signature
and return it, kind, cooler by one degree.
I catalog the particulars because particulars resist oblivion: hinge squeal (D-minor), residue of saffron,
trace ions of longing; [Bracketed Archive: a non-linear index of stolen midnights]—
and the vow expands, a field of force that refuses spectacle yet loves precision,
a hobby-horse I ride peaceably past the airlock where even thinking requires a helmet.
Lord of the Worlds, again, but now as network topology, each node a mercy packet
routed past voids of misunderstanding, and beside Basquiat of crowns a margin sketches gold halations, of asphalt.
The mouth resets: Most Gracious, Most Merciful—two frequencies phasing
until compassion becomes interference-free signal—
[Frame 003: thermal scan of a heart, pixelation induced on purpose, concealment as reverence],
and the cosmos answers with a soft systems-check: no alarms; proceed.
Praise is a low-gravity walk—heels tapping the hull with comic timing Buster-Keaton-style—
except the joke is metaphysical and the banana peel is time; under Tarkovsky of rain
the corridor gains a horizon, of mirrors.
[Voiceover: Reader’s impatience—registered, honored, folded into the tempo.]
The recursion holds: mercy before and after, mercy as bracket and brace,
mercy as coolant riding the conduits so nothing overheats, and «ٱلنُّورُ» — the light,
flares like a patient star measured in kindness-lumens while, near Naqshbandi of breath,
a quiet orbit stabilizes, of returning.
# 1 — Al-Fātiḥah — 4–5
[Frame 004: the chronometer stalls at a clean noon; the hull lighting flattens to tribunal-white.]
In the vacuum-lit chamber I address the engine that names itself custody over endings and tallies,
and a line etches across the viewport like a legal horizon— ۞ مَلِكِ يَوْمِ ٱلدِّينِ — Sovereign of the day of reckoning—
then the ship’s clock, acquisitive and prim, accepts jurisdiction as though time were a courthouse
and gravity the bailiff; with the dry chalk of Oppenheimer of calculations
the sentence calibrates its own blast radius, of conscience.
[Voiceover: The camera retreats to observe how awe behaves under audit;
note the absence of applause, note the clean silence that sounds like a vinyl runout groove.]
I don’t bargain; I enumerate, because enumeration is a way to stand still
when the stars drag you elsewhere—so the field report reads: Sovereign, day, recompense,
each term a sealed crate in the cargo hold, each crate emitting a faint mercy-heat
like stored summers.
[Bracketed Debrief: an index of debts paid in attention,
the only currency that doesn’t inflate in vacuum.]
Then the corridor narrows into a vow-tube— إِيَّاكَ نَعْبُدُ — You alone we serve—
and the pronoun compresses the crew into a composite figure walking as one gait, one pulse, one inference,
while the floor-tiles—obedient little satellites—spin their micro-gyros
to keep us aligned with the axial good.
A single request threads the bulkheads— وَإِيَّاكَ نَسْتَعِينُ — and You alone we request help—
which in this ship’s argot means authorizing the quiet software of need to open its ports;
under the recursive stairs of Escher of corridors the plea cycles upward, of patience.
[Frame 005: thermal whites bloom at each threshold;
a velvet-red failsafe blinks, not alarm but reminder: do not simulate dependence—practice it.]
The tribunal-clock resumes, not cruel, merely exact,
and the sentence about sovereignty turns a notch, seating itself in the socket of consequence;
with the rubber suit of Gojira of scale the heart rehearses smallness, of humility.
I let redundancy do its sacred work—serve, ask, serve, ask—
like a two-stroke mercy engine pushing a habitat through a fog of probabilities,
every piston timed to a syllable, every syllable a bearing that refuses corrosion;
[Voiceover: Reader, your skepticism is a gift—retain it—but watch how the vow refuses spectacle
and instead specifies procedure.]
The deck-plates reply with faint resonance, a consent you feel in the knees,
and the registry of power shifts from spectacle to stewardship—no banners, only maintenance logs—
under the paper labyrinth of Borges of footnotes the resolve finds its map, of return.
A final systems check— ۩ ٱللَّهُمَّ أَدْرِكْنَا — O God, overtake us—
floats like a cool towel across an overheating mind, and the console prints a thin white line
that means proceed; we proceed, because the corridor has become a throat
and the ship a carried word, and with the shy ribbon of Hello Kitty of decals
the airlock wears its joke, of tenderness.
[Frame 006: closing shot—an open corridor, lights breathing, gravity gentle—
service declared, assistance requested, engines idling at mercy RPM.]
# 1 — Al-Fātiḥah — 6–7
[Frame 007: the ship reduces its chatter to a single cursor blinking—patient, monastic.]
Guide us to the straight path, I say, and the corridor tightens into a laser line that refuses parallax,
a ribbon of gravity with no side doors and with the early hush of La Jetée of memory
the request edits itself for accuracy, of return; «﴿دَرْبٌ مُسْتَقِيمٌ﴾ — a path straight»
skims across the floor like cold neon and leaves a faint ozone of resolve behind it.
[Voiceover: We test the vector by walking it;
the body becomes an accelerometer; the conscience, a gyroscope;
small errors precess, large errors confess.]
The path of those favored, so the habitat populates with courteous ghosts
who maintain things without applause—filters replaced before clogging,
promises honored before asked—while the vents exhale a temperate mercy
only slightly warmer than the human hand.
[Bracketed Systems Note: guidance is less a compass than a maintenance schedule;
favor is the machine that keeps the lights unremarkable.]
Not the path of the angry, so we rewrite the fuel map to remove vanity’s throttle
and jettison the cinematic explosions the ego craves;
«﴿نُقْطَةُ تَوَازُنٍ﴾ — a balance point» flashes at each junction
and the ship obliges by dimming its spectacle until only function remains.
I keep my helmet on because desire still throws sparks in oxygen-rich rooms,
and the sentence about straying drifts into view like a billboard in vacuum—
polite, absolute, unignorable—then with the brittle metronome
of Thelonious Monk of silences the vow finds its syncopation, of steadiness.
[Frame 008: thermal blacks at the edges, spectral whites in the middle—error margins narrowing.]
Those who stray populate the side corridors with enticing signage—
free upgrades to sorrow, flash sales on cleverness—
and every detour has pleasant lighting and a snack bar,
but the floor knows the weight of our feet and keeps whispering forward, forward, forward.
[Bracketed Detour Report: a map of rooms we will not enter,
annotated with their flattering mirrors.]
The path of favor now expresses as a topological fold,
simple as breath when unperformed,
and the console quietly stamps our route with the stamp that means continue;
«﴿لَا غَضَبَ﴾ — no wrath» cools the cabin air by one merciful degree.
I practice being audience to what is right in front of me—no spectacle, only repairs—
and with the grainy weather of Rashomon of recollection
the mind admits its multiple camera angles, of humility.
[Voiceover: Precision does not guarantee arrival;
it grants direction—that is enough.]
We walk until the line becomes a habit and the habit becomes a climate,
and the request—keep us—notches into the ship’s clock
so that every second is a handrail; «﴿بِدُونِ ضَلَالٍ﴾ — without straying»
writes itself along the hull in a script the void cannot smudge.
The quiet science agrees: guidance is a low-entropy corridor
where choices shed their theatrical makeup and keep their bones,
and with the clean chalk of Hilbert of spaces
the heart accepts its infinite rooms, of finitude.
[Frame 009: closing—an unremarkable door, already open.]
The favored step through by not performing the step,
and the path is now the gait itself; «﴿نِعْمَةٌ جَارِيَةٌ﴾ — a flowing favor»
hums in the bulkheads while, under the mild rain of Turing of proofs,
the vow passes its own Turing-test of sincerity, of practice.
Bio: Albert Abdul-Barr Wang is an indigenous Taiwanese-American Los Angeles-based Oulipo-influenced poetic bard, experimental writer, and visual artist. He received a MFA in studio art from the ArtCenter College of Design (2025), a BFA in Photography & Digital Imaging at the University of Utah (2023), and a BA in Creative Writing/English Literature at Vanderbilt University (1997).
Wang's prose and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in the New Delta Review (NDR), BRINK, The Ekphrastic Review, The Hooghly Review, Brooklyn to Gangnam, and fractured lit. His art has been exhibited at The New Wolford House, Postmasters Gallery, Site:Brooklyn Gallery, Filter Space, Equity Gallery, Texas Photographic Society, and Tiger Strikes Asteroid. Also he has been an artist-in-residence at the School for Visual Arts and a recipient of the Working Artist Org grant. He is currently the literary editor-in-chief at Brooklyn to Gangnam and a prose reader for Quarterly West. You can find him at www.albertabdulbarrwang.art and on Instagram at @albertabdulbarrwang.
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Chapter 1: The Loser (From Welcome to Art School)
By Chunbum Park
The Loser. The Outcast. The Creep. That’s how I would characterize myself back in high school.
“Kung Fu Kamikaze Chung!” they would call me.
I obviously was not a Kamikaze pilot, and I did not know Kung Fu or Taekwondo, but would it have helped in dealing with those kids if I had a black belt?
“Ching Chong Chung Pak!” they would say, while making monkey faces by widening their nostrils and rolling their eyes.
“Come on, his name is Jung Park. Cut out the nonsense,” Edward would tell them.
Edward was one of the more humane and principled kids at the school.
“We were just joking!” they would explain. “We love Chung — I mean Jung!!”
Jung, which was my first name, actually referred to the concept of Jeong in Korean, which meant shared empathy and universal compassion, and Park was an English version of Bak, which was a common Korean surname.
I felt that Edward was confusing at times because even as he looked out for me, he also kept somewhat of a distance from me.
I wasn’t quite sure who my friends were. I could not tell if the kids were playing or if they actually meant the words that they said. I could not know if the other “friends” looking out for me were my real friends because they seemed to be doing it out of courtesy or good manners, rather than any kind of true affection or friendship.
In history class, I would have arguments with the teacher, Dr. Delilah Clements. She declared that the Europeans had the right to the American lands because they made more efficient use of the land than the Native Americans or the Indigenous People.
I was quite sure that I wanted to pursue history in college because I was very passionate about political and historical issues, even if I did not “win” the argument or the debate all the time.
I was probably the worst debater in the school’s debate program. I did not understand half of the words that I had to read from the texts during the oral arguments. Bizarre and abstract concepts of some French-sounding philosophers confused me. I wasn’t sure if anybody actually understood what they were talking about in relation to those texts. I did garner some knowledge from my experience, though. From reading those texts, I learned that the CIA imprisoned and tortured brown people, many of whom were innocent, in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, and put them in Guantanamo Bay.
During Mrs. Rosie’s art class, the kids, all white, began spouting nonsense about America being the greatest country on Earth and having the power to nuke my home country of South Korea at will. In response, I brought up what I learned in debate about not only Guantanamo Bay but also the manufacture of evidence regarding the weapons of mass destruction, used to justify the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan.
“What is this kid saying?” One of them would say. “Where did you hear those things?”
“At the debate program,” I would respond. “These are the materials that we cover and debate in the program.”
“Should we beat him up?” One of them would say. “He’s talking smack about our country.”
“Nah, he’s the worst debater in the program—he isn’t doing well. He’s not worth the bother,” one of them claimed.
The other kid who was also having a hard time was Ryland Brown.
“Ryland, you are browner than a dark chocolate,” they would say.
“Are you saying that just because white people are smarter than brown people?” Ryland would say. He had internalized the racist way of thinking and was submissive to the white kids.
“Yeah duh,” they would say. “You are really funny.”
They would start kicking him nonstop in the computer lab next to the Wallace Library.
When I asked them to stop, they would turn to me and look at me real funny.
“Hey, you watch porn,” they would say. “Go hide in a corner, Chung. You have no moral authority over us.”
“You are talking funny,” I would retort quickly before running out of the computer lab.
What a cowardly thing to do. I did not have the guts to defend my classmate from getting beaten up in the computer lab.
I was so mad at them that I would type away death threats against the kids and the entire school onto Google search.
Obviously the FBI was watching, but they were on the side of the kids and the school, not me.
Fuck white people. Fuck the United States of America, I would think to myself.
I will destroy you, I would proclaim in my own thoughts, out of a strong sense of defiance against the injustices of life and the American society, which was racist against Asians like me.
This was in the mid to late 2000s, after all.
Bio: Chunbum Park is an artist from South Korea, born in 1991, who received their BFA in Fine Arts from the School of Visual Arts (2020) and their MFA in Fine Arts Studio from the Rochester Institute of Technology (2022). Born a male, Park likes to cross dress and depicts themselves as a woman in their paintings. In 2023, Park began writing exhibition reviews for various online and print magazines, including the New Visionary Magazine. They currently reside in Cliffside Park, New Jersey.
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