The Body

AUTOFICTION BY: Rafiul Bari

ARTIST STATEMENT: The idea for this story began with the image – a stark, visceral depiction of someone holding a melting, broken figure, captioned “you’re dead and everything is worse now.”

It immediately struck me as deeply human and suggestive of intense internal struggle.

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATION
"Cloud Surfing," by Alexandra Tourkova

I was inspired by the feelings of wanting to escape and relax in the cloud. This piece is part of my small series exploring this cloud surfing concept.

To explore potential narratives, I brainstormed several angles with an AI assistant, discussing themes like grief, mental illness, and dystopian scenarios. However, “Angle D: Addiction and Loss” resonated with me on a profound level. I realized I could draw upon my own personal experiences with daily smoking and its consequences—strained family relationships, distrust from my father, misplaced anger, and a sense of lost time and friendships. This connection felt crucial for bringing a sense of depth and emotional truth to the story, to transform a difficult period into a narrative that others could connect with.

Developing the plot and structure was an iterative process. I started with a basic framework: a compelling hook, a compact backstory, a climax involving a near relapse, and a poignant ending. My initial hook, “He smelled like fire and sleep and shame…”, served as an anchor. From there, the story evolved through several drafts.

A significant part of the development involved integrating detailed personal memories, particularly concerning my family; for instance, the anecdote about my father starting his construction company and his dream of “Bari & Sons Construction.” My initial inability to help despite having ideas, and the later act of designing his business cards, became pivotal parts of the climax, highlighting the fragile rebuilding of trust. Similarly, capturing the complex dynamic with my mother—her disappointment during my addiction and the newer, more argumentative but honest interactions afterward—added layers to the backstory.

I also focused on a key stylistic suggestion: to “Avoid cliches—let the pain speak through what’s left unsaid,” refining the language to be more evocative and less explicit, trusting the reader to understand the underlying emotions.

The most difficult part of writing this was translating such deeply personal and often painful experiences into a coherent and impactful fictional narrative. It was challenging to maintain an emotional honesty without becoming overly direct or sentimental, and to find the right balance in depicting complex family relationships within the constraints of flash fiction. Striving for that subtlety, to truly “let the pain speak through what’s left unsaid,” required careful revision and a willingness to cut back on explanatory language.

However, this also led to the most rewarding aspect: seeing the story take shape and feel authentic to my own journey. It was incredibly fulfilling to weave those specific memories, like the conversation with my father, into the narrative and feel them click into place. The process of refining the imagery and finding the precise words to convey the narrator’s internal state and his tentative steps toward a new way of carrying his past was both demanding and ultimately very satisfying.

ABOUT THE STORY
By Prof. George Guida

Rafiul's is a story of first-order emotional imagination. It is a story of the tension between new and old worlds of work, between respect and the struggle for respect that defines a son's feelings for his father and himself. 

It is an elliptical gem of flash fiction that melds consciousness and imagery, often brilliantly, to portray the burden of family legacy.

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He smelled of ash and stale sleep. His scent clung to me more than my own. I held Him. He always slipped, leaving streaks of black tar on my shoes, each drop a silent accusation. The stuff was thick, clinging.

Did any part of Him remember who we were supposed to be, before our world collapsed into smoke? The smoke had a name. “Velvet Haze.” It started as a soft filter on a too-sharp world. Then it became the world itself.

My father, whose hands knew the language of hard work in a new country, was trying to build something then, something solid after years of swallowing another man’s bile. His very own construction company. He’d lay out his plans, with hope that felt too fragile for this city.

He needed help with the convoluted online world of the 21st century, the English of contracts. I’d offer him shimmering architectures of words, ideas that danced in the Haze.

Then the tide would recede, leaving me beached, watching the light in his eyes dim to a familiar, weary squint. His dream gathered dust.

My mother, a student of my downward spiral, still found ways. A plate left out.

Arguments came later, after the Haze first thinned and the world’s sharp edges returned. Now, words escaped me, sharper than I meant. Her silences now were layered with things I was only beginning to decipher.

My room had become a box, its silence broken only by the click of the mouse, the glow of the screen. Friends had long gone quiet.

Months later, or maybe a year – time bent strangely – the bathroom mirror showed a thinner face, clearer eyes, a tremor under the skin.

A text lit up my phone: an old name.

Lng tm bro, lmk if u nd sm dealz, ill mk it lw js for u.

The Haze flickered at the edge of my vision. I felt Him stir. Just once. A voice like rust. Home.

Then, a memory surfaced, sharper than the craving. My father, standing in the doorway of my room just days prior.

“Thinking about changing the name of the company. Bari & Sons. What do you think?” He was a reserved man. He’d learned to shield his heart behind a wall of pragmatism navigating the scummy waters of dealings back home. But the way he spoke that name, the tremor of pride, of something fiercely hopeful in his tone – it broke through. “You think you could bang out a quick business card for me?”

I had to look away.

“Yeah,” I’d managed. “That’s a great idea.” That tiny crack in his armor, that glimpse of raw hope, held me now more than any fear.

I didn’t try to bury Him. He was in the grain of me.

Slowly, I straightened.

Met my own eyes. Then His reflection.

“Not today.”

He didn’t fight. Just sagged. The tar seeming to cool, to harden.

The weight remained, but for the first time, the choice of how to carry it felt like mine.

His ghost would always be with me. I was just learning to make sure I cast the longer shadow.