In 2006, after a tumultuous but fascinating life, Samer Alshaibi left this world. He was 28 years old. Before his death he entrusted me with a pile of manuscripts and asked that I make sure they are given an audience.

From within the walls of an Illinois prison he scribbled an otherworldly novel. An escape from the stark testosterone saturated environment of lock-up, Moths and Flowers is a lush exploration of the world of a lithe female protagonist. The descriptions within are both beautiful and terrifying. Heady Islamic motifs blend with a dense and tangible corporeality.

In addition to the novel Samer penned a number of surreal short stories in his final two years of life, all ripe with the whimsy and horror of classic fairytales. He left us a legacy of poetic treasures, and now I need your help to collect all of it together in one book. This is my gift to my beloved brother-in-law, but also to readers who wish to know the talent behind the intense eyes and overflowing charm. Anyone who knew him will tell you that he made an indelible impression. The same is true of his writing.

Your donation will allow you entry into this literary adventure. All contributors will get a copy of the book (be it the eBook version or a beautiful hardbound limited edition). The more donations received, the higher quality the final product, and the more copies will be available in bookstores and on-line. If the full fundraising goal is met, I will hire a professional editor to pull together the very best presentation of Samer’s novel, short stories, and a few equally beautiful letters written to family and friends.

Those who were close to Samer may also include a note in the final publication.

Excerpts from Moths and Flowers:

“We have heavy Siberian Black hair, long and wicked. We have Horrid Big eyes because there is something wrong with us. We have Purgatory Grey irises, though my pupils are perennially contracted inherited from my lulled, decaying father. We have the Wandering Arab skin stretched on brittle body. We have wistful hair above our Suffocated Blue Dry lips implying a smear of dirt. We have an arch shoving our lower back forward saying we are offering our little belly or our little butt but I think we are not. We have the Mongolian Purple aureoles besieging the Sudanese Purple nipples surmounting boyish bumps. Her cunt is concave, mine convex; hers suggests entry, mine irritation. Our mouth is wide and queer and lurid. I have one fang among my upper teeth. It is on the left. I tease it with my tongue. Our face is religiously pretty though the whole theme synthesized with our body exalts us to a thing profane.”

“A tinier girl than my present smallness I stretched on the bed my playful, scabby limbs I implored this god for a micro act for a micro girl. A very fair request if one knows what fair is. Or cares. There and then heavy epileptic jolts shook those limbs. A superfluous answer for a tiny query and a puny girl, I might say. I will say. Did He not consider how fragile I was and how huge I know He must be?”