Sarvin Parviz

@sarprvz.bsky.social

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Award-winning multigenre & genre-bender writer/interdisciplinary Artist (she/her) Semifinalist in European Opera-directing Prize (EOP) Unofficial Singer/Official Collaborator sarvinparviz.com #writingcommunity

Book: the anthropologists
January 2026/Dey 1404 By Sarvin Parviz The day when Islamic Republic has shut down the internet, when hundreds are being killed in silence, and millions of Iranians in diaspora are losing their minds having gone three days with no news from their loved ones, she starts the conversation by telling me, her eighteen year old cat is dying. I can’t help but think about the children back home who didn’t live to be eighteen .
Failed text messages to the mother reads: I am so worried about you, they cut the access to Starlink, dear Homa? I hope you are safe. Dear Homa?
Reading nook (a chair surrounded by books)
Text on a book reads: The Anthropologists, a novel, Aysegül Savas
A book titled The Anthropologists by Aysegül Savas laid on a letter that explains it was won in a drawing of names
Cover of Grain magazine which contains all the previous covers in small rectangles
Two pothos plants in white and yellow pots on a windowsill
I don’t have time to wait for an answer   everything feels urgent/ when the remaining of the day is shorter than before/ I woke up, blinked/ the ice cream truck passed by/ as it does every day at 4/ no matter how fast I ran/ I couldn’t get close enough to shout I love you/ something bright was bothering my eyes/ this line that connects us all/ how did we get here? how did I?/ Living the day is backwards from 4-6/ 6-12 so I retrace my steps:/ I woke up, read the news, walked/ the ruins of Tehran / in my mind/ saw the photo from my mom of a wild berry blossom on a wall of wire/ thought thank God she’s alive/ there are napkins in my pocket with poetry lines to dry my tears/ I read poems to anyone who said why are you running/ how is the weather/ hi!/ I don’t have time for someone to deem my words worthy/ make them shiny/ it’s rough and ready/ a beginner’s bread/ to share/ before I close my eyes/ last time I blinked, two hundred people died/ our house turned to rubble/ the leftovers divided between two luggage full of memorabilia/ in my room in the U.S. / and a trunk full of trinkets in a shelter with mom/ the ink is running all over my face/ I chew on home? hope? hard to tell/ it’s wet, round, sticky/ with an aftertaste of grief/ hard to swallow/ I have to know/ for when mom asks / I can tell her/ that I have come so close to home?hope? / and lie wholeheartedly/ about life that demands to be lived/ and its beating heart
Man emptying a briefcase full of cards
The first ever flash fiction I wrote and published, The Music Teacher, got accepted today by flashflood magazine for flash fiction day. This story was written for a Bahà'i friend who only and only because of her faith was detained. This is unfortunately a common trend. People with this faith have been expelled from schools, lost their homes and inherited lands. The link below includes an archive of Hrana reports on detainments and other violations of human rights of people with Bahà'i faith. En-Hrana.org
Poster of a mono drama by Dominick Argento 5&6 December in Vienna, Location: Penzinger Straße 7, 1140
Cubist painting by Georgy Kurasov portraying a woman reading a book
An Iranian woman in a dress holding a plaque
A 3x3 square of books
A crystal’s formed on a window. Background display is a blurred green and brown.