One night, me, the pens, the papers, were holding each other. Leaping through galaxies. And those happy endings weren't so far from me. That night, violent wind blew through my window, beheaded the light off my candle. The wind disconnected my safety. I couldn't find a light in the house, I couldn't find anything in the house. Except for the ghost of my mother's well wishes for me, and a father who is all I have for the upcoming disabled years.
O', my scream, go to Rome and back. And tell the world what happened to Iraq and its land.
When my father sold the house, I cried. He sat on a throne of cruelty, not dropping a tear. "It's time to go", he said. I thought about how heartless he must be, how could my father sell my adventures with my friends? How could he sell the notes and dreams I painted on my room? How could he paint over them with that cheap dead white paint?
It wasn't until fifteen years later when I heard him crying and apologizing to my mother's ghost for it. Apologizing for having to escape from the bullies in black carrying AK-47s in one hand and bad intentions in the other. He apologized for not being able to protect his family. My sleep and distance prevented me from hearing it before, but I have listened to my father's prayer of forgiveness a thousand times since, keeping me awake at night. I never sleep.
I swear by my father's tears.
The earth will spin around itself before kneeling twice to fear. When Babylon rises from the ashes, screaming its cry of war, it will kneel a third time. And Babylon will declare the death of the sun as the sun spins around the earth, running in fear, until it dissolves into nothingness.
In the name of the bullet in my mother's chest.
I shall rename the earth a water wheel, spinning by the whims of a blind bull. A bull spinning it into a conniving universe one time, and a heartless galaxy the next. The earth's polar will bend until it breaks. Volcanos will erupt with fear to defend themselves from the sins of fire and death. Will erupt a last time, burning the seas.
All the tress on earth will scream. The wind will come out of its hiding and run. The dead will rise, leave thousands of martyrs' graves empty. Everything with two wings will fly with burning wings. The mountains will roam the earth, fighting each other until there's nothing left but rocks. Until the center of the earth breaks as it hears the screams of wounded pride. As Abraham leads all prophets in prayer before pulling the polars as he ascends the skies. Babylon then will have a source of light, a plant, and water. It will have shores for the lost ships, and a child's house that won't be sold.
With memories my blood flows, I don't know why the fuck does poetry force me to belong here. I do nothing but follow my wounds to the sword handle. Like a prayer, my soul ascends to God one time, the other it digs a well in my soul where it echoes the sound of my soul into tears and mirrors. Where the visions will dissolve and sins multiply. My provocative scream breaks at its core and scatters on the floor.
Calm down, my scream.
You scare me when you turn into a raging sea. You become either Poseidon or the Titanic when you display your powers. You are my voice, and you are scaring me whenever you come out. My soul ends up wherever your wind blows, like a bird in a storm.
This is my destiny. Amidst that night, the most important night. I only had a board of blood to read.
Dear, God worshiper.
Why didn't you stand up as they killed your sons and raped your daughters? Were you plotting a revenge, or have their actions left you agnostic? Unleash your wounds. Search for your soul. Implant it in your eyes. And if you come across the borders of death, read these papers. Then you would have seen, then you would have told. Your voice will have wings, and your letters will grow gardens.
Dear, God worshiper.
Your birth is in your death. Your death is in your voice. Take a look, the pain in this scream comes from the crying children we haven't had yet and will leave behind. We will die crying. When shall I learn that it's better to resort to silence?
O' Jesus
And the one who brought you back to life, full of life. The Euphrates water has gone dry, if we become silent then all the house doors will be locked by worms and spiders. And thus, we will die.
Dear, Lord
Some wishes are a right, but some wishes are debt.
O' Father
Why have you given me your name? I know that you arise in every letter I write. And I dread that rise whenever I write. I have a language that helps me through. But the secrets of your name rise like giants, scaring the wind away.
O' father
Why have you given me your name? Is it because the name of a coward hangs upon your collar and you kept it there just so I remain safe? Or is it because sorrow and regret have become my only heir now that you sold the house?
The End
Edited by @amirtheawesome1
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STOP@tacky-iraqi, your writing is truly profound. This essay or short story gripped me from the beginning to the end. It is very powerful. Full of heart and soul, and depth - I can only imaging must come from a life lived that most of us cannot imagine.
I wish I had seen this before my small auto-vote did. But at any rate, thank you for your beautiful writing, and for being a part of The Ink Well.
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A nice comment like this is worth more than any upvote anyway. It is closer to an essay, to be honest. I tried to make it into a short story in its entirety but at some point it seems to take away from it's soul. I try my best to connect with those raw unfiltered emotions.
Thanks for your nice comment.
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