محاولة بائسة لكتابة قصة "نوار" باللغة العربية

استمعوا لهذه المقطوعة عند قراءة القصة.

المدينة الكبيرة سافلة، وليدة عنفٍ وسوادٍ مستشرييْن يفتكان بسكانها. ها أنا أمشي في ربوعها ليلًا والمطر ينخر في جسدي المتهالك كإبَرٍ خفية. لطالما بدت لي ظلمتها كظاهرة غير طبيعية، ويخيل لي أنني حبيس فيلم من بطولة همفري بوگارت يُعرض بالأبيض والأسود. أكبر دلالة على ذلك هو المعطف الذي لا يفارق جسدي والسيگارة القابعة بين شفتَيّ المزريتين.

برزت نغمات الساكسوفون وگيتار البَيس بالإضافة إلى صوت بيانو دافئ امتزجوا جميعًا في كوكتيل موسيقي خلّاب يُسمَع عند أدائي لهذا المونولوگ الداخلي. الإشارات لا تخطئ، فلم يتبقَّ إلا حدوث جريم-

"تعرّضتُ للسرقة!" صرخت امرأة بهلع في زقاق قريب. "النجدة!"

Bahrain Blues

For an enhanced experience, listen to this piece while reading the post below.

Sometimes it feels that things have changed when they really haven't. It’s still the same smoky foreground down at the shore; you were just away from its pungent, sewage-ridden aroma for a good while. On the other side of the island, the faithful continued to wail over a long-lost martyr, but you stopped believing in the old legends and tales. Meanwhile, reality lay in the form of trafficked sex workers loitering the length of Exhibitions Avenue and its many shady motels, where the women have only become younger and pricier, peddling from patrons boasting hefty amounts of disposable income; the would-be johns usually hail from Saudi Arabia, where deprivation is rampant and money flows incessantly.

To Dishdasha, the only half-decent spots in that stretch of road were the National Bookshop, where she spent a good deal of her younger years perusing a multitude of titles—many of which were prohibited in her home nation—and the Kudu breakfast joint where she enjoyed pancakes and scrambled eggs without having to endure the sight of a thick wall segregating her from single-male citizens. Alas, that branch ceased to exist in recent years, and along with it, the memories.

That evening, she puffed clouds of smoke outside of the Hard Rock Cafe, a once-popular bastion of booze-hounding and New-Year’s-Eve parties. The customer base waned substantially, and was now limited to the few souls making the pilgrimage to nurse a drink and reminisce about perceived better days; an ode to a dying franchise.

 

Dishdasha was due back inside, though she preferred it out there in the street. The cocktail of particularly familiar scents and sounds transported her to another dimension. Too goddamn cold to stay out here any longer, anyway, she thought

After a few minutes of quiet musing, she extinguished what remained of the death-stick under the might of her boot, promising herself for the hundredth time that month it would be her last cigarette. It was her hundredth lie, a drop in an inner-pool of past transgressions. Her black trench coat was complemented by a wide collar protecting the back of her neck from frigid, humid December winds as she made her way back to the bar-restaurant.

All eyes were on her once more as she strolled between the tables en route to the bar counter. It’s not every day that the usual customers get to see someone donning a fedora without a single hint of irony, which set her apart from the tools in Ralph Lauren and Burberry polos who shared the same mistaken belief that money buys taste. The constant determined look she wore undressed the lot of them instantly, reducing them to infantile, pre-birth states.

Dishdasha re-took her seat, and the old-timey barkeep sporting a Clark Gable mustache rubbed a clear mug with a white cloth of dubious cleanliness, and the light emanating from a hovering spotlight reflected on his balding scalp. This, in addition to a well-timed, noir-themed event complete with a piano-jazz band, set up a nostalgic mood. She was living out Casablanca in Manama, personifying the best parts of Humphrey Bogart and Carmen Sandiego.

“Some more whiskey?” Barkeep inquired as he readied a new bottle. She responded by lightly pushing her glass toward his general direction. He obliged by topping it off with not-so-freshly distilled Jameson, drowning the remnants of half-melted ice on the bottom.

“I can smell your latest attempt to quit smoking,” Barkeep snarked.

“I’m positive it’ll work someday,” she said before taking a soft sip. “Not that it matters. I might die tonight before the Marlboros can have a shot at doing me in.”

“I haven’t seen you in some years, and I thought I never would,” he said. “I figured it was going be either the smokes or the ‘adventures’ you put yourself through.”

To be continued. Maybe...

Noir thingy

A clear, moon-lit sky draped the bustling metropolis. It seemed God had planned to give His creations an open window to the gleaming stars along with a cool breeze to alleviate the swelter of a typical July evening. The grand spatial luster shone over the passerby going about their normal business. 

Ol’ Charlie, an infamous local hobo, continued to pleasure himself furiously within the confines of his favorite tarnished alleyway, and a couple of blocks away Lance Barrister was on the verge of reliving the intimate moment his face had once shared with the cold concrete ground outside of O’Connor’s Alehouse.

“Ya best not come back here until you’re willing to pay your overdue tab, or else this’ll be a stern talkin’ to compared to what I’ll do to ya next time ‘round,” the proud pub-owner proclaimed after he “escorted” the lowly gumshoe from the premises. “And Jaysus you had the balls to show up here plastered and penniless.”

“Come on, Gerry,” Barrister slurred as he struggled to get back up. “You know I’m good for it.”

“You’re a good-for-nothing loser gobshite,” O’Connor retorted. “What makes it sadder is you could actually be good for it had you put the effort. Clean up your act, will ya. In the meantime, stay away from my bar.”

The hulking Irishman walked back inside to serve his paying customers. He had a soft spot for Barrister and wished him all the best, but at that moment he felt a little tough love was in order.

قصة بوليسية

تأبّط التحري ليون مشعله الكهربائي حالما أهمّ بفتح باب المستودع المهجور الواقع على أطراف المدينة الكبيرة. داعب مسدسه المبلل والذي كان يلمع في تلك الليلة الماطرة بأطراف أصابع يده اليمنى، وباليسرى أقدم على لف مقبض الباب الرئيسي للمبنى باحثًا عن ضالته المنشودة.

تلقى التحري مكالمة قبل تلك اللحظة بساعتين، وكانت تلك المحادثة كفيلة بإطلاق العنان لسلسلة الأحداث اللاحقة.

Dwagone Tale 2

The first part is here.

The soot-faced young woman found herself at the edge of a mountain with a gust of wind threatening to topple her over into a dark abyss. Her frail figure shook as she looked below and saw that her only path to safety was to climb down a jagged slope. She made her way with care, and every so often a small rock would break under the pressure of her feet causing her to slip somewhat, but nothing overtly hazardous or detrimental to her health.
 

Eventually, she reached the base and began to search for any clues to determine her current whereabouts. It dawned on her that she had no recollection of what had brought her to this desolate area.

Upon moving further, night turned into day and her confusion eased a bit. After walking for some time, she heard a faint bubbling sound emitting from underneath a plateau. The noise made her feel blissful and excited her to no avail. Running over to the source as quickly as she can, her breath began to fail her. A small voice in her head urged to keep going, as the pay-off would be grand.

That’s when she saw it. A forest of fruitful palm trees unlike anything she had ever laid her eyes on. A bustling oasis with clear waters emerged amidst a thought-to-be barren land, which a sight for sore eyes for a thirsty adventurer.

She kneeled by the water and drank her fill before washing the dirt off her face. The water was put ice in her veins and she felt reinvigorated and alive. The puzzling appearance of this piece of heaven boggled her mind still, and she pondered while staring at her own reflection in the reverberating water.

As she looked at herself, another figure materialized in the reflection, standing next to her.

The Great Amber Dwagone turned to face her, gazing upon her whimsically before she licked her across the cheek.

“Wake up, Ramilla! The eggs are burning!” an older man shouted as he frantically ran from the door to the kitchen.

Raman “Ramilla” ad-Dahhān XIII, Rami and Bari’s eldest child, had been dreaming of the dragon since she was 6-years-old. Not much has changed ten years later, save for the unquenchable desire to find meaning in these visions.

“I’m sorry,” she started as she groggily picked herself up from the couch that she had dozed off on. “I can really smell it, too.”

Ramilla rubbed her eyes and chose to banish any thoughts about mythical beings from her mind in order to deal with the inevitable repercussions of her nap.

She walked toward the kitchen and the smell of burning egg only further offended her senses.  

“Your father will have my head for this,” Bari said as he attempted to salvage what was left of the omelet.

Ramilla sifted through every item in the pantry, looking for possible alternatives.

“We’re out of eggs,” she proclaimed as she continued her desperate search. “If we’re lucky enough, they should be back with some more.”

“Not in the midst of Dragonfest they won’t,” Bari responded while opening up a window to allow the house some ventilation. “I suppose we can make due with some more meat.”

“I’m sorry,” Ramilla apologized once more with a look of sorrow starting to take over her face.

“It’s only a bit of food, my child,” Bari said as he embraced Ramilla, covering her with his hulking exterior. “This wasn’t the first time that you had fallen asleep in such manner, either.”

For as long as she has had these dreams, Ramilla only became more reluctant to discuss them with anyone before she clarified things for herself first.

“I’m well, Father, worry not about me,” she smiled, nuzzling her face on his blond beard.

“Good,” he said before kissing her forehead. “I’m always here for you, should you want to talk to me.”

“Thank you,” she replied before going back to chopping more wood for the fire.

*****

No child dared to speak her name, fearing a brutal reprisal from the Regal Beast. She would swallow them whole as their parents often threatened if they ever referred to her taboo title.

However, this gave the Great Amber Dwagone very little solace. She still demanded vengeance, and she had been pacing in her Lair for the past 300 years, musing and plotting.

“Those damned Dahhāns shall burn!” was the most recurring thought she had had through this time.

She had waited so long for her plans to succeed. Alas, a prophecy must be fulfilled before can begin to execute her plot.

“A slayer shall appear from least likely of places. The slayer’s defeat will reignite the new Dawn of the Dragons, and the Great Resurrection will take place,” the fifth article of the ancient Dragon Lore proclaimed. The Dwagone believed in this wholeheartedly.

“Why else would I still be alive, but for the purpose of this grand achievement?” 

This thought kept her going, but time seemed to stand still. Yet there’s an odd change in the air; something that she hadn’t felt in centuries, fueling and exciting her instincts. 

The prophecy is coming to fruition, and she could sense it in her fire-ridden cavities.

She took flight toward the city, hoping that she isn't disappointed.

Dwagone Tale

The evening was festive and fruitful as the townesfolke trekked from one shop to the other in the village of Dragonscourge. During a warm September evening, the masses scrambled about, fearing that the local merchants would run out of their desired prospective purchases. It was a time of year in which business owners thrived, and customers struggled, traipsing through the streets and alleyways under lustrous lights hung in a phantasmagoric display all over Towne in celebration of the annual Dragon Sacrifice.

Many young ones grew up with fictional tales of olden times concerning the mythical beings that have prospered centuries ago and numbered by the thousands, but have since gone extinct. The legends have been foretold from parent to child and from generation to generation. As with any story spread through word of mouth, embellishment had tainted large swathes of the lore. Eventually, the adulteration begot the most fabled of all the Dragon Narratives: the downing of the Regal Beast herself by accidental hero Raman ad-Dahhān. 

After the story became sufficiently embedded into the fabric of the Country, given a hundred or so years of its supposed occurrence, its Elders decided to commemorate the epic slaying that put an end to an entire ancient species in the form of a great party with tantalizing music, colored lights and a plethora of goods to sell.

The Dahhān Clan, however, knew fully well that their ancestor committed no such act of bravery, as there was no written record nor any material proof confirming the heroic act. Yet its members were quick to embrace the legend with fervor, hoping to gain countless riches and other perquisites. Thus, they kept the secret among themselves and vowed to designate a single Keeper in each generation to entrust him or her with it, and to hide it from the rest of the Clan.

One young Dahhān happened to traverse the town square with her father in a hurry; many sellers were retiring for the evening and they were still one item short.

“Your father will have my head surely if we’re not back with a malignant squirrel stomach,” said Raman “Rami” al-Dahhān XII in an attempt to push his daughter to make haste, as he did not like to keep his spouse waiting for long.

“That’s what you say every year in which you venture out for a last-minute addition to our pantry,” replied 11-year-old Ferian with bitter nonchalance. She was arbitrarily recruited for this mission all the while her older sibling had the good fortune of staying behind to help their father concoct the glorious feast-to-be.

“If only those dimwitted dragons were still here, we wouldn’t be blinded by lights and made to sweat like a common pig,” she continued with a sigh.

“Now, child,” Rami raised his voice with restrained objection, “if we weren’t in such dire need to wisely dispense our scarce time, I’d tell you to mind your foolish words, as you must maintain and be proud of our familial legacy.”

The two carried on in silence entering the last shop to remain open. Unbeknownst to them, a large lurking figure monitored their every move from the top of a dark table mountain. It had been a mere hour since she began to trail them, yet her tortured soul felt as if several eternities had passed by. She gazed at them with sheer contempt, plotting and perusing her mind for sadistic methods of murder, resisting the urge to torch the entire village of vermin.

The Regal Beast had her fill of watching and readied her mighty, pointed wings for flight. She took one last glance before the Dahhāns disappeared into a small shop, inhaling and exhaling an air of pure vengeance. As she hovered away back to the hole whence she came, the Great Amber Dwagone resolved to make her existence known to the world once more sooner than later.

Work blurb

The life of a television news executive isn’t all that cracked up to be. All he does all day is put up with the requests of his subordinates, which range from asking for new work space that he doesn't have to practically blowing him for sick leave hours.

Don Dressler found that out the hard way. Sure; he had an office on the 20^th floor of the corporate building, a beautiful secretary with an English accent and a modified Porsche Cayenne, yet he always wondered whether they ever had any inherent value.

The clock had just struck midnight on a frigid December evening when Don took out a glass from his desk along with a bottle of 20-year-old scotch. He had arrived at the office 17 hours prior to opening that Johnnie Walker Blue and hasn’t left since.

Iran and Israel declared war on each other and everyone in the world was glued to their television, computer, tablet and cell phone screens as well. Twitter virtually exploded with traffic from people eager to keep up with any updates.

“If the world is about to end, then I might as well get a taste of this,” Don thought to himself while pouring the distilled, thousand-dollar beverage as one of his TV screen showed a news anchor interviewing a British war general, asking him if this event was worse than a zombie apocalypse.

After downing a second glass of liquid gold, he went on the hourly pilgrimage to the one place where he could truly be alone; his exclusive hermitage; his very own hobbit hole.

The executive bathroom was as large as the newsroom on the fifth floor, and the solitude it provided warranted more than a few visits per day.

Don took positioned his bare bottom onto the ceramic throne and fished out his phone to check on his texts.

The first was from his provider asking if he would like to subscribe to a package that enables him to call and text Canadian numbers for a “low, low price.” He promptly deleted the text. Don didn't know anyone in Canada. Not enough to pay 30 extra dollars per month.

Five spam messages later, he noticed a text from Regina.

Regina was the “dame” who abruptly “walked into his life” thus disrupting its flow forever. To say that she was his film-noir femme fatale would be a detriment to what she truly meant to him.

After war broke out, she immediately flew to Tehran to cover the ensuing protests. Don had a lump in his throat ever since she left and it more than likely explained his need to drink. It was heavier than an Israeli nuclear missile.

“Things are a little more stable now,” the beginning of her text message said. “The riot cops took out 20 people in the past hour alone and a lot of the others fled, and none of the foreign media outlets are able to get a satellite uplink. And I miss you like crazy.”

This meant that correspondents won’t be able to give live updates on television; it also made Don’s heart sink like the Titanic.

He went back to his office and pondered about everything. There was no specific thought, and he was crushed under the weight of his emotions.

Looking out the window, he witnessed the snow slowly falling to the ground with the street lights shimmering in between the flakes, creating a beautiful portrait.

He took out his phone and wrote: “I wish you were here. It’s snowing outside and everything is black and white on the street.”

Don then went back to his chair, poured himself another glass of scotch and continued to watch the world unravel on live television.