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.

Murder Mystery

She was naked when she died.

The cold water flowed through the gutter where her remains lay, washing away her sins and those of the parties responsible for her current state of lifelessness. Only a flickering street light could make her visible under the shroud of darkness with trails of white bouncing off the plastic sheet was wrapped in, as if she were posing for a morbid photoshoot.

Not that she’d ever done anything to merit such a gruesome fate. Destiny has its own sacrificial lambs and the blue-eyed brunette just happened to be one of them.

An old hobo made the harrowing discovery.

“I walk around here every day at the same time. From far I saw this weird reflection.”

The officer taking his statement could barely make out what the toothless man was saying.

“Could you repeat that slowly please? There aren’t any interpreters at my disposal right this second.”

A few feet away, the crime scene investigators were laden in what appeared to be full body gloves in their effort to gather evidence and snap photos of who they’re currently dubbing as Jane Doe.

“Too bad it’s the last time anyone’s going to take her picture,” said lead detective Christina Romero. “She was a looker all right.”

“She might be a model then,” her partner Justin Chamberlain responded. “We can try to match her photo to a modeling database or ask around agencies.”

“Model. Prostitute. Same difference,” she threw back at him whilst lighting up a Davidoff cigarette.

The Steel Edifice

Note: This story is a translation of an original Arabic imagining. Read it here if you know any Arabic and you can read his entire excellent blog, بلوق د. ساعساعينو, which has both Arabic and English writing.

With heavy eyelids he opened his eyes slightly after slumbering for an unknown amount of time. The man lay on his stomach on top of a thin, spongy pillow.

The expression on his face was indicative of how exhausted he still felt, and that his awakening was not of his own volition.

He still hadn't fully opened his eyes; it was an involuntary reaction to the brutality of sunlight that filled his surroundings. The rays woke him up and made his pupils dilate.

The air was frigid.

مغامرات پرودنتشية: قصة فانتازيا خيالية

كان يا مكان في قديم الزمان و سالف العصر و الأوان، كانت الأرض في حال سلام و أمان.

منذ أيام الماضي السحيق، تعايشت جميع الكائنات تحت إطار تقبل وجود الآخر بلا خوف و لا مهابة. حدد الميثاق المشترك أهمية التآخي و المصالح المشتركة و التساوي تحت ظل القانون. كان معشر الإلفيين (Elves) يقطنون في بلاد ما وراء الجبل حيث يحكمهم ملك عادل يدعى گالاڤانت العظيم Galavant the Great. ربطتهم علاقة ودية بالأقزام ساكني جبل آلاباستر و كذلك جنس البشر المتبعثرين في عشرة ممالك متفرقة. فترة الدمار الوحيدة أتت نتيجة إشاعة مغرضة مفادها أن خمسة من الملوك متآمرين على الخمسة الاخرين للقضاء عليهم و اغتصاب بلادهم . بعد حروب طاحنة دامت مئات السنين و قضى فيها الملايين نحبهم من ضمنهم ثلاثة من الملوك، اجتمع الإلفيين و الأقزام مع السحرة البيض لإحلال السلام و نفخ القليل من المنطق في عقول الأطراف المتبارزة. تم توقيع معاهدة سلام على مضض لمجرد حقن الدماء، لكن شرارة الحرب قد تشعل القتال مرة أخرى.

في فترة السلام النسبي بعد الحرب، لم ينتبه أي أحد إلى مصدر الإشاعات الفتاكة. خلف الكواليس يسير مخطط عنجهي للسيطرة على العالم…

محاولة كتابة قصة قصيرة

تهيأ لي أنه يجب أن أخبركم أنني أكرهه.

وهنا لا أقصد كراهية كمن يكره وضع الصلصة الحارة في طعامه، بل إنني أكرهه كره العمى. أكرهه كره المجاعات في أفريقيا. دمائي تغلي في الأوردة والشرايين كبركان هائج على مشارف الثوران كلما أتذكر أنه موجود ويستنشق نفس الهواء الذي نتنفسه. إلا أن رئتيه العفنتين تدنس الهواء الذي نشمه.

وددت لو أجعله يشم شيء آخر.

إن هذا المخلوق يهدد أعز الناس إلى قلبي، وهذا ما يوقد الحقد الذي أحمله تجاهه في قلبي. أراد أن يصيبني في مقتل، ولكن لا يمكن أن أستسلم له ولن أضحي بأحدٍ من أصحابي مهما نبح هذا الكلب.

في النهاية، المواجهة الحتمية ستكون بيني و بينه. سأموت قبل أن أدعه ينتصر.

وبذلك، وأنا أقف خلف الباب الذي سيحدد مصيري ومصير أعزائي، ممسكًا عصاة فتاكة، أخذت نفسًا طويلًا  ثم فتحت الباب لأواجه قدري.




استقبلت مكالمة ذات ليلة. كنت على وشك النوم عندما رأيت النور يسطع من هاتفي الذي كان في وضع صامت. في العادة أتفادى المكالمات بعد منتصف الليل، ولكن خالجني شعور أن هذه المكالمة قد تكون مهمة. الاسم الوامض على الهاتف كان مألوفًا لي وتيقنت أنه لن يتصل إلا من أجل شيء مهم.

"ألو؟"

"آسف على الاتصال في هذا الوقت المتأخر، لكنني بحاجة إلى مساعدتك العاجلة."

كان صديقي ماهر على الطرف الآخر من المكالمة. سهرت معه للتو قبل ليلتين ومعنا ثلة من أصدقائه، من ضمنهم عشيقته رانيا.

"مرحبًا يا ماهر. ما الخطب؟"

اضطر أن يغادر إلى بلدة على بعد أربع ساعات بالسيارة حيث يعيش أهله من أجل طارئ عائلي.

"كنت على الهاتف مع رانيا عندما قالت إن أحدًا ما يطرق الباب وانقطعت المكالمة بعدها بثوان. حاولت الاتصال وإرسال رسائل قصيرة بلا جدوى."

تذكرت حينها أن رانيا لوحدها، فقد كان بقية أفراد مجموعتنا على سفر وكنت معها في الحانة ليلة البارحة.

"هل تمزح؟ ماذا عن زملائها في العمل؟"

"لا أملك أرقام هواتفهم."

كنا نحتسي الجعة عندما أثار انتباهها شخص ما. اهتزت يدها الضئيلة الممسكة بالكأس الباردة، محاولة قدر المستطاع أن تبدو هادئة بلا نجاح.

"حسنًا، سأذهب إلى شقتكم لأتفقد الأمر. أين أنت؟"

حاولت أن أسألها عمّا كان يضايقها لكنها تجنبت الحديث عن مشاعرها ولم أرد أن أضغط عليها.

"أنهِ جعتك و لنمضِ في طريقنا. إنني أشعر بوعكة مفاجئة"، قالت قبل أن تتجه إلى دورة المياه.

أعدتها إلى منزلها من دون أن تبادر بما كان يشغل بالها.

"أنا في سيارتي عائد إلى الشقة. اذهب لتتحرى الأمر فأنا قلق جدًا."

اقشعر بدني وكأنما انتشر قلقه إليَّ عبر سماعة الهاتف.

"اتصلت بدانيال وأيقظته من النوم وسيكون معك خلال ساعتين."

لم أكن أعرف ما إن كان ماهر يعرف عن ذلك الشخص المشبوه في الحانة أم لا ولم أرغب في إثارة قلقه أكثر من ذلك.

"سأذهب الآن و سأتصل بك لاحقًا."

أنهيت المكالمة وشعرت بطاقة مفاجئة نتيجة حقنة أدرينالينية من جراء القلق. أبدلت ملابسي بسرعة وركضت نحو السيارة محاولًا  طرد جميع الأفكار المقيتة التي أحاطت بتفكيري كجيش كاسر لا مفر منه.

كل ما تمنيته هو أن أصل قبل فوات الأوان.