Hi my name is Tarik and i live in egypt. I loved writing since i was 7 and now i’m 17. My only problem seems to be in punctuation, so i hope to solve it soon. Here’s a part of the first chapter of my new novel. Tell me what do u think. The novel is called Letters to God. Bye.
Death oh death. That’s what I’ve learned in the fifty years of my life. One day I’ll die, and now I’m waiting impatiently for that day to come.
My heart burns with interwined memories and vague images of the past.
I still can remember that thin narrow alley where I lived with my parents. At the heart of cairo, in Helmia, I heard the first calling for prayer. El hag Dawood was the sheikh of the mosque. His raucous voice ,when he called for prayer, still fills my head with the same noise it brought me twenty years ago. I still hear the azan daily in my new home at maadi, but at at my old home the noise was forceful since our old home was a few meters away from the mosque, which was a true advantage for my father, Hassan. He would spend half of the day at the mosque, I never knew why, and the other half giving private Arabic lessons to some of the kids at our neighbour hood.
Papa??. I wish I’d forgotten him, but I can’t. His strident voice, piercing, brown eyes, and brawny arms will always leave a sign in my heart and body. Ahhh…. His lashes still have their, thin narrow scars at my back and feet. At that time I never understood why did he thrash me daily, but now I understand. He wanted me to recite the whole quraan, like one of the kids, named Ali at our neighbour ood, but I couldn’t keep a word in my head for at least 10 minutes and not forget it, so reciting one suraa of the holy book was like walking a thousand miles on bare feet with a heavy sack of stones on my back. Papa never understood that, he never understood that I wasn’t as gifted as many kids, still, he treated me as a lazy, stupid boy who wasn’t good enough to be the son of Mr. Hassan.
I walked into the sleeping room at the upper floor. I took a look at my hand watch, it was midnight, huh another day passed and still I can’t find anyone to talk to. The room was neat and calm, on the contrary, a week ago it was a mess., but now it’ll never be again. My dear wife, samia, died of pancreatic cancer two days ago, and now I’m a lonely, old man who might end up in a lunatic asylum soon, but my plans didn’t go like this, actually I had no plans at all.
I reclined on the red sofa It faced the rectangular window, where I have spent hours, pondering the beauty of the nile as it flowed right infront of my new home, behind that endless line of rushing cars, we called this place where the high way and the line stood parallel to each other, the kournish.
“I miss you”. I said this sentence only twice in my life. I can’t mention the first time I said it, it might bring some sad memories. The second time was yesterday. After the burial of my wife I stood infront of her grave and cried as the her last words resounded in my head . ” be strong Akram. You’ll always find someone to love you. Be strong”. I guess she chose these words since she knew about me more that any one else; she knew I was weak, and helpless when I was alone, and now I was weak and helpless, for I’ll be alone forever.
Suddenly out of the fading picture of samia memries flooded me. Being a natural over thinker, I couldn’t resist.
I readjusted me feet and sat straight on the sofa. My eyes moved spontaneously to the window and I gazed from my lower, sitting position at the starless, Egyptian sky. It was midwinter. I loved these cold days of april, when the nippy, odourless air ran over your face asking you to inhale deeply, and forget everything. I loved those nights. But now these nights were over. I can never enjoy anything the way I enjoyed it before. Everyone I loved is gone , and now no one is left but me.
The younger Akram remerged infront of my eyes, at the window sill the face of the this young boy smiled at me. I changed a lot, I thought, my thick, jet black hair fell over time, until it left me bald. My pointy nose, grew wider, with this grey hair spiking out of it. Even my body went chubby. Although for the last ten years I belived that the younger Akram along with his past memories had abandoned me, however, I was wrong. I unconciusly grapped to these memories until they became a part of me, a part of that old man who can never get rid of his painful past. Images from the reachless past brought me back 35 years, and now I can’t escape anymore, my mind will replay this film , I hope, for the last time.