Category: author

Marhaba

The old man sat like a great sultan, with his bushy salt-and-pepper beard and glittering dark eyes, lording over his wares. The bell above the door tinkled, and Matt rushed through it; swirling snowflakes followed him inside and settled in his hair and on his coat. He shook the snow off his shoulders and glanced around the antique shop. Dust particles danced in a golden light that Matt would have sworn was sunlight, were it not for the dark and wintry evening.

He gazed at the big man in his long robe sitting on a high-backed chair. Matt greeted him as he scanned the room with curious eyes and ice-bitten cheeks. 

“Marhaba,” the man’s deep voice broke the musty silence.

Something glinted behind the man, and Matt noticed a row of assorted cups and glasses and goblets perched on a shelf above the man’s head.

“I give you a good price on everything,” the man beamed, and Matt felt the warm welcome seep into his frozen bones. 

He browsed the hodgepodge of hookahs and ornate furniture and dusty old books, and colorful tapestries, and stained-glass lamps. The toasty and nutty aroma of dense coffee with cardamom wafted through the room, enveloping the young man in its creamy and welcoming kindness. Matt glanced at the dark evening sprinkled with freewheeling snow beyond the shop window, and shivered.

“The coffee is fresh. Inshallah you will drink some with me,” the man said, and the deep rumble of his voice conjured the soft grating of tumbling sand in the blazing sun.

Matt patted his pocket, lamenting his shabby and skinny wallet, and meant to decline the offer, when he caught the man’s twinkling eyes that lit up his face like a starry desert night.

Matt nodded and smiled. 

He offered Matt a seat beside him on the cushioned and decorated high-backed chair, a twin to the one the man occupied. Matt accepted, and watched the man pour velvety, deep black coffee from a small silver kettle with a long handle. The warm coffee filled the room, and the snowflakes slapped at the windowpane, begging to partake in the comfort.

The man chatted about his home and the trees that grow crooked from the desert wind, and the fat figs that ooze honey when you bite into them, and the lazy sunset over blooming fruit groves, and the spider grapevines that crawl over the cracked earth.

Matt listened, and let the hot thick coffee melt his bones, while its cardamom scent stuck to his nostrils like a soothing balm on this cold winter’s night, but his eyes kept falling on a shimmering goblet behind the man. It was a simple, golden cup, with no decorations or glimmering jewels like its siblings on the shelf. Noticing, the man smiled, then reached up and took the cup. He offered it to Matt.

“How much?” Matt’s sheepish voice bleated, and a crimson hue flourished on his cheeks.

The man flicked his chin upwards and clicked his tongue, “A gift for you. For a long, long time I have sat alone drinking my coffee with only these baubles and trinkets for company. Only you have shared a cup with me.”

Matt protested and offered to pay what he could for the goblet, but the man placed it in his hands, then squeezed them, as if to imprint Matt’s palms onto the golden goblet.

“This is a wishing cup from an ancient land of mystery and sand. Take it with my heartfelt wishes. You are a good person, and it will grant you only the best in all you ask.”

With a final ding, the bell above the door let a grateful Matt out, while the man bid him farewell, and the freezing wind stung his cheeks. He waved at the man, then tucked the golden cup wrapped in silk under his arm, and bowed his head into the dark snow. He reached the corner and glanced back towards the store, but saw only an empty lot where the warm, bright building had welcomed him only moments ago.

Mary Stuart

Mary Stuart appeared on the wall again. Jane gasped when she entered the kitchen and saw the silhouette of the kneeling woman with her hands in prayer, like the unfortunate Queen of Scots.

Jane’s rational mind knew it had something to do with the sunlight traversing through branches and shrubs and appliances on the countertop as it streamed through the open window and cast shadows on the wall. But she also knew it did not happen every day, and when the shadow appeared, a sense of dread followed, a certain premonition, an augury, an omen. Hence, Mary Stuart, because the shadow evoked an ax about to drop and a head about to roll.

Jane prepared to bake a cake; as she gathered the ingredients and instruments, she snuck uneasy glances at the wall. Mary Stuart was still there, though fading as the breeze wiggled the tree leaves and all the other shadows shimmered. Jane’s heart relaxed a little, and she let out a soft “phew”. The intensity of the shadow was proportional to the intensity of the calamity, and with three reckless, rambunctious, and daredevil sons with flesh of glue and bones of rubber, Mary Stuart had visited her many times over the years.

Jane continued baking her cake, and the ominous feeling did not subside, nor did the ax swing. The aroma of lemon drizzle soon filled the room, and the oven warmed the kitchen, and the light shifted, and red sunset streamed through the window. Jane sat at the table, waiting for the cake to bake and scrutinizing Mary Stuart still visible upon the wall.

“It’s Mike,” she stated, “it’s his favorite cake in the oven, and I’ve been thinking about him all day.”

The shadow on the wall twinkled in reply.

“It’s nothing terrible, nothing life-altering. It’s somewhere in between Jason’s fall from the tree and Eric’s skydiving incident.”

She rolled her eyes as she recalled the hectic drives to the hospital with her heart in her mouth, only to find a beaming and joking boy each time. 

Mary Stuart nodded as the breeze rustled the tree leaves, though the persistent dread choked Jane’s sigh of relief.

The blazing sun sank into the horizon and cast long shadows on the wall that grew like tall bony trees and surrounded Mary Stuart, who oscillated between the visible and the invisible world. 

The oven dinged, and the ax dropped. Squealing brakes and broken glass flashed before Jane’s eyes. Mike’s surprised yelp cut her chest, but she loosened her sweaty fists when his heart pumped loud and steady in her ears, muffling his nervous giggles. Jane took a deep breath, Mary Stuart vanished, and the dying day tinged the kitchen in blue and purple and green, like the bruises on Mike’s living body.

Jane took the cake out of the oven and checked its doneness with a toothpick. She set it to cool by the window, then grabbed her purse, put on her shoes, and waited for the telephone to ring.

Laguna

They say a watched pot never boils, and I realized the truth of this statement when I let Malcolm go. I had already made a fool of myself for far too long when I awoke one night from a vivid dream and realized with the utmost certainty Malcolm’s love for me would never spark. He would never see me with the same admiration I gave him and I was fooling myself, believing one day he would wake up drowning in a love so deep and passionate for me we would grow old together and rest beside one another upon our deaths.

So I resolved to let him go, or rather to let go of him, and I arose that morning with a new sense of joy and peace and comfort. I had an epiphany, and it gave me a new hope that I would meet someone who would reciprocate this deep pool of love that was bubbling up inside me. It was a new pool, crystalline, untouched, and undiscovered; the love I had for Malcolm dried up, and it was liberating.

Three aspects of this whole unrequited love story irk me to no end.

One, I never met that promising new someone.

Two, that too late, a deep love for me sparked in Malcolm’s heart.

And three, that he thinks I did this to myself.

But here is the truth:

After my epiphany, I paused all contact with Malcolm, though I doubt he either noticed or cared. I told no one, as no one besides Malcolm knew of my fervent love for him, though in hindsight, it was more of a blinding infatuation. My epiphany was that he did not deserve my feelings for him, nor the stupid and covert ways I professed myself to him, and I did not deserve the constant push and pull between attraction and rejection I received from him in return. So days later and feeling happy for the first time, I went for a rejuvenating and head-clearing hike to a hidden pond I knew well.

I sat on the sunlit rocks and gazed at the crystal waters, smooth and dark like onyx. No waves ruffled the surface, though a weak, yet cool breeze blew through the willows. Forest life whirled around me, but the still water, contained by the smooth rock surrounding the deep sinkhole, was a dark and tarnished mirror reflecting the cloudless sky. 

I basked in the sunlight and recalled the simple fun of skipping rocks. Beaming like a child, I picked one up, and Malcolm’s beautiful eyes flashed through my mind. That memory seeped into the rock and I flung it, then watched it skip across the water and plunk into the depths. I picked up another, and then another, until I ran out of rocks within my reach. Whether skipping or plunging into the dark waters, each stone carried a memory of Malcolm and the torturous two years since our first acquaintance. I then walked along the pond, searching for flat and smooth rocks, and putting them in my pocket, until I had enough for a lifetime of rock-skipping and memory-chucking.

Giggling and giddy with delight, I took a rock, placed it between my fingers, drained my most painful Malcolm-memory into it, and drew my arm back to toss it. It would have been my greatest feat. I meant to hurl it clear across the firmament and into the blazing sun, but I slipped on moss and mud, and while falling, I glimpsed a flash of blue sky before the inky, dense black engulfed me. Moments later, I was sinking deep into the pond and trailing a wake of blood squirting from my temple.

Now, Malcolm sits alone in his room, cradling a keepsake of me, and weeps. He weeps for me, for what he thinks I did for his sake, and for the life we could have had together had he been a better man, less selfish and less proud. Now, he drowns in a dark pool of his own sorrows and regrets.

His love for me sparked too late, but I regret nothing. 

His sad figure slips away as I move on to a new existence, unencumbered by what might have been in this old one.