The soulless, black clouds of smoke seeped through the chimneys towering the disillusioning, depressing, rough house buildings. He leaned on one of the walls in the narrow alley of this busy town. Sitting in this dark nook of the town, he heard bits of utterance of the passer bys on the road.”But Daddy!”, complained a little fellow.”Best time of the year”, said another group of people. Sitting here like a redundant machine, this man played with his dull grey, efficient R97 gun. The only leisure of his life. He who has nothing left now, but debts on his side;debt of killing a pedestrian last night, debt of stealing a commodity and real debts of money he had borrowed from other thieves-his brothers in this sinister job, sat here in this dark nook. He had become numb in the dullness and dryness of each passing day. He stared at his rough, fortune deprived hands covered with rough dust. Dust that covered him like millions of ants squeezing what he has left of his old self-the good, hardworking student. But now all the hard-work he does each day to feed himself becomes the pain of his soul.
Rubbing his dirt filled hands against the jagged, aggressive wall he felt like he is in a purgatory. He pushed himself up and raised his head to the sky. “It’ll rain”, he cautioned to himself. Rain brings different gifts for different people. For the rich it brings bliss. For the poor, mere trouble. Thus breaking the social indifference! He sighed as he thought about the inhospitable damp and lakes of mud. He moved two steps further to inspect a large, wholly welcoming trash box. The lid upon it welcomed him like the cosy bed his late mother used to make for this little John. Merrily, he grabbed what sinister machines he possessed;guns, sharp horrifying knifes that retained the blood stains of many saints. He tucked in these things in the bin as he aimed to jump over the bin. As he laid on the lid, he opened his red, rough bag and found an array of cigarette ends but no, no unravished, unused cigarette. He rushed his hands through the array of cigarettes and eventually got hold of three scarcely left cigarettes to puff. Each dry puff reminded him of his normal, socially appreciated past. Past with a family, past embedded with hopes and dreams. He had a family; someone to call Mother, and someone to call as Father. The terrorist attack at the Lt’s College ruined it all like beetle ravaging the little, lovely lilies. His parents were killed, too. The anonymous terrorist decided his fate and he was forced to have faith in his new job of killing people. He dragged his eyelid to see the candy wrapper beside his left arm. It was his favorite candy when he was in school and probably the first present he used to ask from his mother on his birthdays. He slept imagining his parents teaching at the College, he asking them for help in Maths and Chemistry. He, surprisingly, had managed to retain the last Christmas he had with his little family-the evergreen smile on hir mother’s face, the handmade elaborate Christmas tree…his eyes opened to the everyday stench pouring through the bin.


Written by: Rida Walayat Niazi

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3 thoughts on “Nostalgia – a short story

  1. That was some bitter reality! Nicely portrayed! I hope you won’t mind some constructive feedback: you need to work a bit on your grammar and possibly punctuation, too. This combined with your deep ideas and commendable expression will definitely make you a great writer one day. Wish you best of luck!

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