For Tilly.
I'm too lazy to look up actual Shari'a punishments again, so I apologize for any accidental fabrication. It's pretty close, but you never know. ^_~ This was using photo prompt #2 from Cal's Contest, and uses characters (or character) from my Nano, Among the Infidels. Sources/references at the end.
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AHMADINEJAD (THROUGH TRANSLATOR): In Iran, we do not have this phenomenon. I don't know who's told you that we have it.
(LAUGHTER)
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Haroun didn’t have enough fingers for the number of laws he had broken. Lying there in smuggled Levi’s in the basement of his cousin’s house, he tried to count them--using toes, knees, cracks in the floor. He pillowed his head with canvas sacks of his aunt's rice and stared at the ceiling as a rusted fan blew his eyes dry. The rhythm of its labored clicking was unsteady and made the line of numbers in his head tangle into a knotted mess.
The neighbor, Safran, was next to him, flicking through banned American songs on Haroun’s iPod. He couldn’t read the titles, but he recognized the lyrics from pirated mixtapes—smuggled in from Pakistan, from Turkey. When Haroun ran out of cracks in the floor, he counted Safran's fingernails, though he couldn't touch them. He would never touch them.
He dreamt with his eyes open, blinking as though he was about to cry. His mind was drowsy with the constant stream of foreign words in his head—Persian was like a pretty little sparrow flitting just out of reach of his fingers. There was static behind his ears, where the English used to be. He hadn’t seen American Idol or Tyra in two weeks.
In the city, the only American idol was one fit to be burnt.
He tipped the screen toward Haroun's face. “You watch this show, in America?” he asked—he’d stumbled into Degrassi, on actors crying and pacing.
“Yeah.”
He laughed. “I don’t know what they’re saying.”
Haroun shifted closer to him and peered into the screen—Safran smelled like soap and Lebanese cologne. “Oh, this is the one where Craig’s dad finally takes him back and then, like, dies on the spot. Then Craig goes crazy at the dance and starts tearing stuff up.”
“Dance?”
He skipped through several scenes until the last, where a boy slid his hands onto a girl’s hips and they danced, swaying back and forth, gently, with his lips grazing her forehead. Safran’s eyes went wide. “They let you do that?”
“I don’t do it, but. Twenty lashes?”
Safran looked at him. “Twenty lashes.” His mouth spread wide in a yawn. He clicked through to something loud and acoustic, and dragged a paper bag filled with clothes to his side. The bag crinkled as he curled up and stared into the fan, eyes opening and shutting, languid.
Haroun still had the empty shell of his cell phone in his pocket—the inside had been removed and confiscated. It was a comforting shape against his thigh, even if he couldn’t call Leila.
Leila. Twenty lashes more.
The air was thick and hot, even in the basement. Safran’s eyes settled shut and his eyelashes wove themselves together, his hand slipping and resting against his stomach.
Haroun stared at the dust on the ceiling. He was homesick for a place that wasn’t technically his home—a place that didn’t like him very much, either. Safran only put up with him because he was a foreigner; all American boys were like him, and all American boys were slightly toxic. They were toxic but exotic and fascinating, like tree frogs or bird spiders.
He glanced over, a hot guilty pit settling in his stomach. It felt like rape, looking at this pretty sleeping Shia boy—thick lips (fifty), a small patch of skin where his shirt fell from his body (sixty), the inseam of his jeans (a hundred). Haroun was never very good with math, but he knew what he wanted would split his spine raw.
But who would know? The windows were covered in dirt and not even the zealous mullah would stoop down to scrape it away. There—in America—he was a freak. Here he was a sinner; a satanic liability. He had fatwa written on his forehead like a crude tattoo.
Haroun turned on his side, toward the wall.
He dreamt with his eyes closed.
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President Ahmadinejad Delivers Remarks at Columbia University
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125,018 Literary Works • 672,861 Reviews
I haven't read many pieces by you but I think this is my favorite by far. Wow the way you incorparate the two cultures is amazing, its like meshing chopsticks with spaghetti. Well anyways, I have nothing to say against this because it speaks for itself. If you post anymore to this, please PM me.
Lovely job,
Angel
Wow, very powerful work, Sam. Everything you wrote about was intense. There wasn’t ever a dull moment. I really felt for Haroun, even though we know so little about him so far. You made me feel for your MC in less than two pages. Amazing. Simply inspiring.
I do think you could have done with a little bit more elaboration at some parts, especially with the Ipod and that jazz. I mean, it was kind of confusing in the middle, with all the info that you were giving us. Try to tone that down a bit.
But otherwise…
Bravo!
I look forward to more of your work!
Random Captilization, lol. Change the comma to a period, or make it 'he'.
So, I thought this was beautiful. Really nicely written; you make far older writers look like amateurs, dear Sammy-sam, XD. It's actually somewhat embarrassing.
Anywhoodles, I enjoyed.
Kudos.
I'd prefer: from Pakistan or Turkey.
This is awkward to me because settled and closed are nearly the same thing, and though I understand what you're saying, because closed is an adjective (or is it an adverb? Oo I think it's an adjective) it works grammatically, it just looks/feels really strange.
Oh, oh oh oh. You gave me something and it is most wonderful because all of what you are saying is underneath what you wrote, which you know is something that I find wonderful and perfect. Gwah, I love you. That is probably nonsensical to everyone but us. Oh well. Srsly, you rock the socks which I am not currently wearing.
But! I have to critique. This will be short and brief like, thrown at you like small pebbles or something. Your introduction led me to believe Roun was alone, and then you said hey there is also this person here! And I was like, uh what? Then it also took me a reread to formulate where he was. The setting (country-wise) was hard to get down, and I probably understood it only because I know the general background of dear Roun. Of course you hate explaining things so you'll probably ignore that. But it does perplex me, like the comment about the Aunt's clothes. It just lost me because I'm thinking, "What orphanage?" when it really doesn't matter. It's a great setting placer, but it leaves me with more questions than I want for the space I'm in.
This confused me, only because I'm not sure if I understand what you are saying. Safran likes toxic things?
Bonus points for naming someone Safran. And the dreaming... I really can't comment on it because it's too amazing and beautiful. It says a lot without saying anything, and you're starting to play with themes and meanings and symbols subtly. (You started doing that with Sparrows.) You're writing, most certainly, is maturing! And, my goodness, I'm honored enough to be given, in a strange way, this most wonderful thing. Über danke.
A few other notes: any mention of the word "sparrow" in any of your writings seems like an allusion. In fact, the word is an allusion no matter where it is. As to the title, I think you could do something better. From what I know, you're being playful and Persepolis? But it doesn't seem to fit the actual work. Try to make the title mold with your story, so that it creates a double effect and gives more like to the work. I don't normally complain about your titles, but this one seems so off and... not connected. You're, otherwise, always the best title chooser.
Anything else? Did I say you rock my socks?
Hey, Sam. I'm taking this paragraph at a time. 'mazing first sentence! Okay. You are piling a lot of information on us at once, man. Slow down. Take your time. Instead of rushing through how many crimes Haroun has done, expand on it a bit more. the part with Safran can come later. Maybe hint a couple of specific things that Haroun has done.
Okay. I'm confused. Is this meant to be a metaphor, with American Idol and all? Or is this boy from America, hiding in Iran, with his cousin? Because then the banned songs would make sense. *rambles* Oh. I get it now. It all makes sense. Gotcha.
Who smells like soap and Lebanese cologne? Haroun or Safran?
During the first read, I was like, 'What?' I would add, "They let you do that in America?" to make it make more sense.
WOW. Okay. This story makes complete sense now.
Last year, in eight grade, I had a history teacher. His name was Mr. Minter, and for the first three quarters, he was in Iraq, fighting in the war. We had an awful nice sub while he was gone; when he came back, though, he told us all about Iraq, and Iran. He had served part of his time in Iran. He told us about how boys couldn't go out with girls. That was horrible over there. Forbidden. Disgusting. So it all made sense to me, but to other people who don't know that, this won't make sense. I also love the lashes that you put in there. It really makes this a whole lot more realistic.
Your main character is gay, right?
If he is, this is absolutely perfect. I couldn't have worded it any better. I love the ([insert number of lashes here]) because it makes everything seem more realistic and amazing.
I could hardly find anything to complain about, now that everything makes sense.
-Jared