Khasim walked through the dusty town market. There were stalls on either side of him, each with its respective merchant. People walked past him, chatting about what they bought, what they didn’t buy, or what they planned on buying. Each step kicked sand up onto Khasim’s heels. The sand was hot from the Middle Eastern sun, but it felt good on his tired feet. As Khasim perused the market, he hummed an unfamiliar tune. Khasim knew the song all too well, but to everyone around him, the song did not exist. It was a song Khasim heard often at night, while he fell asleep. It was a song written by his father, an aspiring musician.
”Do you like this song, Khasim?” his father would ask him late at night.
”I like all of your music. It’s beautiful.” he would lie in return.
In truth, Khasim hated his father’s music. The redundant twang of the guitar strings, so poorly played out into the night, the shaky, cracking sound of his father’s voice, both of which did not match the beauty of his lyrics. He would lie awake, every night, wondering when his father would call it quits, so he and his family could get some sleep.
Khasim browsed through the market, stopping at each stall to take in its delicious aroma. Khasim would often find himself in front of the fruit stall, waving the smell into his nose. He smiled as he slowly examined the contents of each stall. He was happy just to be out of the house, away from his father, and the song he had been playing all day.
”Well, you going to buy anything or just stand there and smell it all day?” There was a large man behind the stall, his stomach barely fitting behind it. He had a big gruff beard that he seemed to have an obsession with rubbing. “It’s charismatic. I think it attracts people to my stall.” Khasim thought the same thing. He smiled and fished some dinars out from his pocket, and handed them to the man. He rolled the dinars in his hands, and then looked down at Khasim with a big, yellow smile. “Hey kid, this one is on the house!” he flipped the dinars back to Khasim, and then handed him a big pomegranate. This was Khasim’s personal favorite.
”Thanks mister!” Khasim wheeled around and sniffed the fruit. The scent was invigorating. He took a bite of it and continued to browse the market. He walked until he smelled something different. Fish. It was incredibly over-powering. He saw the fish vendor pulling people over to his stall.
”Sir, I have a son who hasn’t had a decent meal in a long time…” The voice was painfully familiar to Khasim. He inched forward, dreading what he already knew. There, knelt in front of the fish stall, was his father. Khasim’s stomach began to churn, the smell of raw meat assaulting his insides. His fruit fell to the ground, freeing his hands to cover his mouth, but it was too late. Orange and yellow bile spilled from his mouth and nostrils. He cleaned himself up and glanced back to his father. He was sitting, legs crossed, weeping into his hands. A man walked by and flipped a dinar into his lap. A beggar; this is what his father had become. Khasim felt as if he should have been beside his father, consoling him. The song played over in his head. Wiping a solitary tear from his cheek, Khasim walked away, leaving his father behind. Before he got far, a thunderous sound broke the bustle of the market. It was a sound Khasim had been taught to run from his whole life; the sound of artillery fire. One of the men did not have a gun, but a strange jacket concealed his stomach. Before anyone knew to run, an explosion tore open the market. Khasim was tossed forward onto his stomach. He crawled out of the stampede of feet that bore down upon him, and hid under a stall. He didn’t cry, he only grabbed onto his knees and braced himself. He wanted to close his eyes, but a strange feeling made him watch, and listen. He watched the sand fly as feet rushed to find a safer place.
When the sounds of screams, explosions, and gunfire dissipated, Khasim crawled out from under the stall. There was a man lying on the ground. His face and clothes were bloodied, and his eyes were lifeless. An old woman sat on the curb, staring silently at the sky. A younger woman cried on the old woman’s shoulder. There were no pleasant smells anymore. The air smelt of blood, gunpowder, and death. Over to his right Khasim caught a glimpse of a limb. Maybe an arm, he couldn’t really tell. He walked back towards the fish stall. The few steps it took to get there felt like miles. He looked around. Nothing. No sign of his father. Something heavy fell onto Khasim’s shoulder. A hand. “If he’s not here, son, he’s alive. The Americans came. They took all of the injured.” Khasim turned to see the man from the fruit stall, still rubbing his beard.
”Thank you.” Khasim replied.
It was months before Khasim’s father came home from the hospital. He had scars across his neck, chest, and legs. His face was intact, but both of his arms had been completely removed. Not only could Khasim’s father no longer play the guitar, but he couldn’t even sell fish. After the accident, there was no more music. Khasim, his mother, and father, slept in silence. The guitar leaned in a closet, collecting dust. Every night, Khasim longed to hear the songs he once hated. His father’s voice, and the music he played, became the epitome of beauty. On Khasim’s next birthday, Khasim’s father gave him the old guitar.
”Maybe you can play,” He asked him as he handed Khasim the guitar. That night Khasim played into the morning. For weeks after, all Khasim did was play until his finger tips bled, and his voice was lost. He played until he perfected his first song. The song he hummed that day in the market. The song about the fish vendor, and the day his son was proud of him.
Joshua Ware is a seventeen year old student from Saint Michael High School in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada. One day he hopes to write professionally, following his passion for literature.