I submitted a draft of this in the 2011 story contest. I've made a few changes here and there and would greatly appreciate any positive or negative feedback on this latest draft. I hope you enjoy it!
Small Print
Haroon locked the bathroom door, silenced the electronic muezzin blasting the call to prayer from his phone and hoped Asiyah hadn’t heard. He didn’t have the energy for the discussion that would follow if she had. Besides, he’d just installed Price Tag.
The terms and conditions blurred into digital hieroglyphics rocketing past the phone’s screen as he scrolled through to select ‘Accept’. Black lines spiralled across the grey background and transformed it into a camera shutter which dilated to reveal the bathroom.
Haroon nodded, pointing the phone at the sink. “Nice animation.” Took a photo. “Let’s check this thing out.”
The picture of the sink was briefly obscured by onscreen instructions through which he skipped, whereupon the image sprouted a price tag that dangled from the tap, characters forming from the simulated shadows which licked the tag’s blank face with each slow spin.
He wondered how close the app’s estimate would be. Two hundred quid here or there was acceptable, but then Price Tag did take depreciation into account…
“Best fifty pence I ever spent,” he said as the phone chimed and the animated tag stopped twirling. The characters on its face curved and twisted into an oval that housed a pair of black orbs below which a horizontal line stretched into the path of three vertical marks like stitches.
It looked like a skull.
Haroon said, “Huh?”
Three knocks on the bathroom door. “Are you leading the prayer or what?” Asiyah’s frustration vibrated through the woodwork. “Can’t even read without your silly adhaan app interrupting. Why can’t you just come for prayers when I remind you?”
“Just doing my wudhu.” Haroon turned on the tap. “Is Lukhman with you?”
“He’s playing downstairs. Would you hurry up?”
He slipped the phone into his pocket and rolled up his sleeves. “Five minutes.”
“Every single time.” Asiyah’s frown was audible in her words, even as they faded with her receding footsteps.
Haroon performed his ablutions. Asiyah would keep for another ten minutes. He’d probably be able to figure out what was wrong with Price Tag in that time. He dried himself off and stepped into the corridor, glancing into their bedroom where Asiyah knelt on a prayer mat and read the Qur’an.
“I’ll fetch Lukhman,” he said and she nodded, her face a half-moon against the starless sky of her hijab. He smiled. Six years since they’d married and she still poured beauty into simple gestures.
The fact she was wearing one of the designer headscarves he’d bought her didn’t hurt.
He found Lukhman in the living room. The boy crashed toy cars together on the floor. On the television, animated automobiles traded flaming missiles. Haroon shook his head. The kid loved this DVD. Cartoon violence - the ultimate babysitter. He stroked Lukhman’s hair.
“Daddy!” The boy beamed at him. “Is it my birthday today?”
Haroon laughed. Lukhman had been asking the same question for the past four weeks. Never got old. “Only eleven months to go.” He picked the boy up. “It’s prayer time. Do you know which prayer it is?”
“Maghrib!”
“And is that the fourth or the fifth prayer of the day?”
Lukhman thought for a moment. “Fourth one.”
“Very good.” Haroon nodded. “Go do wudhu like I showed you.”
Lukhman went silent, screwed his face into a contemplative mask. Then: “Can I splash?”
“No splashing.” He kissed his son and watched him scamper upstairs. Then Haroon’s phone chimed three times. On its screen was a picture of the three of them laughing at the park, Asiyah holding Lukhman who pumped both fists in the air while Haroon held his wife and son close with one arm. Around each of their necks hung a price tag. Lukhman was worth three skulls, Asiyah two and Haroon, whose image’s free arm joyously reached for the camera phone beyond the picture’s border, was valued at one.
“What the hell?” He must have accidentally selected the photo album when putting the phone in his pocket, but he didn’t know Price Tag applied to pictures he had already taken. Another chime and the image flashed scarlet letters that read, “You win!”
The lights flickered. The floorboards trembled. The house’s guts scraped and creaked, snapped and cracked. And in the basement somebody clapped. Twice.
He sprinted for the cellar door, beyond which something padded up the steps. His right hand made a fist. His left hand reached for the door.
It opened from the other side.
From the darkness emerged a hand, an arm, a rolled-up work sleeve. A startled face.
The man in the cellar doorway lurched backwards. Protesting shouts echoed from the basement in response. The man exhaled, wiped his palms on his overalls and said, “Ever heard of knocking?”
Adrenaline made Haroon’s voice oscillate somewhere between fear and rage. “Who are you?”
The man looked down the basement steps. “Boss!”
Male voices echoed in the darkness and the man stepped into the hallway. Somewhere beneath the cloud of panic that rooted Haroon to the spot, he knew he shouldn’t really have let the guy out of the cellar. After all, the others down there might follow suit, like the line of blokes in identical overalls who then filed out of the doorway, a surging centipede of removal men.
Some of them entered the living room; others the kitchen; upstairs, bathroom, bedrooms, and all of them trailing black footprints and the stink of singed carpet.
And up the cellar steps walked a suited man who doffed his hat, smiled his familiar smile and said, “Hi.”
Who the hell did this guy think he was? He and his boys couldn’t just barge into Haroon’s property without cause, warning or identification. Haroon had a good mind to shove him down the stairs.
“Hi,” Haroon said, wittily.
The suited man produced a card from his pocket. “Always a pleasure to meet our customers.”
Haroon took the card. He couldn’t tell if the five-letter word on its surface was the name of the company or the suited man. It didn’t make sense either way. Unless…
Haroon spun around, glaring into each corner of the ceiling for hidden cameras.
The suited man cleared his throat. “What are you doing?”
Haroon shook a finger at him and grinned. “This is a prank. A reality show or something, right?”
The suited man grinned back. He vaguely resembled Christopher Walken. “Wrong.”
Haroon tried to laugh. The anxiety wriggling through his gut like larvae made the chuckle more of a shudder. “Come on. You can’t be who this card says you are. That would be ridiculous.”
“Why?” Christopher Walken raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t picture me carrying business cards?”
Haroon forced a smile as the larvae in his stomach metamorphosed into razor-tipped butterflies. “Doesn’t fit the, um, traditional image.”
“You bet it doesn’t.” Walken stepped past him and entered the living room. “We’re rebranding. We’ve been terribly misrepresented over the years, you know. I mean, the religious iconography was weird enough, but the secular versions?” He shook his head. “The only red a man should wear is on his tie, am I right?”
“You’re actually him?” The butterflies in Haroon’s stomach burst into flame. “You’re actually…”
“Iblis.” Christopher Walken bowed his head. “In the flesh.” His brow furrowed. “Well, temporary flesh really, and I’m only known as ‘Iblis’ to our Muslim customers, but you know what? ‘Lucifer’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Haroon saw Iblis approaching the workmen who carried the coffee table out of the living room and into the cellar; heard other workers cracking kitchen cabinets from the walls; felt them push him out of the way so they could take a rug into the basement.
None of it registered. It carried on around him and he allowed it, because it couldn’t be, it made no sense and: “Satan is in my living room.” The words came out of his mouth but sounded as if they were spoken by some other Haroon, one who lived in a faraway land with pixies and talking bunny rabbits, so it was easy to say, “I’m having a nervous breakdown.”
Iblis looked at him. “Nope.”
“Then it’s a dream. A nightmare. It’s the simplest explanation. Cut away the impossible and all that’s left is the truth. Ockham’s razor.”
Iblis scoffed. “Ockham took shaving far too seriously.” He picked up the remote control and increased the television’s volume until the animated carnage of Lukhman’s cartoon thundered through the room. “Great movie, but I prefer the first one. More innocent, you know.”
Haroon inhaled. “I want you to leave.”
Iblis laughed. “You didn’t read it.”
“What?”
Iblis jabbed a finger at him. “The agreement.”
“I don’t have time for this.” Haroon didn’t believe in those words. They just seemed to be the right thing to say. Even if this was a lucid dream, it needn’t be too nightmarish. One call to the police and his subconscious would follow through to either help him out or wake him up. All he had to do was exit his mobile phone’s photo album -
Which he couldn’t.
Nothing worked. Nothing responded. Nothing happened. His phone was a brick decorated with a picture of his happy family.
“Locked.” Iblis sat in the armchair and sighed. “Clause 26-a of the terms and conditions you agreed to without reading.”
Haroon didn’t reply. To do so would be pointless. Nothing was real. The locked phone was probably his subconscious spicing things up. Besides, he could still use the landline, a cordless telephone on the shelf next to the armchair in which Iblis reclined. Haroon picked up the receiver and dialled.
He wasn’t entirely surprised that the line was dead. Nor did he comment when Iblis gestured to the workman holding the telephone line’s severed end.
“Clause 26-b.” Iblis tilted his head. “The thing is you don’t need help, not that anyone would be able to provide any if you did. However, since the terms of the agreement and its implications seem to have escaped your attention, it behoves me to remind you that you have in fact won a prize.”
Haroon was emotionless. “A prize?” Yippee. As he spoke, fire-heeled demons in overalls trudged around his house to shove his possessions into the basement, and he had won a prize. What a strange nightmare life had become.
“Well, a trip, really. A preview.”
“Of what?”
Iblis smiled, explosions from the cartoon glinting in his eyes. “Of your eternity.”
Haroon said nothing and turned for the stairs. He’d forgotten that his wife and child existed in this unreality.
“A potential eternity, and don’t worry, in accordance with Clause 12-e Asiyah and Lukhman will come along too,” Iblis said. “Father, mother and son, cosy among their worldly possessions, basking in the warm glow afforded by a weekend excursion in Hell.”
Haroon stopped. Faced Iblis. If reality was Haroon’s nightmare, he may as well sound awesome. “Over my dead body.”
Iblis grinned. “That can be arranged.”
Haroon headed for the stairs but could not ascend them. Workmen descended, lugging a lamp, a looking glass and Lukhman. The boy’s fists were balled above his head. He did not move. At the rear, other workers carried Asiyah, also stiffly paralyzed, her arm curved around an imaginary child. Haroon wondered when he’d wake. The workmen drew nearer and he saw the smile frozen on Lukhman’s face, the silent laugh framed by Asiyah’s mouth. He saw their eyes.
He staggered backward, slipped, slid to the front door and gripped the handle.
His hand burned.
He screamed and held his smoking right palm before him, the reddened, bubbling skin rank like fried meat. The pain and the stench were too vivid for nightmares. Everything that had happened was real. And the smug, suited king of this chaos stood in the hallway.
“Sorry about the door handle.” Iblis adjusted his hat. “Clause 85-b. Preventing escapes.”
Haroon charged for the cellar door, into which the workmen carrying his family had already vanished. Haroon lunged through the doorway. Strong arms wrapped around his chest and dragged him out. He shouted incoherently at the workmen restraining him. His vocabulary returned when he caught sight of Iblis. “What are you doing to my family?”
“Not sure I like your tone, mister.”
“They’re alive. I saw their eyes.” Haroon leaned toward him. “Give them back.”
“Give them back?” Iblis burst into laughter. “This is precisely the problem. Possessive scumbags like you install Price Tag, blatantly ignoring its implications, then have the cheek to make me the bad guy!”
Haroon struggled against the workmen. They didn’t budge. He wasn’t in the mood for rants. “Give them back and get out.”
Iblis looked as if Haroon had turned into a giant spider. “Clause 23-h. We’re transporting them, along with your possessions, the entire house, brick for brick. You’ll feel right at home on your little getaway. Come on, don’t act surprised. You made the agreement. You invited us in.” Iblis shrugged. “You didn’t read the Ts and Cs? TS.”
“I want my family!”
Iblis shook his head. “You’re a toddler crying for his favourite toy.” He gestured to the workmen holding Haroon and entered the living room. “Bring him in.”
Haroon flexed his right hand as they walked in. Pain erupted from his burn, keeping him lucid. Keeping him livid.
Iblis stopped and ejected Lukhman’s DVD. “I don’t suppose you’ve figured out what those skulls mean.” He put the disc in its case and looked at Haroon. “On the price tags.”
“They mean your app is a crock.”
Iblis nodded to one of the workmen, who pulled Haroon’s mobile from his pocket and threw it to Iblis. “What a nice family picture. Shame about the price tags. I mean, look at this. Lukhman is worth three souls? Ridiculous.”
Haroon set his jaw and squeezed his right fist. The pain would help him to humour this idiot. “A skull is worth a soul?”
“Yep. To you, Lukhman is worth the total of your soul, your wife’s and his own.” Iblis reached into his jacket pocket. “Asiyah is so important to you that she’s worth your soul and hers. Romantic.” He pulled out a DVD. “And you? When you took that photo, you were worth your own soul and nothing more. Simple.”
Haroon dug his fingers into the burn. “My bathroom sink is worth my soul?”
“At the moment you took the picture, yes. At that moment you were more interested in playing with a mobile phone app than praying to your Creator.” He spun the DVD on his finger. “The irony is that if you’d just gone and prayed, Clause 73-j would have kicked in and stopped all this from happening.”
“I was going to pray-”
“But you didn’t.” Iblis put the DVD in the player. “And them’s the rules.” He picked up the remote and gazed at the television admiringly. “Nice setup. Ever think about upgrading to an HD player? It would look amazing.”
Haroon glared at him. “Why are we having this conversation?”
Iblis sat in the armchair. “Because you need to calm down.” Pressed Play. “And you need to see that you’ve only got yourself to blame.”
The television displayed a supermarket, within which Haroon picked Lukhman’s DVD off the shelf. The screen showed Haroon chatting with the shop assistant while paying for the DVD, saying, “This will keep the little ‘un quiet for a couple of hours.”
Haroon jostled with the workers holding him and leaned toward the TV. The DVD Iblis was playing showed true events from weeks ago, but they played out like a movie rather than cobbled-together CCTV footage. “How did you get this?”
“Modern technology.” Iblis paused the DVD. “See how selfish you are on this thing? You didn’t buy Lukhman the movie to make him happy. You bought it to shut him up.”
Haroon didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
Iblis shrugged and clicked the remote. The Next Chapter icon appeared in the corner of the screen and the scene changed to Haroon buying that designer headscarf for Asiyah, him holding the fabric and saying, “She’ll look amazing in this.” Pause.
Iblis raised an eyebrow. “That’s all your wife is to you? An ornament to be adorned?”
“You’re taking it out of context-”
“Am I?” Next chapter.
The park. Smiling. Laughing. Asiyah holding Lukhman, who pumped his fists in the air, Haroon taking a picture of the three of them with the phone in his right hand and holding them close with his left. Pause.
“Here we go.” Iblis cackled. “Here’s the clincher.”
“What’s so selfish about a father embracing his family?”
“Not just any father.” Iblis reclined. “I watch our customers for a long time. Meet them in disguise. Get to know them. And I know you. The kind of guy who buys gifts for his wife so she can look pretty for him. The kind of possessive creep who buys his kid violent cartoons to sate him, like giving a bone to a noisy dog.” Iblis pointed at the screen. “It’s all in the body language. Given your personality it’s obvious you can’t even hug your family out of selfless love. You can only hoard them like the prized possessions they are.” Iblis looked at him, solemn. “Your love is greed.”
The blazing butterflies in Haroon’s stomach fell dead, extinguished by guilt. By sorrow. Iblis was right. So Haroon focused on the pain in his right hand, for in pain there was refuge and there was strength. He said, “Good work, Sigmund.”
Iblis nodded tiredly. “Go on, deflect. Deny. Justify. Our customers are so predictable when faced with their own sinful stupidity. They do everything to avoid the problem and nothing to solve it.” He stood, ejected the DVD and slipped it back into his pocket. “But I feel sorry for your family. They needn’t suffer. Maybe I’ll wipe their memoires of you after your little family break and set them up with a new life.”
Iblis stepped out of the way of two workmen who picked up the TV. “You personally can stay on your little trip a while longer, like one of those oblivious saps trapped there until Judgment Day. I think you’ll even enjoy it. It’s just like daily life, only more, pardon the pun, hellish.” He followed the workmen carrying the television into the cellar and signalled to the workers who held Haroon.
“The worst day of your life for the rest of your afterlife,” Haroon heard Iblis say while the workmen dragged him through the cellar doorway. They trudged down the steps.
Orange glowed in the semi-dark, illuminating cabinets, bedframes, clothing, electronics. Everything he owned, bunched against the cellar walls, spilling across the floor. In the centre of the room stood Asiyah holding Lukhman. Both were still frozen into their poses from the photograph. Haroon wished he was dreaming, or that he still thought he was. Delusion would redeem this depression.
Iblis whistled and twirled, fingers outstretched. “All. This. Stuff. Bet you feel like King Tut. He was a good kid, by the way, very athletic.”
“Don’t do this. I didn’t know. Please.”
Iblis turned his back. “Your toilet might contain the last crap I give.”
The workmen shoved Haroon toward his family. He looked into their eyes, then lowered and closed his own. “I get it.” Quiet. Delicate. Confessional. “None of this junk matters. I can’t take it with me. Even if I could, it wouldn’t make a difference.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Iblis sounded as sympathetic as a brick through the window.
Haroon opened his eyes and faced him. Behind Iblis, two workmen dropped the 1080p HD TV into a glowing amber hole in the floor. The television was worth half a grand. Haroon did not care. “You’ve made your point. Let us go.”
“Nonsense. How would you enjoy your prize?” Iblis cracked his knuckles. “Now we’ve got all three of you, let’s prepare you for transport.” He held his hands wide. “Under the power vested in me by Clause 91-c, I beseech you - turn that frown upside down.” And clapped.
Haroon opened his mouth to speak. His tongue would not move. His limbs would. Involuntarily. His legs positioned him beside Asiyah so his left arm could hold her and Lukhman close; his right arm raised, burned palm facing them, fingers curled around a non-existent mobile phone. He didn’t want to smile. His facial muscles made him.
“Glorious!” Iblis laughed and fiddled with Haroon’s phone. “Just to unlock this in accordance with Clause… oh, it’s not like you’ve read it anyway.” He raised the phone to eye level. “Two days in Hell lasts a lot longer than it sounds. I’m sure you’ll love it. Just stay alert. Keep sharp.”
Iblis grinned and took a picture of Haroon’s smiling family. “Read the small print.”
I loved this story. It was original, out there, not your ordinary and definitely not what you would expect to read on an Islamic forum! Exactly the calibur you'd expect in a short story contest, so I'm rather perplexed as to why this entry really didn't get more votes. Or comments for that matter.
For me the highlight was Satan and his characterisation throughout. Reading his dialogue in the voice of Christopher Walken was hilarious and I could visually see his expressions and hear his unique innunciation in my head. I'm glad that he pretty much stole the show because it would be a terrible crime had he not.
The main character was also characterised fairly well, acting believably and realistically (at least given the circumstances) throughout. Whilst not as interesting (given that he's supposed to represent a normal person in a very, very strange situation) it's as good as it should be. Having Satan show, analyze and comment on his actions in the past is a good way of exploring and fleshing out the main character whilst allowing forward motion for the story. In other words, the story doesn't stop to give you an update; it's moving forward and you're learning something about his past at the same time. This is great because it keeps your interest piqued at all times.
Whilst I still think the main character's wife could have been characterised a little more, I'll let it go as she's not the main focus. Because the story is primarily contained to the main character's house, it's difficult to really add any extra forms of context, which includes character exploration/development, without ruining that focus. What we do get is good, don't get me wrong, it's just that I personally would like to have a bit more. Still, it's nothing major and it doesn't affect how strong the story is overall. I'm glad I read it and I'm looking forward to reading the author's next work.
Someone said to the Prophet, "Pray to God against the idolaters and curse them." The Prophet replied, "I have been sent to show mercy and have not been sent to curse." (Muslim)
Brother I completely forgot to post my comments on this story.
here are my comments for the previous version. Insha-Allah when I read this one, if i have to add something I will:
1. this is a well-written story that needs some work. It does seem like the story is incomplete. I agree with the person who said that this should've been a nightmare and that Haroon should've woken up, thought about the dream, and mended his ways, making him more religious and less selfish, etc. Either that or make it a thriller novel or novelette and not a short story. If you don't know what to do with the story, put it a side for now, and after a few weeks, reread it and continue the story. I guess Haroon will have to find a way to overcome Iblis and save his family.
2. Iblis doesn't have power to do that sort of thing. make sure it isn't a sin to write about it.
3. name characters tactfully. Character names should reflect their personality. Haroon is the name of a Prophet so this name doesn't suit the main character. Asiyah means disobedient so that also doesn't suit her. Lukhman is a wise person in the Quran, so that name might better suit someone wise and not a child character in my opinion.
I agree with the person who said that this should've been a nightmare and that Haroon should've woken up, thought about the dream, and mended his ways, making him more religious and less selfish, etc.
I don't think that's a good idea. The woke up from a dream thing is a huge cliche and overdone and I think that would cheapen the story. It's not creative enough.
On that note, I remember this one time my teacher at high school was giving us a scenario to write a conclusion to: 'you wake up one day and find that everybody in town has disappeared... how did it happen?'.
It turned out that a lot of people simply wrote about it being a dream. He mentioned that one student in the past had something more creative - 'it was raining fivers in a town nearby'
2. Iblis doesn't have power to do that sort of thing. make sure it isn't a sin to write about it.
I did think about this too. I felt the character of Iblis as portrayed in the story reflects the usual concept of the devil vs God as though the devil is on par with God whereas we believe Iblis by himself is nothing and has no power to do anything whatsoever (save what Allah has allowed him to do during his period of respite).
3. name characters tactfully. Character names should reflect their personality. Haroon is the name of a Prophet so this name doesn't suit the main character. Asiyah means disobedient so that also doesn't suit her. Lukhman is a wise person in the Quran, so that name might better suit someone wise and not a child character in my opinion.
Perhaps the story reflects reality, where people name their children when the children don't even have a personality yet, and it's not necessary that a child will match up to their name, e.g. not all Luqmans in this world will be wise.
Also, just to clarify that the Muslim name Asiyah (and as used in the story) doesn't mean disobedient. It is the name of the righteous wife of Fir'own, and is written like this in Arabic آسِيَة . The word for disobedient, which is with ayn and saad, is not kept as a name by people of any faith.
Last edited by Insaanah; 05-19-2012 at 09:51 PM.
Stunningly beautiful adhaan from the Dome of the Rock in Masjid ul Aqsa Download (right click and choose "save target/link as").
This is a clear message for mankind in order that they may be warned thereby, and that they may know that He is only One God, and that those of understanding may take heed (14:52)
Indeed Allah knows, and you know not (16: 74, part)
Whoah, thanks for the feedback, everyone! I'll take it all into account. I'm really glad you all took the time to read the story and comment.
I won't comment on the story itself (because it should speak for itself), but I will say that I like to leave things open to interpretation as literature is a psychological medium.
Perhaps the story reflects reality, where people name their children when the children don't even have a personality yet, and it's not necessary that a child will match up to their name, e.g. not all Luqmans in this world will be wise.
Also, just to clarify that the Muslim name Asiyah (and as used in the story) doesn't mean disobedient. It is the name of the righteous wife of Fir'own, and is written like this in Arabic آسِيَة . The word for disobedient, which is with ayn and saad, is not kept as a name by people of any faith.
There are rules for writing which writers have to follow. Some parents name their children with like-sounding names like Tim and Kim but expert writers consider such names lame because they tend to confuse the reader. Also, names shouold reflect character personality. if you don't believe me, do a search on advice about character names. Also, I read that a woman at the time of the Prophet (SAW) had the name Asiyah (disobedient) and the Propeht (SAW) made her change the name. I didn't know about the other Aasiya which doesn't mean disobedient.
whoah in fact was my first reaction upon reading this.
Ma shaa Allah.. I have forwarded it to my contacts - hope you don't mind but talent like yours has got to take flight & soar.
kudos indeed.
please forward me any proceedings from the fortune you amass when you become rich and famous (in shaa Allah) & give us a shout out
Text without context is pretext If your opponent is of choleric temperament, seek to irritate him
Iblis nodded to one of the workmen, who pulled Haroon’s mobile from his pocket and threw it to Iblis. “What a nice family picture. Shame about the price tags. I mean, look at this. Lukhman is worth three souls? Ridiculous.”
Haroon set his jaw and squeezed his right fist. The pain would help him to humour this idiot. “A skull is worth a soul?”
“Yep. To you, Lukhman is worth the total of your soul, your wife’s and his own.” Iblis reached into his jacket pocket. “Asiyah is so important to you that she’s worth your soul and hers. Romantic.” He pulled out a DVD. “And you? When you took that photo, you were worth your own soul and nothing more. Simple.”
Haroon dug his fingers into the burn. “My bathroom sink is worth my soul?”
“At the moment you took the picture, yes. At that moment you were more interested in playing with a mobile phone app than praying to your Creator.”
...I hate quoting myself. It feels pretentious.
If it's still not clear, I'll see if there's anything else I can do.
Where did Iblis pop out from?
Without sounding like too much of a cop-out, that's a matter of interpretation.
format_quote Originally Posted by لميس
whoah in fact was my first reaction upon reading this.
Ma shaa Allah.. I have forwarded it to my contacts - hope you don't mind but talent like yours has got to take flight & soar.
kudos indeed.
please forward me any proceedings from the fortune you amass when you become rich and famous (in shaa Allah) & give us a shout out
Jazakallah. I'm glad you liked it. I hope the people you forward it to like it well enough to pay me profusely.
Jazakallah. I'm glad you liked it. I hope the people you forward it to like it well enough to pay me.
my brother especially enjoyed it we discussed it on Saturday-- You have the unique ability to reduce in scope the gap between what should be a new brand of 'Muslim literature' as it is fresh and charismatic while retaining essential elements that make it easily identifiable to any reader. It isn't a small feat to be able to hybridize- you get my drift? I wish I had that ability but I find it very difficult to relate to the thought process of westerners and thus most of what I write if I can call it writing is polarized & isolated to my experience. I can't stress how much I enjoy your work. In my profile it says that I like 'short victorian horror' and the operative word here is short.. as Ali ibn Abu Talib khyer al-kalam my qal wa dal. If you can deliver something this powerful and keep it of this length and leave us guessing then you've a talent indeed.
Hats off to you sir I am jealous.
my brother especially enjoyed it we discussed it on Saturday-- You have the unique ability to reduce in scope the gap between what should be a new brand of 'Muslim literature' as it is fresh and charismatic while retaining essential elements that make it easily identifiable to any reader. It isn't a small feat to be able to hybridize- you get my drift?
I do get your drift, and jazakallah for drifting it! I'm aiming for exactly that, good English writing from an Islamic (rather than Christian or atheistic) point of view. Religious fiction in general doesn't have to be what people think it has to be. It can and should be so much more.
I wish I had that ability but I find it very difficult to relate to the thought process of westerners and thus most of what I write if I can call it writing is polarized & isolated to my experience.
As the saying goes: write what you know. As long as it's sincere, it's all good.
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