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A Rainy Night In Baghdad
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TITLE (EDIT)
A Rainy Night In Baghdad |
DESCRIPTION
This rain is the piss of Satan!
[812 words] |
AUTHOR
Susan Brassfield Cogan |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Author of MURDER ON THE WATERFRONT,
Read a review from OVER MY DEAD BODY:
http://www.overmydeadbody.com/ladymarg.htm
Order now from Amazon.com http://countess.notlong.com
Please visit my website: http://www.coganbooks.net
[September 2005] |
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
susan-brassfield@ou.edu |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (12)
Jubilee, A Novel (Novels) Paris is in flames and the hungry guillotine waits . . . [4,571 words]
Life, Death, And A Guitar (Short Stories) Life can turn on a dime and sometimes the guitar doesn't make it. [480 words] [Crime]
Murder On The Waterfront (Novels) Lady Margaret is an artist and amateur sleuth, Monahan is a hardboiled detective. Together they solve a murder with international implications. [2,358 words]
Nanotech (Short Stories) Alien technology is not for everyone! [971 words]
Path To The Top Of The M Ountain (Short Stories) You never know who is walking beside you. [500 words]
Pick A Pocket Of Sunshine (Short Stories) What a beautiful day for petty crime! [379 words]
She Dances Down By The River (Short Stories) Danger in the firelight. [453 words]
The Assassin (Short Stories) What lurks in the chill of the night? [440 words]
The Honor Of A Lady (Short Stories) Steel is drawn when the honor of a lady is besmirched. [321 words] [Humor]
The King's Best Soldier (Short Stories) Beric races for home, haunted by a Dakhanni demon. [1,270 words]
The Stone Of Immortality (Short Stories) Do you want to live forever? [1,145 words]
Wicked They Come (Short Stories) What is making that darned noise? [2,930 words] [Science Fiction]
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A Rainy Night In Baghdad
Susan Brassfield Cogan
"This rain is the piss of Satan," Ali muttered to himself. It was dark. When he tripped over a piece of anonymous garbage he let fire a barrage of amazing obscenities.
Rain in Baghdad is a blessing from God--unless you don't have a house. Ali staggered along a narrow street, his torn cloak clinging to his skinny legs, his precious burden hugged warmly to his chest. He made his way to one of his favorite doorways--a public building, empty at night--and discovered to his dismay that it was already occupied.
"Who is this? Interloper! Get you out of my house!" He punctuated this last with a kick at the dark, sleeping form.
"Hey, you clod of camel dung, get away from here," mumbled the sleeper. Ali leaned forward and squinted into the gloom.
"Hashim, is that you?"
"Yes, you son of an unclean whore. I have been waiting for you."
"I am glad that I have found you." Ali hunkered down next to his friend and pulled his damp cloak tighter around him. "Today, I was blessed with enormous good fortune," Ali began in a creditable parody of a professional storyteller's cadence. "An agent of the glorious Saddam Hussein, may he rest comfortably in the navel of God, was recruiting for a spontaneous demonstration and happened upon this miserable beggar."
"I, too, have tried to take part in spontaneous demonstrations," Hashim interrupted, "but the police always chase me away."
"Alas, you are not as beautiful as I, my friend. But pray allow me to continue."
"Of course." Hashim sat up respectfully. Ali could see him only as a dark shadow against the pale stone of the building. Distant thunder rumbled and the clouds lit briefly.
"I was paid an entire dinar to caper and dance before the cameras and praise the sweetly perfumed name of Hussein, may it echo in the outbuildings of paradise."
"And what has become of these riches?"
Ali opened his cloak and flourished the bundle with the elan of a magician. "I went to see a man that I know," Ali said with great mystery in his voice. "A man with no morals or scruples, a man who will burn in hell for all eternity, may it be so." He paused for dramatic effect.
"And?" Hashim knew that wisdom and patience went hand in hand, but both were beyond his strength when an entire dinar was involved.
"And so, not even for the entire dinar, I purchased this." He placed the bottle in his friend's hands. It was a bottle of sin--he had already tasted the fiery amber liquid several times. The label was appropriately black and covered with the evil writings of the satanic Americans. The sky rumbled again, a little closer this time.
Hashim drank. "Ah, this is the water of paradise."
"More likely the water of hell, my friend, but no matter. Neither you nor I will see paradise." Hashim took another drink and passed the bottle back to his friend. Ali drank deeply and felt the wonderful warm glow spread in his chest. Sirens went off at the edge of the city. The sky filled with sporadic bursts of light and was peppered with festive orange fireworks.
"The night is warming up and the dark is lifting," Ali observed and took another pull on the bottle.
"Yes, perhaps the city is celebrating another of Saddam Hussein's victories, may he sleep in the pocket of God's abba." He took the bottle from Ali. "I would celebrate as well." He tipped the bottle up and celebrated deeply; then Hashim threw back his head and quavered a desert folksong about lost love and loneliness.
"You sing like the hens of paradise, my friend."
"Thank you." He gazed at the colorful sky for a while. "You know, I sometimes wonder if releasing Province Nineteen from the grip of evil all those years ago was a good idea."
Ali stared at his friend in astonishment. "Could we accept their insults like cringing women?"
"Of course, not. But the Americans are come to Arabia like fleas to a dog and now they have infested us again."
"And like fleas they will be crushed between our thumbnails."
"Naturally, but at what cost?"
The building across the square exploded. It became a geyser of flame shooting up to the heavens, seeming to scorch the undersides of the very clouds. Hashim and Ali could see each other clearly for the first time that night. The heat singed the hairs in their nostrils. Rubble and ash mixed with rain showered down on the square.
"Suddenly, this doorway has grown too wet," said Ali. "Perhaps it would be wise to move to dryer quarters."
"Is the bottle unharmed?" Ali looked down at the bottle forgotten in his lap. The neck was crushed in his hand--he stared in amazement at his own strength--but the nectar of Satan was miraculously unspilled.
"Praised be to Allah, the kind and merciful," he intoned and rising, staggered uncertainly away from the blaze.
"Aamin," agreed Hashim and followed his friend.
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READER'S REVIEWS (3)
DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"Written well as always, Susan. I liked the perceptives of the two drunks and the lack of reality on their part...as the Americans aren't coming they are already there in the form of the drink and now the bombings. Very good!" -- e. rocco caldwell.
"Enjoyed the read Susan, a very creative write with a touch of irony & humor, I like your creative choice of words in putting this piece together. Well done." -- Monte.
"I'm glad I followed Rocco's advice and read this piece! wow... I like your style and the imagination station was cooking. Excellent piece! Deb" -- D. G. Williford.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2003 Susan Brassfield Cogan |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
November 2003 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2371
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