halim

“لم أستطع أن أصبح أي شيء، لم أستطع أن أصبح حتى شريرا. ولا خبيثا ولا طيبا، ولا دنيئا ولا شريفا، لا بطلا، ولا حشرة، وأنا اليوم في هذا الركن الصغير، أختم حياتي، محاولا أن اواسي نفسي بعزاء لا طائل فيه، قائلا أن الرجل الذكي لا يفلح قط في أن يصبح شيئا، وأن الغبي وحده يصل إلى ذلك”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground, White Nights, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, and Selections from The House of the Dead

“قد خلق الإنسان على صورة الله و مثاله و إليكم ما يفعلون به”
― مكسيم غوركي, Mother

“(الورقة الثالثة)

نائماً كنتُ جانبَه; وسمعتُ الحرسْ

يوقظون أبي!..

- خارجيٌّ?.

- أنا.. ?!

- مارقٌ?

- منْ? أنا!!

صرخَ الطفلُ في صدر أمّي..

(وأمّيَ محلولةُ الشَّعر واقفةٌ.. في ملابِسها المنزليه)

- إخرَسوا

واختبأنا وراءَ الجدارِ,

- إخرَسوا

وتسللَ في الحلقِ خيطٌ من الدمِ.

(كان أبي يُمسكُ الجرحَ,

يمسكُ قامته.. ومَهابَتَه العائليه!)

- يا أبي

- اخرسوا

وتواريتُ في ثوب أمِّيَ,

والطِّفلُ في صدرها ما نَبَسْ

ومَضوا بأبي

تاركين لنا اليُتم.. متَّشِحاً بالخرَس!!”
― أمل دنقل, أمل دنقل: الأعمال الكاملة

“What else do you assess during these test drives?" He felt electricity, every nerve in his body firing at once, this attraction raw and unexpected. "Tires?"
As one, they slowed a few feet before the sidewalk, stopping in the shadows as if neither of them wanted to step into the glare of the lights.
She turned to face him, her gaze dipping to his shoes. "They do seem to be in good working order."
"Suspension?" He took a step closer and heard her breath catch in her throat.
"A little bit stiff." She licked her lips. "I think we're in for a rough ride."
"Acceleration?" Jay shoved the warning voice out of his head and cupped her jaw, brushing his thumb over her soft cheek. Her gaze grew heavy and she sighed. Or was it a whimper? He could barely hear over the rush of blood through his ears.
"A little too fast," she whispered, leaning in. She pressed one palm against his chest, and in that moment he knew she wanted him, too. "Maybe I should test the handling."
Dropping his head, he brushed soft kisses along her jaw, feathering a path to the bow of her mouth as he slid one hand under her soft hair to cup her nape. He felt like he'd just trapped a butterfly. If he didn't hold on tight, she might fly away. "Or the navigation."
She moaned, the soft sound making him tense inside. His free hand slid over her curves to her hip and she ground up against him, a deliciously painful pressure on his already-hard shaft.
"Navigation it is." He breathed in the scent of her. Wildflowers. A thunderstorm. The rolling sea.”
― Sara Desai, The Singles Table