Caught in-between Scammers

    The rain fell with hate. Engulfed in a torrential and bursting cries, in an absolutely hell pouring turbulence flowing stream. As the lightning bolts descended like shooting spears to all angles of the city. Where echoes of the storms could be heard hitting into the gutters of the city with maliciousness. So much such that, the nountremendous pouring of the rain knitted with cloudburst took the visible city captive. rain fell with hate. Engulfed in a torrential and bursting cries, in an absolutely hell pouring turbulence flowing stream. As the lightning bolts descended like shooting spears to all angles of the city.

    The invisible city walls could only bear the deluge due to excess water vapor held in the warm during that day. As too much condensation of the moist air in the afternoon transpired into a drench of deep fear, provoking the rain to arrive rapidly and fiercely than the earth could actually absorb it. Hence, leading to runoffs as it persisted.

     Embroiling pollinations into nearby creeps. Concocting an imminent flood, if water levels decided to rise and take over the land. But here it wouldn`t have been possible in Makepeville, why, because, was a different story. The region was blessed by nature to be on a high spot where a flood could just be seen as an illusion. Unless the Noah case.

     The city was blessed by nature, it was a place to be. And the lucky ones were in Makepeville as God chosen ones.

     It was Friday evening, at about eight thirty by the clock. The day`s activities were almost over and done for the inhabitants. Most people were at home already trying to relax after a busy day and to also prepare for the next day.

     The Franck Dubila`s family was not exempted from this fineness. As they sat quietly in their God given space as it rains dogs and cats in the neighborhood. No sounds could be heard apart from that of the thunderous rain that was plaguing the city and hitting their roofs. The Dubilas were living in a nice looking and modern upstairs house. At the moment of the heavy rain fall, they were sitting in their Livingroom downstairs. The Livingroom had little or no noise because they admired tranquility a lot.

      Anthony also called as Junior, their unique son was lying on the bed already. When the rain began he quickly went asleep and was advised by his mother to lie on his bed upstairs. This was often the case when he wanted to sleep.

      The persistent rain and it claws of hitting hard on the city woke him up. And he decided to make his way down stairs where his parents were sitting and reading books as usual.  

      At the ground floor one could hardly feel the heavy pouring of the rain due to the embodiment and the nature of the house that feels less sound within the environ. The deck greatly helped to cut the echoes from the rain.

      He went straight to his father with a gloomy and tired face and suggested.

     “Dad, I want you to recite a story”

      As he climbs and sit on his laps. His parents smile upon seeing this gesture. They were not surprised for everybody would be awaken by this thunderous down pours.

     “But son you ought to be sleeping. What woke you up?”

      His father tried to inquire with a smiley face. Squeezing him tide to himself with an upsurge of emotion.

     “The rain is hitting so hard on the roof, couldn`t bear it in my sleep. Can you please tell me a story, please dad?” Junior explained and insisted on his wish.

     “Junior, please come here.” His mother interrupted them. Suggesting in her mind he might not be feeling sound.

     “I need to know if you`re fine.” She stretched her right hand and touched him on the forehead to feel if there was a rise in body temperature. And as if it was not enough, she drew him closer to herself to feel his forehead with the touch of her cheek as the grandmas do. Fortunately, all sounded normal. Then she continued.

     “You may go to the kitchen and get some milk for yourself. There`s some on the table.” Within seconds she changed her mind.

     “Just stay here with your father. I will go and get it for you myself.” Then she stood up and made her way to the kitchen.

      The father looked at his son keenly and smiled, knowingly. Then exclaimed. “So you want me to tell a story! right?” Frank Dubila quipped.

     “Yes dad, something good and original” Junior confirmed with style.

     “But my son, I’m not Scheherazade of The one thousand and one night. I am just your dad, living in a contemporary era...” looking at him as he reposed on his arms, “…reading books and trying being your dad and make you laugh.”

     “Dad, I need a story? Can you have one please? Junior pleaded from his old man.

     “I want to hear events and tensions of my level.” He described his will for the second time.

     “Then you need to take your hot milk first, for your mom is ready with it.”

      His dad tells him, as his mother hands it to him saying.

     “Junior, you need to sit upright when drinking your milk in order to gulp it down well.” Junior leaves his dad`s laps and sits near his father on the couch just the way his mother had suggested. Then he started sipping his milk in his usual slow manner. He turned and looked at his dad with a requesting regard and reiterated,

     “Dad, I am listening. You were saying that Scheherazade did what to who? How and why? Is she herself a good story?”

     “Hahaha...” both parents laughed. Looking at their son entertain them with his ardent desire for a story.

    “Okay Junior, I am going to tell you about Scheherazade. Not a story from her please, ok?” laughing.

    “Okay dad, I`m all ears.” The kiddy responded. Then Frank Dubila unfolded in solemnity,

     “Scheherazade existed in the Middle East, in a faraway nation known as Persia. A pure Arabic state.

Beautiful Scheherazade was a famous storyteller, well-known and brilliant young woman who was gifted in the acts of wit and style. She was very spiritual and pedagogue through her stories. As time went by, she succeeded in keeping many readers spellbound with her unique technology of dishing out narration.

      During her era, something strange happened in the kingdom of ancient Persia. King Shahryar, ruler by then, had just been victim of an emotional betrayal from his first wife. She was found guilty of adultery. And in fury, due to disappointment, he got angry. The king ordered she should be killed. Hence, creating a psychosis, a murderous spirit in the kings mind as every virgin he henceforth married each day, was killed because of the crime..

     Scheherazade knew of this tragic events from the king`s palace since it was the talk of the kingdom, and most still, her dad was the king`s courtier (vizier). She then took upon herself this deadly challenge to opt to be the king`s next bride. Her father saw this idea as the greatest madness so ever. He did everything to dissuade her from such thoughts. But the little Scheherazade was determined to reach her gold, for within her soul, she had a well labelled plan to unfold that malicious spirit in the king`s heart. King Shahryar had killed three thousand women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade.

     As Scheherazade made her way to the palace, she asked for a last wish to bid her beloved sister Dunyazad farewell. All was set in place for the king to ask her recount a story during the long night. In the palace, bedtime stories became updated as Scheherazade made it her weapon to keep herself alive as each time she made sure that the story remained unfinished so as to continue the next night.

     She displayed the compendia power she had developed in reading about great men, kings and kingdoms, history of other lands and nature. Each story left the king in awe and in tender-hooks eager to hear more from Scheherazade. With her spectacular display of politeness, humility, pleasance, wisdom of a brainbox and a well-read human being. It became clear that the king could not let go such a refined woman. After one thousand stories told and one thousand and one nights passed with king Shahryar, Scheherazade told the king she was done with storytelling. By then, he had fallen in love with her, he spared her life and made her his dream queen. They forever lived happily and had three sons from their union.”

     “Well dad” Junior intruded in rage-filled tone at the king`s murder instincts and gave his mind which was not far from seeing the king as a monster.

     “…that king is a criminal to me and should be brought in front of the international criminal court. Was there not a Malala Yousafzai of their era to start worldwide condemnation of killing of virgins? Eh, Seriously.”

      His parents started laughing.

     “Son, things weren`t the way you think in those days. The king was seen like a God, who could do and undo.” His father brought some clarity to him and insisted that it’s a collection of Middle Eastern and South Asian folk tales that were originally published together during the Islamic Golden Age.

      “Honestly dad, this isn`t a story, I see it more like a biography and a bizarre one of course. Begging a man with one thousand and one stories not to die, is funny. Would you please tell me a story of its own in its own originality? Junior pleaded at the end and for the second time.

      “But son, I must tell you something. Scheherazade according to myth was a fictional character. A make believe. That is an imaginary character”

      While laughing with her husband.

      … So you need not make a hell of case on that, my son.” His dad presided.

      Without minding too much what his mother was saying. “Mom, how did dad and you meet each other? Hope people did not die in their numbers in your own case? Junior developed serious curiosity on the how his parents met. Most probably prompted by the story of Scheherazade. Both parents were taken aback by this question. They looked at themselves. Then smiled with jollity.

      Jane went on with giant dignity still in muse from the deepest side of her soul,

     “Son, It was raining one afternoon, and your father took shelter outside my door. Just like today, the rain became a waterspout and windy. Seeing him struggle to escape the aggressive drops, I invited him to come inside. And we've been waiting since seven years for the rain to stop.” Looking at her husband with love.

      “Wao, wao, that was unique. That`s a big story. I really wish it never stop for you, mom and dad.”

     Junior was so delighted to hear their story and wished it never goes to terminal. As both parents looked at each other in the most romantic way ever. It appeared inscribed on every  corner of the house`s walls ‘love, oh love.’ Ever still in love like on day one.

     Then to his father, “Dad can you please begin a tale? Please dad. Not a murderer of virgin women biographic story. To me Malala Yousafzai should make king Shahryar`s case     heard in the United Nations security sessions.”

    “Haha, okay son, I will chip in one last gem of my own concoction. I only hope you won`t sleep along the way. Because I can scent you’re going asleep already.” Frank Dubila reminded his son already on his arms and laps.

    “It`s okay dad. I`m all ears now.” Junior guaranteed and shifted, “Let`s get going, please.”

His father began the new story.

    “Once upon a time, there lived a boy in a small village called Sop. His name was Waan. He was five years old. Waan was living with his grandma. And he was a big daydreamer.

     Waan had an obsession. Waan was always taken by the desire one day to fly like a bird. He would sit in class, in the farms, at home and watch birds fly with ease in the sky.

     Each time he would go and lie on grandma`s lawn after finishing with his home duty and be thinking on how he would be able to fly.

     He had heard of stories of big planes and helicopters doing the flying game, controlled by men called pilots. But in his own case, he wanted to fly just as birds do. He was not interested by pilots stories nor any plan to become one. He wanted to behave like a bird in the air, that’s all. His grandma became worried and warned him several times on the issue. His desire to fly like a bird grew wider and wider every day. Some pleasures he should have profited like playing with friends or going to gatherings such as traditional dances was taken away.

     Then one day, in his room in the middle of his imagination a group of birds from the blue headed by a big one came beside his window and called solemnly, “Waan, Waan Waan.” Three times. Waan woke up, surprised, frightened and wanted to run to the other side of the room. The big bird amongst them assured him,

     “Don`t be afraid Waan. We have heard of your desire to fly like a bird and be part of our community. Yes, to fly like a free being and kiss the ends of heaven. Of course son, it`s possible and it will happen. Now. We have come to formalize that urge.” Lifting its right wing(acting as its hand) to the air, like a human being doing the royalty with a gold feather in its left wing.

     “Now come closer. Open your mouth and swallow this tiny feather.”

      As big bird made signs that he should come near and open his mouth. Something he did without hesitation. Once approached, big bird inserted in his mouth the feather, immediately leading into a solemn transmutation in Waan`s body sensation as if he`s gone anew from old self. Waan suddenly felt himself with a strange lightness and capacities. Of course this was magic.

     “Remember Waan, don`t fly too high high high.” Big bird warned and reminded Waan. Then just like they came, all the visitors disappeared mystically.

      So excited, Waan immediately made his way to the lawn. Just like in a levitate panache, he saw himself rising up body straight by the wish, then started flying like superman. He shouted to himself.

      “Waooo, oyee, I made it. Yes, my wish has come true.” 

       It was so sweet and felt as if the world was at his feet. He flew round their  village, seeing the streams, the chief`s palace, his school, then to the hills of the neighboring villages. It was such an untold fun. He was already three hours in the sky.  He was so excited to be amongst flying creatures. So much so that he decided to taste all the flying levels of  each of these special cockerels.

      Of a sudden he saw an eagle. Flying with majesty in the thin and airy space of the sky. This was unbelievable, whereas the other birds were flying at a lower range.       

      Then suddenly remembered having read somewhere that ‘The eagle does not fight the snake on the ground. It picks it up to the sky and changes the battle ground, and then releases the snake into the sky. For the snake has no stamina, no power and no balance in the air. It`s useless, weak and vulnerable unlike on the ground where it is powerful wise and deadly.’

     Upon recalling that to himself, Waan thought rapidly that it was time to go and examine the creature nearer. By flying at it range or above the legendary bird. Waan was bent at smelling the majesty of this bird at all cost. Without any holdback in thoughts he decided to plunge to his dreams after all he could fly as he will.

     The eagle was a large, powerfully created prey bird, with heavy head and beak. It beak appeared typically heavier than that of most other birds as he took time to observe in his first flight.

     He flew higher and higher and was above the eagle in height. Watching from up as it flew in its own big bird style. When suddenly, Waan developed a strong desire to pee. The kind he had never had before, in bubbling tendency. The desire became so perpetuating that his flying ability began to weaken. Making him to lose flying balance in that ultimate altitude. Waan decided that the best thing to do at this juncture was to fly back to the ground. Immediately.

     As he began the journey back to earth, something unfortunately happened to him in the course. Something bad and terrible. Where he remembered big birds words during the initiating process.”

     Franck Dubila stopped noticing that his son was already asleep in his arms.

    “Honey, I think you should take Junior to his bed, the lad is already in an involuntary expulsion of air from the nose.” Franck Dubila summarized to his wife.

    “Franck, I would like to inhale the end of that story. Could you just finish it for me please honey, please.” His wife pleaded with two hands.

    “I beg woman. Don`t you know I’m even lucky because my head won`t be cut off in the morning.”

     Both started laughing.