Sunrise in Saudi Arabia is the exact moment those threads become distinct—when the first of the five daily calls to prayer begins.
East of Mecca
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, shapes become clear. Shadows darken and colors appear. There is the bed, the dresser, the chair, the lamp. Heart still pounding, I got up and walked through the condo. After switching on the coffeemaker, I opened the drapes and watched the horizon lighten—going pink with the promise of the day. Outside my window I can see Lake Michigan and the park.
During summer months, the park is filled with Arab families. Children play while their parents lounge on blankets, talking and laughing. You are commenting using your Twitter account.
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East of Mecca – A Novel by Sheila Flaherty
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. East of Mecca Aug 8. About Literary Titan The Literary Titan is a book review website which consists of mostly fiction books, but we do enjoy non fiction works that we're excited about.
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Leave a comment Comments 1. I doggedly plowed through the water. Later, with practice, I would learn grace. Finally, exhausted, I stopped and floated on the surface. I looked at Yasmeen and smiled. Laughing quietly, Yasmeen grabbed one of my ankles and towed me to shore. Their bellies undulated and they waved colorful scarves while calling out in high-pitched trills.
The dancers passed their scarves to others who stepped inside the circle. Women of all shapes, sizes, and ages danced.
It was the last box. Everything else was gone. It was a time of moving on and letting go. I could have chosen to cart the box with me, settled it into the far corner of the storage area, and left it unopened.
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But the move would have made that a deliberate act. On some level I was always aware of it, shoved deep into the recesses of the hall closet—lying in wait like a repressed memory. For the past few years, it had been getting harder to ignore. Fleeting glimpses of a black shadow. Dark eyes above a mask.
The box lived on the periphery of my mind like the forgotten words of a song, or the remnants of a disturbing dream. And then the news coverage of the Girl of Qatif, a young Saudi rape victim sentenced to jail and lashes, made the memories too loud to ignore. When I dragged the box out of the closet, I was surprised by how light it was. I set it on the floor and walked around it for a week. It waited in silent reproach. Now, all else was gone except an old boom-box that kept me company while I cleaned. Finally, it was time. All other distractions and demands had been silenced or met.
Even then, I circled, restless and reluctant. I poured myself a glass of red wine. On bare feet I padded quietly into the living room, bringing the bottle with me, just in case. The house was still and slightly chilly. It was early evening and the windows held the diminishing glow of daylight. I dimmed the overhead light and lit several candles. I sat cross-legged on the ancient hardwood floor and took a sip of wine. Using a serrated knife, I sawed through the tape and opened the box. Immediately I was hit with the lingering smells of smoke and desperation.
Underneath, and more subtle, I caught the sweet scent of henna, sandalwood, frankincense, and myrrh—the perfume of the Middle East. Wadded pieces of newspaper, covered with Arabic calligraphy, formed a protective layer. I tossed the paper into the empty fireplace. Now, everything in the box was dark, swaddled in black cloth.
Reaching in, I pulled out the first thing I touched, immediately recognizing the dense familiar weight.
- The Drop Off Zone (Short Stories).
- LITERARY TITAN.
- Blood on the Prairie (Brothers of the Mountain, Story #5).
- About Sheila Flaherty?
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- Ranger (The Heroes of Elgin Book 1).
Wrapped in a scarf was my Nikon EM. I examined the camera and took off the lens cap. Peering through the viewfinder, I looked out the windows into the darkening night. After setting the Nikon on the floor, I took a swallow of wine and picked up the scarf. The scarf was long and black, scalloped edges embroidered with red and gold silk thread.
Green and red sequins formed the shapes of flowers. I smoothed the scarf across my lap and traced the flowers with my fingertips. The gauzy fabric was ripped in several places. I wound the scarf around my neck. Digging deeper, my fingers closed on black silk.