The Writers Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website

There is a Story from My Life

by

Uzma Sadaf

There is a story from my life
But this is very old
It was my fourteenth birthday
There were no particular colours in my eyes
There was even no wish to have dolls
There were no friends around me
I was half in the crowed and half alone
There was no particular dream in the night
There was nothing but restlessness
A restlessness which had no name or identity
One night I had a dream, a very dim dream
But it was out of the way
I did not have such an experience before
I nearly forgot that dream till morning
The days passed
I kept on growing in the dim shadows
Then it was the fifteenth birthday
I saw a strange dream, very strange
I saw a boy, coming out of the mists
He was on the bank of a stream
He did not speak any thing to me
But kept on seeing me
His eyes were full of colourful praises for me
Then the scene of the morning changed
The day always carried a scene of the evening
And I was lost in my dreams
The other night he came nearer to me and spoke to me
I kept on listening to him
He kissed my hand and went away
The next morning the scene of the day
Changed into a lake
As if many birds sing songs in the free air
As if there were songs and joys every where
I began to beautify myself
I began talking to mirrors
I felt the his touch on my hands
And sometimes on my cheeks
Some more days more passed
The dreams began to change into reality
And I began to dwell far away in the stars
I began to have tiny wishes
These wishes began to play with me
Like a golden hair doll with fascinating eyes
These wishes began to play hide and seek with me
Then God knows what happened
He began to come nearer and nearer to me in my dreams
So near that I was not ready to separate him from myself
But now a strange thing happened
That the snakes also began to sting me in the dreams
But the poison also becomes a panacea and a remedy in love
The time went on passing
This was my sixteenth birthday
I was very happy and my cheeks became rosy
And I donít remember in what happiness I had decorated myself
Then the signs and colours began to change
The dreams became weary and tired
My face began to fade
The sun rose, became tired and disappeared in the night
But I could not notice it
The poison had worked
Nothing was left
Only some stories of the early age
And all other pages of the diary were left blank
Nothing remained, nothing survived
That the poison had done its work
Then the date came and went
And there was nobody to celebrate my birthday.

Critique this work

Click on the book to leave a comment about this work

All Authors (hi-speed)    All Authors (dialup)    Children    Columnists    Contact    Drama    Fiction    Grammar    Guest Book    Home    Humour    Links    Narratives    Novels    Poems    Published Authors    Reviews    September 11    Short Stories    Teen Writings    Submission Guidelines

Be sure to have a look at our Discussion Forum today to see what's
happening on The World's Favourite Literary Website.