The Client

The left stove burner was set on high and the teapot steamed and whistled. She was inside changing and getting ready for work. She couldn’t make up her mind between the purple or blue top. The purple top had a beaded V-neck; it was a soft mauve that melted in a creamy white mocha white. The blue top was a solid loud royal-blue.
“Wear the mauve,” Frederick recommended.
“Really honey, you think so?”
“Yeah, it’s calm and soothing and you said that it was an important client.”
“Yes, very important. It’s the deal of a lifetime. I can’t let it slip,” she eagerly said.
A Swedish client was planning on buying a villa on the Caribbean. She had invested all of her money to open a real-estate agency. The customer was quiet and composed but there was something mysterious and conspicuous about him. Regardless, she ignored her instinct and decided to deal with the man. He only visited her once in the States and he came along with a seductive brunette wearing tempting garments that would make perverts drool like starving hounds; yet he treated her as if the likes of her were available with amplitude in his supply:
“I am looking for a villa on the Caribbean; something low-key. Isolated. I like my privacy,” the client conditioned. “I heard that you were new. I support beginners. I figured we all have to start somewhere,” he gloomily cracked a smile.
“Well Mr. Adolf, I appreciate your business,” the real-estate agent said, “I certainly have a villa on the Caribbean; one in an isolated location. Very private. Beautiful view.”
The man was large; had blonde hair and shrewd blue eyes. He was dressed in a vintage suit; something that appeared to be custom-made. Black Armani. He wore a Rolex diamond watch. She eyed him very carefully and the man spelled seduction. Forbidden seduction; something that should not be mantled with. She restrained herself from informal curiosity but the man was unique in every manner. She faultily succumbed:
“I can’t help myself from asking what line of work are you in?” the agent said.
“I’m a freelancer; an artist. I look for the beautiful things in life,” he intentionally gave her an imprecise answer, which left her even the more curious.
“Indeed you do. A front view of the Caribbean is a very beautiful thing,” her eyes glowed. “Might I be asking: how will you be paying for all of this? It is not a small sum. Twenty five million dollars is a hefty amount of money.”
“Cash. I always let the money do the talking,” he coldly glanced in her direction.
“Will you be spending a lot of your time there Mr. Adolf?” she drilled deeper.
“Hardly any. I will be just on there for business. I stay in Europe most of the time,” he did not mind answering; it only drew her near quick-sand: “You should come see me sometime. I will always have people there; even if I’m not around.”
“I sure will. I’ll just go along with you to the bank to transit my commission, then we’ll set a date for me to come visit you,” she swallowed the bait.
“Bank? Why? I thought we agreed that I deal with cash.”
“Very well, I will meet you here on Friday. You can bring the money and I will take the owners’ share and my commission.”
“That’s more like it,” he gleamed.
The man embodied the kind of clients she wanted to deal with. She did not proceed with caution. Materialism absorbed her.
They met on an uncanny Friday at her office, and he manually counted the money in front of her. One million dollars; her share. He stacked the rubber bands in front of her and she was blinded by the green paper. Lost into calculating endless numbers. He set a date for her to come see him. New year’s. She shook his hand, looked into his frozen eyes and cracked a smile of uneasiness.
New year’s was on an ostentatious Sunday, where the sun beamed, with rays of light like a profound golden dress. She packed a suitcase of her most expensive clothing, perfumes, and a few lingeries, away from her husband’s attention. She told him that it was a business trip, routinely kissed the man goodbye and told him that she would be back within a week with uncertainty. Frederick kissed her goodbye and wished her good luck and jokingly told her not to stare at the naked women. He was a good frank man, deserving of a loyal wife.
She arrived at the client’s home. It was a large white villa, surrounded by wholesome green palm trees and had a front view of the clear azure ocean, where dolphins solemnly ruled. She was greeted by another seductive damsel and the location was scattered with beautiful women; and she thought that she was the only woman attracted to the man but it seemed like his spell bound every single woman he met. They seemed so joyous yet appeared to be as if enslaved by some mind-controlling enchantment; all in exotic and erotic garments. She felt excited and thought that the man had a large appetite and strong organs and stamina to sustain her fantasies.
She knocked on the door and yet another brunette opened the door. Wide green eyes, petite lips; and she had thought to herself that she was the only captivating she-wolf, but she was wrong. She held her breath at the sight of the countless damsels in the penthouse; some of them snorted on cocaine and some were packing it for clients. He was a drug dealer…. The door was closed and locked behind her. She snapped at the click of the lock. Her right hand holding the suitcase started shaking and she unsteadily shivered. He came out of the main bedroom which was guarded by two Great Danes; a black one and a white one, as white as the cocaine being inhaled. He wore an open black robe, and strode with a cigarette in his mouth; he slowly slithered from a distance with the same chilled orbs and he chuckled with a laugh full of contempt. A sinister laugh.
What have you gotten yourself into this time? He’s a drug dealer! “You’re a drug dealer!” she bleakly stared.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to disappoint. What? You thought it rained cash?” he smirked.
“No just ... I had a vision, of the perfect client, and you seemed to perfectly fit the profile but I guess ... I guess I was mistaken.”
“Ah well, I'm sorry to disappoint but we all have our flaws.”
He drew closer then she zoomed in on his privates:
“You’re ... you’re ... you’re castrated. You’re an eunuch,” she blabbered in shock. “No wonder all of those women; a castrated pervert that sold white dust. They worship you.” Her shacking hand dropped the suitcase.
“I was not always like this, you know. Back then, I was hired to protect the largest drug-lord in all of Europe, his wife, and his mesmerizing daughter. I loved her; she’s the beautiful one over there,” he pointed toward a pale blonde, with a red tank-top, and nude beneath, defending her portion of ecstasy with a razor. “They castrated me, robbed me of my manhood as I stood remorsefully agonizing in contempt. I had obliviously walked into a nightmare blinded by my cynical materialism. I was a fool for not obeying the only upright thing I possessed; my conscience. You should have listened to yours. You’re just like them,” he pointed toward the delirious young women. “You amount to nothing.” He petted the black Great Dane.
She stared into his cynical eyes. His eyes: clear blue, as blue as the whimsical ocean beyond the windows, as if two pearls were taken out of there and filled with loathsomeness.
“Here, have what they fed me: cow tongue and garbanzo beans. Protein. That’s good for you, you know,” he sadistically pointed to a plate of goo, in disgust.
“What would you like to drink?” a naked girl with small breasts and quarter-sized nipples asked.
“Vo ... vo ... vodka please. A glass full of vodka,” she uttered with her eyes wide open, bleakly staring at him in wondrous oblivion.
“Drink all the alcohol you please; you're in here for good. There is no way out. You walked right through; no one forced you in,” he reclined, crossing his legs on-top of the dinning-table.
“I'll give you back my commission. Just let me go. Please,” she pleaded.
“It was never about the money for me; I have it in amplitude. It came as a bonus. You gave yourself away cheaply. I observed your materialism and sized you up right away,” he massaged his temples with his free hand. “Your leave binds me. I won't go to prison for life or have my neck hanging from the noose."
“Please!” she begged, with tears of regret pouring from her eyes.
The blue-eyed demon violently drew on his cigarette while eyeing her in pity.
The left stove burner was set to high. The water came to a rolling boil and the teapot screamed and moaned. Frederick poured his green tea and sat: “I always enjoy a cup of tea,” he sipped, “I hope she's doing well. There is something uneven about that client. He sounded too good to be true. Easy money….” He sipped, closed his eyes, longed for his wife, and savored the tea.


Sherif Mohamed 2016

Dear Rosie,
My new friend. Thank you for your great compliment. I will keep on writing just to hear those sublime compliments that my friends make :)

Take care
Sherif

Rosemary,
My dear friend with the limitless talents as a writer; hearing your encouragement is a catalyst for improvement :)

God bless you too
Sherif

Thanks Marie. That means a lot :)

Take care
Sherif

Thank you Blondey, my greatest supporter and number one fan! Your advice is dearly taken my dear friend :)

Take care
Sherif

Thank you for the support Bahitieva; that was very kind of you. I am trying to get published but I don't know where to start.

Take care
Sherif

Faithfully by Journey

Lyrics:

Highway run
Into the midnight sun
Wheels go round and round
You're on my mind
Restless hearts
Sleep alone tonight
Sending all my love
Along the wire

They say that the road
Ain't no place to start a family
Right down the line
It's been you and me
And lovin' a music man
Ain't always what it's supposed to be
Oh, girl, you stand by me
I'm forever yours
Faithfully

Circus life
Under the big top world
We all need the clowns
To make us smile
Through space and time
Always another show
Wondering where I am
Lost without you

And being apart
Ain't easy on this love affair
Two strangers learn to fall in love again
I get the joy of rediscovering you
Oh, girl, you stand by me
I'm forever yours
Faithfully

Whooa, oh-oh-ooh
Whooa, oh-oh-ooh, oh
Whooa, oh-oh-oh, oh-whoooooa-oh
Faithfully
I'm still yours

I'm forever yours
Ever yours
Faithfully

Authored by Jonathan Cain

Here is the problem that I'm having: if you're nice and sweet and sentimental and sincerely talk to women that you're attracted to, especially when they're attractive, with beautiful poetry or sensational lyrics like these, they viciously devour you like ruthless wolves slaughter innocent sheep after reading your genuine and compassionate profile. But you know what,this is just who I am and I will continue being myself until I find the right woman. I'm just sick and tired of these heartless and materialistic women that pounce onto you, and smirk saying: "Oh, there's a gullible fool! Let's take him for a spin!" And they try to scam you or much worse.

Truthfully,
Sherif Mohamed

Time

Time etches wrinkles, and sprinkles one’s hair, till peppered gray.
Time is a friend. Time is a foe; the uncertain tomorrow;
For you may wither, or may drift away from your grounded bay.
Today is young, tis’ our time to be youthful, so borrow
From then onto now, and clench onto the niggardly present.
Future is to come your way, with quenching ambitions;
Chide not; steady be. Eventual days to come are pleasant.
Hermits say, “Time heals the deepest of wounds and conditions
The bitterest of souls, with soothing potions, freeing them from distress.”
Yet the mourning say, “Timeless scars are beyond repair.”
The wise observe the Sun’s ascension to achieve new success,
While the foolish sway on mischievous nights in despair.
Therefore: your time, cautiously spend, for it is a keen blade;
And if your mark, you have not left, your memory shall surely fade.

Sherif Mohamed 2016

Thank you for the support. It really means a lot :)

Thanks for the compliment. I really appreciate it :)

Run

Let’s run and burst with laughter.
Let’s chase our colorful dreams.
I wanted you from the start.
I needed you from the start.
Because I’m humble.
Because I stumble.
I want to swim with you in the sea of love.
I want us to find passion’s beautiful flower.
Would you look for me if I get lost?
Would you help me build our love’s nest?
Because I’m humble.
Because I stumble.
Help me find myself within your beautiful maze.
Help me find you because I don’t want to chase.
Would you stay beautiful and compassionate for me?
Would you still come home for me?
Because I’m humble.
Because I stumble.

Sherif Mohamed 2016

Well Blondey, I don't know if I'll write a sequel, but he probably got deported though and barred from entering the US for ten years. Sarah's accent is the Southern accent here in the States; they have a hard time pronouncing names in the Arabic language. Thank you for your encouragement and constant support Blondey. You're a great friend. By the way, you look great in black in the new picture you posted :)

Take care
Sherif

Clothed in Red

She worked the same shift as he did in a small supermarket in Aynor, South Carolina and both cashiers were next to each other. They worked the same shifts the entire week except for Saturdays and Sundays, he worked the night shift. He was very thin and tall and she was short and quite thick and always complained about her weight and told him that she used to get made fun of in high school because of her weight. She had scar marks all over her arms. He always wondered what they were:
“I was a cutter,” she said.
“What do you mean a cutter?” he said.
“I mean I used te cut myself with a razorblade.”
“Oh my God, why?!”
“It relieved my stress, made me feel a whole lot better. I hated being made fun of. They used te call me a-fat hog,” she said.
“You’re not a fat hog Sarah.”
“Really?”
“Yes really. Feel free to express yourself as you like.”
“So ye don’t think I’m awkward?” she said.
“Well maybe you’re a little different but I still like you.”
“Oh Gawlee, that makes me feel lots betta. Thank ye Akhmed.”
“You’re welcome.”
His legal residency had expired two years ago and his driver’s license was his only cover. He needed a quick way to obtain his legal permanent residency. Most of the friends he had married an American to get their residency:
“Marry her Ahmed. Marry her, get your residency then dump her,” one of his friends suggested in an exploitive manner.
“I can’t do that man. It’s inhumane,” he said.
“Well I tell you what: make a deal with her. Pay her, get married and get your papers then let her go. That’s it. No one gets hurt.”
“You think she’ll say yes?” he wondered.
“I don’t see why not.”
They both got out of work on Thursdays at the same time and stood chatting outside of the supermarket. He found her very intelligent, just didn’t find her physically appealing. She particularly liked talking about English and English authors so did he.
“I really like you Sarah,” he fabricated.
“Oh jeez I didn’t see that comin. I like you too. I really like ye. Ye ain’t like other min,” she said.
“What do you mean? Is there anything wrong with me?”
“Well no. Yer honest and nice. Ye ain’t no trickster goin after tail.”
“No Sarah that’s not me.”
“What do ye like in me?” she shyly asked, blushing.
“Well you’re very smart and you’re into the humanities and so am I. We both like Faulkner.”
“I guess so,” she glistened.
“Say? Do you want to go out next Friday? I’ll take you to Applebee’s, my treat,” he eagerly proposed.
“Yea sure,” she excitedly said.
She got used to him and he painted her life in pink unaware of what he was doing to her heart, the hypnosis he’s spelled on her. She fell in love for him in no time but he treated her as a common friend and pretended to like her.
They went out on Friday and she was opening a door that led to a dismal alley, forming his cynical plots for him in delusion:
“Say Akhmed? I want ye te meet my friends. They’re really nice,” she rushed. “I want ye to meet my mother.”
“Well sure. Say when and where,” he drew her in.
They met at Susan’s, her best friend.
“Susan I want ye te meet Akhmed. He’s the nice gentlemin I been tellin you about.”
“Nice to meet you Akhmed,” her friend shook his hand, while wisely peering into his dull eyes.
“Please have a seat. What would you like to drink?” Susan asked him.
“Coke thank you.”
He sat next to the mesmerized damsel. Her friend gave him a can of Coke and he drank it.
“I’ll leave you two out here. I have homework that I’ve got to finish.”
She ran her fingers through his thick black locks and said,
“Kiss me. Please kiss me.”
“Well I can’t do that Sarah. I’ve never done it before.”
“Really? You ain’t kissed no one before?” she wondered.
“No, I’ve never kissed or been kissed before,” he pliantly said, with no expressions on his bleak face.
“Then you must be a virgin?!” she surprisingly said. “Oh my Gowlee I got me a virgin,” she excitedly said.
“Yep.”
“Wawnte know a secret?” she said, with her eyes closing in on his.
“Sure.”
“I’m-a virgin too.”
“Really? Are you telling me that you’re twenty three and you’ve never had sex?”
“Na, ain’t never. Savin it for the right man,” she slowly climbed over him and eased him down the couch. They exchanged kisses timelessly. He kept drawing her into deep water and she could barely swim. He wanted to pounce, reveal his intentions, just didn’t know when for sure. At the same time, he was smothered with gilt, seeing her sinking deeply.
“Alright you two that’s enough smooching,” Susan came out.
He got up leaving her breathless:
“Well I’ve got to go. It was nice meeting you Susan. Bye Sarah,” he said on his way out of the door.
“Bye,” Sarah faintly said.
“Hey snap out of it,” Susan snapped her fingers at her.
“What?!” Sarah flickered her eyes in surprise, breathless.
“Watch out for guys like him. They play the innocent card then catch you off guard. He wants something and it doesn’t always have to be sex Sarah,” Susan warned her.
“No Susan he’s different,” she blissfully denied.
She introduced him to her mother next, took him home and got her way with him. Her mother warned her just as her friend did. She wore the deceiving Prada shades on her own. He felt that it was finally time for him to unveil his intentions and he did it cruelly, suavely cruel:
“Sarah would you marry me?” he surprised her while kissing.
“What?!”
“Marry me,” he reaffirmed.
“Well Akhmed you caught me off guard there. I ain’t ready te make such a commitment,” she withdrew herself from above him.
“I need to get my residency. Marry me. I’ll pay you. How does three thousand dollars sound?”
“It ain’t about the money. I just thought ye was different,” she shockingly replied. “I thought ye was different. I loved ye. I gave ye my heart. I gave you everything and yer takin it all away from me,” she unfathomed.
“I’m sorry Sarah,” he guiltily replied.
“Don’t ye love me Akhmed? Please say yes. You’ve said it before. Did ye lie te me?” her eyes collecting tears.
“I’m sorry Sarah but I really don’t love you. I just needed this favor,” he got up and buttoned his shirt.
“Ye don’t love me?! Ye lied te me this whole time,” she said.
“I’m sorry Sarah. I’ve got to go. It was nice knowing you. It really was. I guess our intentions just didn’t coincide,” he apologized.
“No they did not, they sure did not,” she said it blankly gazing at him.
He opened the room door and hurried out.
“It was really nice knowing you Miss Deborah,” he rushed outside of the trailer door.
She sat in front of the mirror overwhelmingly surprised. She opened the makeup drawer and stared at the razorblade, disguised behind a lustrous shimmer. Inviting.
“Ye miss me don’t ye?” she addressed the razorblade in a stupefied manner. “I missed ye too. Yer the only friends I gots. Ye take my pain away,” she wiped her tears. “Take my breath away, won’t ye?”
She picked up the razorblade and violently slit her left wrist. Blood gushed in unknown and forgotten lands. The crimson fountain generously flowed. She grew numb and eternally blacked out, dwindling into forsaken nameless dreams.
“Sarah?! Sarah?!” her mother yelled out loud, rushing down the hallway.
“Oh Jesus Christ, darlin!” her mother screamed.
She innocently lied in a stark pool of her own blood, eyes wide open, staring into the ambivalent Heavens. She lived her life’s fantasy. She lived true love and it became her undoing. She trusted a distant foreigner and treaded into forbidden boundaries unguided. She was branded with innocence, too pure for an environment where wolves dwell for foolish lambs, the victim of a cruel reality. Gullible. Her soul along with her memory vanished like a solemn breeze vaporizing into a ruthless desert.


Copyright: Sherif Mohamed 2016

Thank you so much Rosie for your support; that means a lot. You can call me Sherif :)

Thank you Sam. I appreciate the encouragement :)

Thanks a lot lu :)

Thanks man! Comment appreciated :)

I wish I could get that many views....

Scalphunters

Mexican land is ravaged for cattle and horses by the Indian tribes. The state of Chihuahua is molested by raids from the Comanche and Apache. A price of a hundred pesos per an Indian scalp is a set price. Scalphunters haunt the lands. Chihuahua borders New Mexico, which has not yet been overtaken by the United States. Señor Hector Gomez’s small ranch north of Chihuahua:
“Esmeralda ¿dónde estás?”
“Aquí Papa. I’m in the stable house.”
“Hurry, hide the horses! The Comanche are at it again. Another raid,” Esmeralda’s father warned. “Come on, go hide with your mother and sisters.”
She was on her way out of the stable until one of the horses broke loose.
“No, Chiquita! Come back. Stupid horse.” she started tearing. “Por favor, come back.”
The horse broke out of the stable. She snatched her arm away from her father’s grip and ran after the horse. She ran after the horse until she lost her breath. She felt the ground shudder beneath her, and looked at the horizon; she could see thick clouds of dust trembling closer. She got up and held on to the horse’s neck, hopped on it without a saddle:
“Vamonos Chiquita! Vamonos!” she tapped the horse with her right foot on its abdomen.
The horse took off sprinting. She held on to its neck, while it galloped in fear. She kept titling her head and looking backwards. She was being overtaken by a crowd of barbarians yelling and making unfamiliar noises, with painted faces and long hair. Beyond the horizon, a tall man with a fixed posture on his horse skillfully aimed and double-sprung two arrows. The arrows pierced through the air and struck the pony’s hind buttock. The horse chaotically tumbled onto the ground. Esmeralda fellout and rolled along with the horse; and Chiquita, wounded, took off running toward the stable, with two arrows deeply pierced into its back.
The horde continued on their stampede toward the ranch. The same tall man was in the lead of the pack. His horse galloped at tremendous speed. He knelt down and snatched Esmeralda by the waist off of the ground like a zealous warrior snatches the spoils of war. She screamed and panted, begging him to let her go.
They ravaged her ranch in front of her own eyes. Gathered what they could of cattle and horses and vanished like a tornado undoes a solemn town from its stringent roots. Her family was nowhere in sight. They had fled in despair.
He was a large man, with a sturdy looking body, and rough features, like some ancient tree. He kept on eyeing her and studying her every feature; he was mesmerized; she had long, thick, curly black locks, deep soulful black eyes, as black as wild night, with lashes like the raven’s feathers, perfectly sculpted nose, and finely drawn lips. He was lost in her countless, nameless features.
“My name is Ituha. I am Sturdy Oak. I am the chief of this Comanche tribe,” he rigidly introduced himself. “You are going to be my third wife. You are my prize.” he sternly said, without giving her a chance to speak. She eyed him carefully and his physical features fit the name and his personality fit the profile. He was as stiff and senseless as an oak tree. She figured the title was adapted out of respect and adherence toward him, being the chief of the clan.
Night fell upon her, and the savages camped on the northern border of Mexico. She quietly squatted, holding both legs in her arms, with her head piously in between, at the far end of the tepee, like some wise hermit meditating. His other two wives were Indian. They eyed her in despise being a foreigner. She lowered her gaze and tried not to make any eye contact, and prayed for day break.
One of the wives was considerate enough to bring her some of the meat of the cattle they’d slain out of her ranch. Buffalo liver. She had no appetite for food, and her eyes restlessly chased after slumber with no avail. The chief told his other two wives to leave. They both exited the room, with each one of them giving her a poisonous glance. The ancient man called onto her to sit beside him:
“Come, come,” he patted with his hand on the ground next to him. “You’re Ituha’s wife now. You must not be afraid,” he ran his fingers through her silky smooth hair. He tried caressing her, and seducing her. She shoved him back and waved his arm aside in disgust. The reaction troubled him. He had never seen a woman react in that manner toward him before. His wives were submissive. He tried mating with her, but she would have rather died and denied him stubbornly. He finally let her be.
“You are going to have to mate. We must have children to bond us. You are my wife,” Sturdy Oak said.
“I would rather die,” she replied.
“What is your name?” he inquired in wonderment.
“Esmeralda,” she quietly said, “Esmeralda Gomez.”
“Why will you not mate Esmeralda Gomez?”
“You invaded my home, ravaged through our property, cattle and horses, and you made my family flee our home, and you ask me why I don’t mate with you?” she stared into his dull eyes. “Idiota Indio,” she frustrated. He recognized Spanish, but did not understand it. He remained patient. Figured that he eventually would woo her in some way.
They started heading back home toward the east at dawn; heading for Texas. She rode on behind Ituha on a horse by herself. Her face was expressionless. Filled with sorrow and mourning. She held on to her cross tightly and started chanting prayers. The more she remembered parting with her family, the more tears she shed.
“O Dios, ayudarme por favor,” she cried.
They stopped to water the animals. The weather was feverish and dry. Dust contaminated their clothes and faces, their lips and eyelids. They thirsted for water, but the animals were given the priority. They had a day’s length of a trip till the next pueblo in search for water.
While watering their animals, the ground started shuddering and shaking beneath them. They saw clouds of dust and sand for miles to come. The animals started scattering in fear. The women went after the animals, and the men took to arms, readying their rifles, bows, and axes. Bandits were coming; Anglo-Saxon scalphunters. They came blazing on wild mustangs, with their rifle in one hand and the saber in the other.
Both units vehemently crashed. The White Saxons drove into their counterpart Indians like a raging bull gores a matador. Shots fired. Sabers and axes clashed; White men scalping Indians, and Indians skillfully scalping the Saxons. Ituha was busied with a sniveling man half his size, but agile in movement and reflexes. The chief slashed with his axe in frustration, but the White man playfully spun around him like a ballerina dancing at a grand recital. He locked the Indian’s axe in place with his saber, snatched his colt from the scabbard, rammed the gun into the Indian’s gut, and fired. The Indian forcefully pushed him back and stood with a red stain in his lower abdomen. His strewn liver hung from his torso; then he crumbled onto his knees, gurgling blood. The heathen fell flat on his face silently, seldom for the sound of a mute thud.
As soon as the clan’s men saw their leader slain, they retreated in cowardice. The men ran faster than the women and children, and the White men chased after them, massacring them, and scalping as many as they could; men, women, and children. When the dust had settled, slain, bald effigies lay on a bloodquenched earth. The sound of White Saxons shouting and hollering in rejoice, and others aiding their moaning wounded echoed disputed lands.
She stood in digust and paranoia looking at the bearded White men pulling onto the Indian corpses’ heads and scalping them in lunacy:
“I’m goin te get me some pesos,” a man scalped the corpse, closely holding it, as if baptizing it.
Then she looked at the man that killed Ituha. He was decapitating the entire head, holding it by its long grained hair. He had dirty blonde hair and hazel green eyes. He was small in stature, but the manner in which he took on the Indian was spectacular, she thought. He was a barbarian, like his fellow comrades nevertheless, he lived off of the blood of others, but his eyes carried a certain spirit; a wild wolf, one that could not be captured.
He noticed her studying him:
“Hey there, ye don’t look Indian. What is ye?” he sacked the head in a brown cloth. “Ye is Mexican?”
“Sí, soy Mexicana.”
“Don’t go on speakin Spanish now,” he said. “Do you speak any English?”
“Yes,” she said, while fearfully retreating, dragging her buttocks on the ground in a backward motion.
“Don’t be scared now. I ain’t goin te harm ye.”
“Where are ye from? he curiously asked her.
“Chihuahua.”
“Oh, that’s convenient. I’m goin there. I gots to turn in ol’ Ituha’s head now,” he said while proudly smiling, holding the sack dripping thick blood. “Ye know they pay a hundred for an Indian’s scalp, but this son of a *****’s head is worth five.”
“I need to go home,” she said, veering into his captivating, charismatic eyes.
“God all mighty, ye sure are gorgeous!” he exclaimed. “Sure, I’ll take ye home. Ye can ride with me.”
“Thank you señor.”
“Come on now. I ain’t no señor. Name’s Ian Jackson. Ye can call me Ian. I don’t mind,” he said smiling at her sincerely, as if the brute within him dissolved.
They carried their wounded and started heading westward. The night fell upon them. Lonesome wolves howled in a desert that had no boundaries. They made camp. The night creatures crept upon them, but they took shifts guarding the camp. The hungry wolves had luminous yellow eyes, and the coyotes mourned their starvation in sorrow melodies:
“Go on, have ye some goat chops. They’re delicious,” he tore the meat off of the bone and chewed with his mouth open like a carnivore, while reaching out to her with a goat chop with his other hand.
She took the meat and started nibbling on it at first then when she felt comfortable, she started taking full bites. He handed her some whiskey, but she refused, and thanked him. She told him that she doesn’t drink hard liquor. He fell asleep next to her. She looked at him:
“¡Que guapo! How could you be so kind, so caring, pero so vicious and barbaric? You’re no ordinary man. You’re a lobo; a beautiful wild lobo,” she placed his head on her lap, and ran her fingers through his blonde hair and started to tear.
He woke up in the morning to find her sleeping in between his arms. He smiled. He woke her up:
“Come on darlin, we gots to get goin.”
“Sí, Thank you for the food yesterday,” she veered into his hazel eyes and fluidly smiled.
He tenderly held her neck and kissed her on the lips, with his eyes closed:
“What are ye doin te me girl? I think I’m fallin for ye.”
Her horse trotted behind his, and he kept on turning and smiling at her. They stopped by mid noon and had some tortillas and pinto beans, and drank some agave nectar. She kept on trying to fix his crooked accent, pronouncing Spanish words and chuckling, and he would chuckle as well:
“Peentoh beans,” she slowly pronounced.
“Pinte beans,” he repeated.
“No, no, peeentohh!”
“Pinteh.”
“Ha ha,” she chuckled.
“Don’t ye laugh at me now girl.”
They finally entered Chihuahua from its northern border:
“Where do ye live?” Ian asked.
“Just a few miles from here. Not too far off, but I doubt there is anybody there. The Comanche raided our home.”
“We’ll go there anyways. Ye might find somebody,” he eased her.
“Bien.”
The ranch was in disarray, as she’d left it a month ago; only chicken pecking at the worms in the ground. She went up the stairs to her room to find her jewelry stolen, so were her mother’s and sisters’ precious belongings, and her father’s vintage Spanish rifle and pistols were taken as well. The cowardly gangs had broken into a forsaken home; slim pickings. She wept in his bosom:
“It’s alright girl, it’s alright. Do ye have any relatives?” he softly gazed into her eyes.
“Sí, I have my aunt and my cousin Iguain in Mexico City,” she helplessly replied.
“That’s deep inte the country sweetheart. I ain’t never gone that far.”
“That’s okay, I’ll manage from here,” she restlessly replied.
“No. I told ye that I would get ye home, and I don’t aim te take my word back,” he sternly replied, “Let me turn this bastard’s head over n’ get my money, then we go where ye please.”
“Bien.” she broke a smile.
“That’s it, show them pearly whites.”
He had departed from his company for a week, and was running low on supplies. As soon as he cashed in the chief’s head, he stopped by the nearest market and resupplied on goods: meat, bread, and liquor.” He gambled a bit of his arms with a few of Chihuahua’s gangs and fellow scalp hunters who mistook him for an idiot. He gambled his 1830’s pepperbox pistol for a hundred pesos and he won it by slyly cheating:
“That’s an Indian scalp amigo. Hand over them pesos!”
“Andale! Dineros!” Esmeralda urged the gangster, with a rugged smirk.
He had contaminated her with his slickness and streetwit.
They spent two nights in Mexico City’s tropical boundaries. Water was in ample supply. By the time they arrived at Mexico City, his pocket was dry; he spent the five hundred pesos on the endless journey. They stood in front of her aunt’s mansion, and a man around his age came out of the gates:
“Hello cousin, are you alright? Your family’s here. We all thought we’d never see you again.” the man said.
“Hello Iguain. That would have been true if it wasn’t for this man,” she pointed at Ian. “He saved my life.”
He did not understand Spanish, but when he saw her pointing at him and heard his name, he assumed he was being introduced:
“Howdy partner. Name’s Ian Jackson,” he gave the man a rugged smile.
“Hello señor, thank you for saving my cousin’s life. We owe you a great deal,” Iguain appreciated.
“Don’t thank me for nothin. I did what had te be done. Somethin as beautiful as the creature by yer side should be protected,” he looked into her infinitely blissful eyes.
“How much do we owe you?” Iguain reached for the sack by his pistol scabbard.
“Ye don’t owe me nothin, I told ye. Keep yer money. She’s priceless,” he sighed deeply. “She da’ gone gave me all I need, and I loved her for it.” Ian peacefully smiled, “So long darling. Been a pleasure,” he tapped the brim of his hat and turned his horse around.
“Adiós Ian. I will never forget you,” she waved and shouted, while he slowly rode on, “I will never forget you. Tú eres para siempre,” she whispered.
He rode onto the sunsetting horizon, with her horse tied to his; the only thing he could remember her by. She tamed the wild man within him; she gave him peace, and he cherished her for it. He vanished into the dissolving sunset. The only thing she could eternally recall him by was his timeless silhouette fading into the distance.


Copyright: Sherif Mohamed 2016

Silver Moon

Lonesome, I sat staring at the Silver Moon....
And there I sought a new born boon.
I sat recalling the miseries of my day.
Countless thoughts racing, carried upon a forsaken shay.

She deserted me on a dreary night,
Yet the Silver Moon shone ever-so-bright.
Lovers knocked upon her Puerta’ de Ore;
They searched for tenderness upon a willowed shore.

The Silver Moon glistened through the clouds of December
To remind of memories, wanted I, not remember.
Memories of cold evenings upon the alleys of New York,
There, I sat naked and distorted; stinking of whiskey. Empty bottle. Dry cork.

The world is a cruel mistress that fools desire;
Gaudy and austere, she is; yes indeed, a seasoned liar;
I loved her so, and for that, been stung and bitten.
I sat by the Silver Moon, where sour memoirs are written.

Sherif Mohamed 2016