Art & Literature

The Death of a Story

Balochi short story by Meer Sagar


Translated by Sabir Sayad

The story was encircled by a spider’s web.

Whenever it started the story, he came to realize that a spider is slowly coming down from its web; and it was as if his reality was also like a fly stuck in a spider’s web.
The story was entangled.
It was also dead-tired. A severe fatigue was counting the frown lines on It’s forehead.

The wall clock had admitted defeat, while raising its hands up in surrender.

It was five past eleven p.m.

He got up, refueled the lantern and increased its flame.

The story had begun gradually.

The night was progressing, whereas the moon was engulfed by fog and the darkness was swelling like an infantry.

The barking of dogs could be heard in the background which could not be seen owing to darkness. He wrapped up the paper and put the pen down. It was not long ago that he had fallen asleep. In fact, the story has gotten angry as though it was a child; a child who has run away from home. In the meanwhile, a fear was tottering on the streets of the city and the darkness, like a loaded gun, was standing on the squares of the city. There were some blood-stains on the asphalted road: spilled and
frozen blood-stains.

The wailing of the sirens of ambulances in the distance were creating an atmosphere of fear.

There were tires burning on each and every square of the city. The story was standing on the back side of a torched vehicle thinking about the morning and waiting for the break of the dawn. All of a sudden, the sound of a fired bullet pierced the silence of the surroundings.

It was lying on the main street of the city.
The sirens of the ambulances were echoing from all directions.

It was now lying on a stretcher. It was loaded into an ambulance which was wailing and making its way through the main road of the city.

A large blood-stain could be seen on the asphalted road.

The story has breathed its last.

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