Copyright © 2017 F Michael Rodriguez

In the appetite of my eyes

A hunger stretches every fiber

I am sewed up into tight knots

From the craving that our separations rouses

My taste buds bloom for your slivers of peaches

Before you return in the evening hours

Your kisses are marshmallow creams

Inside a crispy meringue shell

I dissolve like a butter cream macaron

Under the quietness of a coconut-puffed sky

By the smoothness of your assurances

That layers of desires make up the depth of your love

The wanting to satisfy, the openness to be filled

I feel secured, like a mousse in a pecan crust

Your day-dreaming of me are almond fillings in my heart

You spread the feel of lemon cheese over my blueberry skin

I’m oiled in macadamia by your pillow talks

I lay relaxed and puffed, griddled by your warm embrace

My frosted thoughts were a snowy sorbet in your sight

When I saw solace, you saw someone deserving of appreciation

Sweet words swirled like hot caramel sauce over my concerns

Like peanuts accented the cold fudge of my loneliness

Love-speaking me in a breath of birthday cake

You reminded me than I’m special

I felt born again

My ears became sizzling apple slices in your mouth

Hungry eyes stare into my bite-sized Oreos

On a sclera of iced vanilla glaze

With the pleasure at first taste

Searching for my deepest thoughts

I cannot hide my wanting you from you

My senses rise like hot cocoa steam before you

You find my admirations for you

And handle them like mini white chocolates

Smiling and relieved, you inhale my soul

I’m chased down to submission like warm, bedtime milk

***End of Love à la Mode***

If you've enjoyed this poem you may be interested in Bohissa, a historical fiction novel that offers a practical theory into the origins of the Taíno indians of Puerto Rico and insights into their culture. These insights speak into the intimate lives of 300 individuals. Don't be surprised if one of them might reveal something about you!

Bohissa and 300 Tainos

List Price: $11.99

6" x 9" (15.24 x 22.86 cm)

Black & White on White paper

314 pages

Book link:  https://www.createspace.com/7068013

Published by F Michael Rodriguez

Copyright © 2017 F Michael Rodriguez

Description: After losing the love of his life, a man contemplating suicide is interrupted by Reaper, a demon who delivers souls to the Angel of Death. Upon realizing that he can make a deal by killing to be rewarded vengeance, he embarks on a killing spree.

Reapers

Sam didn’t know what woke him, and no matter how many times he relived that night, no matter where the nightmare chased him, he never would.

Summer turned the air into a wet, simmering stew, one that smelled of sweat and old socks. The humming fan on his dresser stirred it and it was like he slept on the sand under a blazing sun.

Still, he was used to that, resting on top of summer-moist sheets that haven’t been washed for weeks at a time, with the windows opened wide to the relentless traffic along the freeway—and the faint hope even a tiny breeze would generate from their speeding by.

The heat didn’t wake him, and it wasn’t a soft rumble of thunder from a storm that formed in the distance. Sam went from sleep to awake in a blink of an eye, as if someone had blown a horn into his ears.

Sam shot straight up in bed, blinking at the dark, trying to gather some coherent thoughts together. He felt that heat, like a tea bag simmering in hot water. Sam wished the sun would rise up already so that he could begin his day and wash away thoughts of her that lingered.

Then he heard that rumble of thunder. Delighted, he scrambled out of bed to rush to his window. There was a certain comfort about storms that attracted Sam, the way they whirled and swung through, the way the sky darkened, the way lightning slashed and flashed.

And maybe this storm would bring rain and wind and cooler air. Maybe.

Sam knelt on the floor, his arms folded on the windowsill, his eyes on the crescent of moon hazed by heat and clouds.

Maybe.

Sam wished for it—a man who turned thirty four two days ago and still believed in wishes. A big storm, he thought, with lightning like tree branches and thunder like nuclear explosions.

And lots of rain.

Sam closed his eyes, tipped his face up and tried sniffing the air. Then, in his Batman T-shirt, he pillowed his head on his hands and followed the shadows.

Again he wished for sunrise, and since wishes were free, wished it was the day he first met Amber for breakfast. Sam wanted her love so bad, and she’d given out plenty of hints.

Sam knelt, wanting morning to ease his head of all the shadowy memories of hurt and loneliness that remained since she left, a girl short and voluptuous, who—he was convinced—liked him just as much as he liked her. The heat had his legs itching. Annoyed with it, he scratched until it bled spots.

But the sun may never rise again for Sam, at least, not the kind he looked for….

Sam stared down the city where dreams faded into the void because he wanted it to be the last thing he ever saw; the flicker of streetlights, the occasional flashing headlight of a vehicle, the peaceful neighborhood sleep in the middle of the night, gave him one last look at what comfort felt like. But there was no turning back. It was already 2:48 am. They said 3:00 am was the time evil spirits roamed the streets.

He reached a crossroads in his life yesterday and chose the easy way out.

Sam stood on the rooftop of a project in Harlem, stories above the nearest exposed human being, ready to jump and end it all. He waited for a sound like a gunshot that told two gunslingers it was okay to blast away. Only here Sam was alone. No blaze of glory, no cheering crowd, just him screaming all the way down. It would be a terrifying way to go, but Sam had made up his mind.

Sam had no future. His life was a series of machines by which a succession of identical items were progressively assembled. Every decision Sam made had to be calculated to N-th degree and every idea measured by a micrometer. Besides that, if it were a skill, Sam had none; no talent and much less inspiration. Even worse was the idea that someone could love him just as much as Sam loved that person. There were a lot of times when Sam wanted to slap his own face with his leather belt and ask if he was truly happy with his monotonous life. Sam believed he was.

He was wrong.

The woman Sam loved and thought loved him back, left him six and half months ago. 

They started at the donut shop where they first met. Where Amber declared her undying love for him two years ago and told him her parents arranged a fixed marriage and set a wedding date for her.

Sam was banned from showing up.

The rest of the events that lead up to this point were blotted out of his head. Sam had no idea how he ended up on top of that brown-brick skyscraper, staring down at the scraps of a night-life below.

Nobody would miss him. Nobody cared for him. Nobody would recognize his name if it appeared in the papers or his face in the evening news.

Sam had nobody to claim his body at the morgue. In just about a minute, he’d be a clump on the bushes, as inconvenient as ever. The people who’d be hired to scrape him off the grass and branches would curse him as Sam lay there bloodied, bruised and contorted, mumbling that he made them get up from their baby sleep to go work.

That was him, the last face you’d want to see at any part of the day.

A cold wind blew and goosebumps erupted on his skin. If he knew it’d be this cold he’d put a sweater on, but the brand new wife beater Sam wore gave him a sense of style at first. The worse thing that came to his mind was committing suicide with a stained, stretched out shirt.

What if I took long to die and froze first? Sam thought.

Next to that was tumbling about thirty window sills and satellite dishes down. Sam preferred a jump into the sea, but the nearest decent body of water was miles away and his feet burned just as much as his eyes. Sam steeled himself and looked down again. He imagined the rush of wind against his face as he fell, the swirl of colors and noises he’d see if Sam kept his eyes open and how it would all end in a sickening splat.

Dying wasn’t the hard part, falling was.

How would the life ebb out of me? What if he’d somehow survive and just lay there bent over the iron rail unable to call for help? Would colors and sounds around him gradually fade, like when you can’t hear the television anymore because you can’t stay awake anymore?

Would it hurt?

It was time to find out. The cold air had more to do with that than being ready. Sam stepped closer onto the edge. He left a penciled Farewell My Love note in case anyone cared to know why anyone would have chosen such a hideous way to die.

Sam took in deep breaths. That was it. He assumed a runner’s lunge pose to sprint his way over to the pearly gates.

Sam closed his eyes.

Goodbye cruel bitch, Sam thought.

“Dam, that’s a long way down, son,” said a gentle, friendly voice to his left.

Sam’s eyes shot open and he turned to see who had spoken. It was a boy that spoke with one leg on the ledge, elbow on knee. At first glance, he looked like any normal teenagers you’d see lounging around at a mall or any public place for that matter. Black beannie, dark skinned, earphones trailing from an ear and a Smartphone in his hand, which he swiped his fingers on. He walked on to the ledge with his sharp coned hood, jeans and boots, weather perfect.

There was just one problem … he had a tail.

“What the fuck?” Sam said.

It wasn’t a bandana or belt strap Sam confused for a cute, curly doggy-tail. Picture a bright red, whip-like appendage, three feet long that swung around. The tip of the tail was like a snake’s head and as Sam watched, it lifted up and made a motion like it sniffed the air or stared at something and fell back down.

Sam blinked hard a few times and still saw the boy.

“Quit staring,” said the boy. “Dag.”

Sam looked from tail to face and back to the tail again. His brain whirred like an old motor, trying to explain how anyone could have a tail.

Of course, it’s some sort of costume. Teens and their fads these days, it was probably just a fashion statement to raise awareness about cutting off dogs’ tails for PETA or something, that’s it…

“No, it’s not a PETA thing. It’s a real tail,” said the boy, as he stared towards the moon. “Touch it. You’ll see it’s real.”

The tail shot off the ground, quick as a whip and the tip hovered in front of his face, like a cobra staring him down to sleep.

Sam wondered if it was a good time to jump off that moment, but the sight of the tail intrigued him. That was much more interesting than the fact his longest relationship left him to marry some fat blob who’s parents decided to engage her to just because he was manager at Costco.

Gasoline guzzling hypocrites.

His eyes filled with adrenaline.

Sam could have screamed bloody murder and ran off the edge, but this story was more important than a washed up middle aged white man who somehow snuck into the blackest projects in Manhattan undetected just to jump off. Maybe this was his salvation.

“What the hell is that?” Sam asked.

Sam stood up slowly.

The boy turned his head around and looked at him in the eye.

“It’s a tail, man. What else does it look like?”

Amber was going to have to wait. That was the name of the woman who came into his life and ruined his heart for good. Sam needed to figure this out first.

Sam shook his head and turned back, looking to move a bit towards the staircase that would lead him back to face suicide another time. On the off chance the boy wasn’t an illusion, Sam didn’t want him thinking he jumped because of a bad combination of crack cocaine and ecstasy. There was no chance of editing the last chapter of your life.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the boy. “At least not for another eight minutes.”

Sam stopped dead.

The wind which blew stopped suddenly, and the air quieted. Sam turned back slowly and faced the boy, who stepped down from the ledge and peered into his phone.

“What?” Sam asked.

He glanced up at me.

“What are you deaf? I said you don’t have to jump for another eight minutes, unless you want to spend your last moments on earth writhing in agony.”

His heart beat faster in his chest. The way he said those words, the tilt of his head and the slightest hint of the smile at the corner of his mouth, told Sam the boy was demented.  If that wasn’t the worse case of bad luck Sam didn’t know what was.

Sam could have asked any question in those last eight minutes of his life.

“What’s in eight minutes?”

The boy raised an eyebrow.

“The Soul Reaper app shows an incoming collision.”

“The what? Do you live in this building?”

“The Soul Reaper app tells me when, where and how many people are going to die.”

“Okay, look. I’ve seen a lot of weird stuff in my life alright and I can accept a creepy teenager with a tail on a project rooftop, but there’s no fucking way an app tells you when people die.”

Sam shook his head and returned to springing position. Sam was actually motivated to jump like it was something much more responsible to do.

“It must’ve been hard when the love of your life chose money over you.”

Sam whirled around to look at him. He put the phone down and looked at him steadily into his eyes.

“What the … Amber sent you, didn’t she?”

“Nope. Your profile is updated on the Find A Soul app.”

He pointed the screen of his phone at me.

“What is this shit? Hey, you think this is funny?”

“Look for yourself,” he said.

Sam expected him to throw him his phone, instead an incoming text notification rung on his.

Sam picked it up hastily and looked at the screen, which had his name and his photo on it. It had all his moments on earth like dots on a green-lined GPS map and the last known location was a building in Fifth Avenue between 112th and 115th Streets. One of the worst places you’d ever want to be in at that ungodly hour.

It had details; his thoughts, feelings and things he’d done from offering Amber a cherry filled pastry at 8:48 pm all the way down to this. Sam scrolled down with shaking fingers and saw his whole life story. Even the most discreet of things he’d done, stuff he forgot he’d done was neatly organized in this Uber-styled app.

A red circle beeped over his location. Sam tapped it and it opened a text box, which read,

‘Abandoned by ex-girlfriend, ponders suicide on a bridge…’

His entire body trembled.

Sam looked at the boy, who snapped his fingers at him, like he called a puppy. The phone flew from his hands and into the boy’s hand, and he resumed peering into it.

No words sprang into his mind.

Sam tried to ask about the app, the tail or whatever the hell was going on, but he guessed there was only one question that mattered.

“Who are you?”

The boy smiled. His cheekbones went back and revealed a set of pearly-white teeth, and he lifted a side of his beannie, and his tail perked up again like it had a mind of its own.

He looked at Sam.

“I’m Enibe, a dog-demon. I make sure Croaks die and deliver their souls to the angel of Death.”

Sam went from nearly jumping to his death, seeing a tail on a human body and reading his life’s history on a social utility app, Sam thought he’d heard it all, but when this kid said he delivered souls to Death, Sam cocked his head to one side and looked at him quizzically.

“You don’t believe me, huh?” Enibe said.

“Okay, that would explain the tail and the app,” Sam said as he tried to sound brave, though his insides quivered like a drying machine. “But why are you here?”

“To make sure nobody ruins it or snatches the breath.”

“The breath?”

“That’s what souls are called, technically, the breath of God.”

Sam was deafly enlightened. He walked towards him to stand on the ledge, too, but not to jump.

“I get the notification and go to Reap Souls. That’s why I’m here right now,” he said, and looked at his wristwatch.

Enibe moved closer to Sam and tapped on the screen as he swayed his body side to side anxiously, and held the phone in front of his face.

Sam looked at the screen. It was black and red, and it said Soul Reaper on the top with a photo of a crime scene. In the middle of the screen, one line kept flashing – Two, Dead On Fifth Avenue.

“See?” said Enibe. “It says there’ll be two deaths on this block, which is…” he tapped on the screen…“About four minutes from now.”

Sam gulped, as Sam heard his supposed time of death.

“So… that’s supposed to mean…”

“You, yes,” he said and grinned again.

“But it says two deaths,” Sam said. “Unless you’re jumping down with me—.”

“Lol,” he said and shrugged. “The second victim should come around shortly, the app never lies.”

Sam gulped.

“So you work for the angel of Death. I thought he was the one going around reaping souls with his scythe.”

Enibe laughed.

“That’s old school. The angel of Death is with Jesus and he can’t be everywhere at once.” He said. “That’s why we, the Reapers, have to deliver the souls up there by the Egress.”

Sam just felt so stupid, but he’d never learned anything so interesting in his life, but Sam concluded that Egress was just another word for Exit so he didn’t ask about it.

“So even if I jump now, I’m not going to die until a four minutes later?”

“Three and twenty seconds and yes, you’ll just lie in a pool of your own blood, unable to scream from a crushed throat, and generally experience excruciating pain, until you eventually snuff it. I thought you deserved a heads up, and I had some free time, so here I am,” he said.

Suddenly Sam’s mind surged with thousands of questions. He opened his mouth to ask him more, especially about what the afterlife was like.

But Sam didn’t.

A part of his mind told him some things were left best unanswered.

“Mh-hmm,” Enibe said, with his face buried in the screen.

Suddenly, Enibe looked up and said, “Did you know I reaped a couple of souls around this time two years ago?”

Sam stared at him, not prepared to answer, but apparently, the question was rhetorical.

“A pair of drunk Devil’s Angels bikers rammed into a married couple down there.” He pointed at a spot near the corner of the street. “Hit and run. Rammed them straight against a park car. I saw a Reaper, too, like you. I saw him reap their breaths. A happily married couple, too.”

Enibe seemed to be deep in thought.

Enibe continued: “The bikers escaped were never seen again…..they were my parents.”

Enibe sighed.

“Two minutes to go, by the way,” Enibe said, as he glanced at his cell phone. He got off the ledge and stretched.

“Aren’t you going to ask me anything?” Enibe said, as he kicked his legs around.

“Well… Do you usually appear before people like this?”

“Like a boy, you mean? Yup, that’s how I died.”

“Do you often warn people they’re going to die?”

Enibe – the Reaper – raised an eyebrow. He looked up and considered it deeply in thought.

“This is his first time. Funny isn’t it?”

“Why did you do it for me?”

Sam expected him to look him in the eye and tell him how he would be the key piece in an event that would change history of the world as we knew it.

Instead, he shrugged and said, “You’re a bonus. Plus, this hood is crawling with Reapers.”

Sam clasped his hands through his hair and looked at Enibe. He smiled a creepy smile, his face hungrily bored into Sam like a junkie waiting to cash in a winning lottery ticket. Sam sighed again. His life had been one big joke, and now it looked like his death would be the same.

“Okay, one final question, just curious,” Sam said.

“Jump. One minute left,”

Enibe smiled.

“What happens if I don’t jump? Does it mean I cheat death?”

Enibe stopped smiling. The air froze and Sam shivered.

Drops of sweat trickled down his back as he fixed his eyes on mine.

“Oh no, you never cheat death. Death is cold, calculated, final and not up for discussion. Death will send for you when you least expect it, you’re done. If you’ve got an appointment with Death, you keep it, or else…”

Enibe frowned and sounded angry, his words cut through the air like a knife.

Sam’s heart beat more wildly every second that passed.

Sam swallowed and looked up at the night stars. They were beautiful. He took a breath and prepared to run as fast as he could. A bell alarm blasted from his cell phone.

Sam waited.

“Why am I still here?” Sam asked.

“Because you didn’t jump.”

“But times up.”

“That doesn’t apply to suicides. You have to actually kill yourself in order for your notification to come through, for us to collect. I just hoped you did.”

A loud scream filled the air and then it was abruptly cut off.

Sam stopped and hung his head over the ledge, to see where the scream came from. In the dim light of the streetlight, Sam could barely make out some people against the side of a curb.

Enibe tucked his phone back into his pockets and watched with a relieved expression on his face. Sam moved a little closer, and the full sight of what happened hit him like a short circuit.

Two men were stabbed to death near the corner grocery store.

“Sweet justice!” said Enibe. “Peace, I’m out.”

And just like that Enibe disappeared.

After a quiet moment, Sam saw Enibe shoot up into a tiny wormhole in the sky that swallowed him.

Sam didn’t know what to say or what to do. Sam just stood there confused. All that seemed clear was that Sam tried to die once, and it didn’t quite work out for him.

Now, Sam was ready to live.

Sam’s cell phone appeared again in his front pocket. He pulled it out to stare into its boring wallpapers and useless icons for no good reason. Sam had no social media, no contacts that gave him an occasional hey how are you doing? Nothing. That’s when Sam realized what he really wanted to do.

Sam wanted to be a Reaper and the first soul on his mind was the fucker who stole Amber.

“What if he made me his reaper’s helper?” Sam said to himself. “ I’ll get him souls, by letting him know when I’m going to kill them so he can take the soul and I get what I want in return?”

Sam wanted nothing more than for his ex girlfriend to love him again.”

A memory of Sam kissing Amber melted his heart and a tear fell over his eyelids.

I’ll just kill them as quickly as I can, Sam thought.

“Wait,” Sam called out in the open air, presumably speaking to Enibe who wasn’t really there. “What do you get for reaping souls anyway?”

But Enibe’s voice entered his mind and said, “I get sweet memories. Hell is a torturous prison, a Prison for your mind. But remember, what you ask for will cost you something. I don’t’ know what it will be, but don’t worry. Just dial 119 on your cell. I’ll answer.”

Sam was left with a deep sense of hope and felt ready to deliver the first next soul.

***The End of Reapers***

Thank for you reading Reapers.  Your reviews are welcome.

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List Price: $19.99

5" x 8" (12.7 x 20.32 cm)

Black & White on White paper

302 pages

Available at: https://www.createspace.com/7031660

By F Michael Rodriguez

Copyright © 2017 F Michael Rodriguez

Book Summary:  After a man loses his family, he trains as a sniper in a remote desert in Saudi Arabia to avenge their deaths. There, Irshad falls in love with a female sniper, Amera, but she vanishes from his life. After recognized as a hero, he becomes a teacher and takes on a new mission, to disprove the Bible as part of a war against Western allies. Upon taking the new assignment, Irshad is enlightened and converts to Jesus and becomes a pastor. One day he is arrested with fellow students and are tortured but is released after an apparition of Jesus to the head officer. They are released but in his heart he still longs for Amera, who was a stern Islamic believer. Will differences in faith keep them apart or will Irshad's faith reward him in the end?

Test of Faith

In a deathly desert in the middle of nowhere;

I focused through the front sight of my AK 47 rifle long and hard, straining my eyes through dust for visibility, when a small rock struck my right ear.

As I turned, a female fighter veiled with a black burqa pointed towards my array of four loaded clips that were neatly lined half way up from the sand when her scattered heap of empty clips mounted in the thirties. Her eyes stood out from the black dress; dead serious, but she pulled away her niqab and revealed a sweet face. Her smile lightened my heart and stole the stinging pain on my earlobe. I pulled out one of my clips and threw it at her side.

She loaded the clip onto her rifle.

“What is your name? Where are you from?” I asked in Arabic.

“Amera, from Libya.”

Amera covered her face and shot repeatedly. She didn’t seem to care about being accurate. I gazed in wonder. Her name meant rich and princess and was perfect for her. The way she shot I could tell she vented a silent rage along the feel of recoil and loved the sound of the action slapping around inside the rifle. She had no regard for limited ammunition and my target was apparently hers, too. The smell of Russian steel-cased ammo’s powder burn hovered all around her.

I rested my rifle again on the sand bags and adjusted the elevation on my rear sight. As I steadied my breath, I accounted for the bullet’s speed, drop and wind factor and let off the shot. It pierced through the center of a top hat that sat over my suited dummy. I finally landed a perfect head shot, when a round of three bullets followed right after.

Again I turned to Amera who had ruined the perfect shot that would put me in the sniper class and I would receive sights for my rifle. Only good shots were awarded expensive front sights. She turned to me and winked. I could almost notice her smiling underneath.

A hand tapped my shoulder and I turned to see commander Khalil, as he handed me a scope to mount on my rifle. Another little rock struck my chest. He turned to Amera and waved his hand at her with a sound of contempt.

“Hmm!” Amera countered, as she stood up to leave.

I grabbed my two remaining clips and hurried behind her.

The blazing Saudi Arabian sun scorched the sand somewhere deep in the desert. It was merciless. Water had to be driven to us from hours away, but it wouldn’t stop the hundreds of us from aiming our rifles and machine guns at suited dummies that hung on poles. A bullet between the tie from a hundred yards qualified us into the sniper division, or in my case, wherever the forehead on a top hat would be. It was training day every day the whole day and we were trained here for one purpose; to return to Egypt and overthrow the government. Nothing else mattered. We cared for nothing but to honor the Islamic call.

I made it to Amera, as she drank from a flask.  She stood before a young boy who stretched his lips into the widest smile possible. I called her name but she didn’t turn. After she was done she handed the boy the flask and caressed his face. The delighted boy took the flask and ran away.

“Amera?”

Amera turned to me and I felt like a fresh wind blew right through me. All I could do was smile, but she covered her face again and took both my clips from my hands and left. I wanted to just stand there and follow her with my eyes but returned to join my brothers.

The shooting stopped and the commander called for us. We kneeled around in a circle around him with our rifles and waited for his words. He stared around at our faces for a moment, his face bold and intimidating. I looked around. Some of our brothers smiled as we waited for him to speak.

“Infidels have overtaken the Egyptian government because they couldn’t decide between Islam and the way of the Jews and polytheists. Egypt-Israel relations are closer than they’ve ever been. Now, American diplomats are making decisions and introducing their ways among our people. Our mothers and our fathers, brothers and sisters, our sons and daughters. Riyadh hoped for a new Egypt that would rally behind the kingdom of Saudi Arabia in its war with Iran. In return, it got a regime focused on its own survival. They must pay for their selfishness. They send their American diplomats who only care about power and money and to use our own people against us in our own lands. We must keep Islam pure, for if not, our brothers will lose their way and betray us. It is up to us, Muwahhidun, to restore pure monotheistic worship and maintain the unity of Allah. For if Saudi Arabia decides to punish Egypt it has to make sure that its pressure not be easily undermined by aid from Russia, Iran, and their allies. Therefore, we prepare in the way of Jihad against our enemies. We don't need many choices, just one and that is to die in the way of Allah and purify Islam among our brothers. We must unite and fight! As the Holy Quran says, and there is for you in legal retribution, O you of understanding, that you may become righteous! Alahu Akbar!” said commander Khalil.

We shouted in Arabic, “God is Great! We are ready to face any difficulty for the sake of Allah!”

Only one thing was hard-pressed into our minds was to rid Egypt of infidels, even if it meant to receive our heavenly promise. Either way soldiers would die. For us that meant sons and nephews, cousins and uncles and fathers, but we were more than willing to stand up for people.

“The Egyptian government seeks democratic ties with the United States for funds and privileges at the cost of insulting our Islamic Laws and turning them against our own people. They will eventually tax our people on their behalf. This is unacceptable and any opposition is irrelevant! Alahu Akhbar!”

The place filled with cheers.

I for one counted on opposition. Defected captains and generals from Egypt’s army instructed us in warfare and strategies. I had only one thing in my sights; the enemy. I felt no remorse about the fact that some were of my own flesh and blood. They were traitors. Ever since the Egyptian army killed my mother, Somaia and my little brother, Yassin, only ten years old. They were killed defending my father but I was forced away. They even seized our home. My father was a good man, strong and bold and he protested against the Egyptian government. He was accused of Islamic extremism, a term invented by infidels. I hate them deep in my heart. There is no such thing as extremism, just pure Islam. So I will do my best to serve Allah. He is all I have left along with my brothers in arms. But I confess. I long to love and feel love and it found me. Now my only regret was losing track of Amera that day. I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

We were dismissed but the general called me back. He led us away from the crowds, as I carried a bag of loaded clips for him and followed him to camel.

“Fix it over the camel, Irshad,” said commander Khalil. “Now stay quiet and open your eyes. I have something to tell you.”

My heart pounded. The way he said it sounded as if I had done something wrong. I wondered it had to something to do with Amera and my following after her made him angry. I waited for the warning.

“You make an excellent sniper, Irshad.”

I looked up at him in surprise.

“Remember I scheduled the fight in Cairo in a few weeks?”

I nodded yes.

He looked around and came closer to me and in a low voice he said, “It’s going to be tomorrow for you.”

My heart shook in fear.

After fixing the bag on one side we walked over to the other side of the camel with the other one.

“Why so soon?” I asked.

“It’s difficult to trust everyone with CIA spies and informants infiltrating our militia. But you I trust and we need you.”

“Do you think I’m ready?”

“Yes and you will do great. I need you to go to the US embassy and target an American official. An American was sent to deliver a speech to build healthcare facilities and begin vaccinating our people. It is their poison and we must send them a clear message to stop interfering in Egypt. You will take him out on Monday. Tell no one what we discussed here. Go to Mecca and wait for more instructions. Go.”

Tomorrow? I thought as I left. Amera!

I started the hunt for Amera amid hundreds if not thousands of us scattered throughout that desert region. I stopped a few veiled women along the way but none of them were her. I took a moment to reflect on my thoughts as I searched the distance with my un-mounted scope. Those who were strong fought the front line as machine gun men. The elderly remained behind in any engagement to offer cover for our brothers should be take heavy fire or after they’ve reached their objective. Those who were lousy shots served as suicide bombers and these were usually women. They struggled with fatigue and running as they would often trip on their dresses. Women were also known to shoot all over the place given their rage or sudden fear, as if shooting faster meant more enemies would die. With all this my heart grew heavy. I already had an idea of Amera would be placed. It hurt me to think she might give her life and I’d never know anything more than her name.

My arm was lightly shoved. I looked to my side and there was the young boy, with a bright smile holding up a flask at me. I drank its water as quickly as I could.

“Do you know where Amera went?”

The young boy nodded yes.

I’d never felt more relieved in my entire life.

“Quick, take me to her!”

We joined a caravan of vehicles on their way to Riyadh.

The drive was long and hot but full of laughter and conversations. I looked over at the boy who started at me the whole time.

“Does she stay in Riyadh?”

The boy nodded yes.

“I thought she was going to Yemen.”

The boy nodded yes again.

“Well, which is it?”

Again, the boy needed yes.

I realized at that moment the boy was mute.

“Fawzia!” I shouted at the driver. “Do you know Amera?”

“Amera! Yes. Yes. Beautiful isn’t she, but be careful. She’s bites.”

The other passengers laughed.

I thought to myself, Am I the only one who doesn’t know her?

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“She went to Yemen.”

My heart exploded and a deep sorrow flushed my chest.

She’s gone, I thought.

My throat clumped. I couldn’t respond to their conversations. Eventually their words faded as if I were alone. I recalled the memory of her going postal with the rifle and shooting my target dummy and then she winked. That was the moment I fell into a blinding love.

Those recruited for suicide bombing were flown from Yemen to Egypt. The rest were to drive through Jordan. All weapons waited in secret locations in Egypt.

“But maybe she went to Riyadh, I don’t know,” said Fawzia.

“Or Mecca,” said the passenger next to him.

After a long pause they all laughed. Even the boy laughed without knowing why. That moment was my own private hell on earth. But a moment of reflection gave me a sense of relief when I remembered that only I was scheduled to leave the next morning. For everyone else we were all released for prayers at different Mosques. Out of all places I found myself looking for a veiled woman in the largest country in the Middle East and all I had was her first name and the mien of her eyes.

We pulled up to a glassy gold mosque accented with lights. It was the grand Imam Turki Bin Abdullah mosque and we arrived in time for the Isha'a – the night prayer. I was in the company of holy men. It felt good to spend time away from the shooting and the call for a holy war and just worship.

A man dressed in white rose up and covered his ear. We kneeled and faced the Kaaba in Mecca and waited. After a dense silence he began the call for the Adhan with a peaceful recital.

Although I was away from training the fight was still within me. The sense of a midnight desert spread throughout my skin and underneath, the blackness of the night with memories for stars.

As I closed my eyes and meditated, the long, echoing vocalizations instilled a profound sense of sorrow in me. I relaxed my mind but I recalled the day I saw my father shot down. The bullet came from so far away I couldn’t see the shooter. All I saw was the pain on his face as he collapsed among the crowd. I held him in my arms and he looked at me as he fought to speak to me. Blood spread through his shirt and it wouldn’t stop.

“My son….”

As the mosque resounded with the solemn grace of the singers’ angelic voice, my mind filled with the raging cries that came from the crowd that day.

I’ve never known such pain before that terrible day and I never expected that a pain could be compounded by an even deeper one. How could it have been that I looked up and turned to see a bullet pierce into my mother’s head as she ran towards us. Time stopped in my heart. Even though she fell a few yards away she never took her eyes off my father. I could still see the love and pain in her eyes as clear as day.

Some men lifted my father and rushed him to the hospital.

Yassin cried and tried waking our mother, calling out her name as I ran to them as fast as I could. But before I could reach them blood splattered out of Yassin’s back. He, too, was shot. Not once, but three times. How could anyone shoot a sweet, young boy three times for crying over our mother. Others were shot that day. I felt all their pain.

I threw myself over their bodies as they lay on the ground. How I wish they would have shot me instead. I would have been grateful to Allah for trading their souls for mine. But friends of my father, grabbed me and took me away to save my life.

Later that day, news reports said that my father was recruiting and harboring a terrorist cell. How wrong they were.

That day I vowed in my heart to become a sniper and honor the death of my family by striking down the heads of their government. President Abdel Fattah al-Sisi and the US looked for ways to boost the fight against terrorism and extremism, as they name it. It was all their political terminology to end our lives in our own home land.

Then I remembered that this night might be my last. That I may never see my people again nor fall in love and take a wife and start my own family. For now, I am a lone wolf as the infidels call me. The time has come for this lone wolf to take the fight to them.

After we prayed and bid each other farewell I stepped into the outer area, with its ceiling open to the night sky. I looked up and gave a silent prayer that I would survive my mission and find Amera once again. I didn’t know her, but she stole my heart with her beauty and was my only reason for wanting to live.

I lifted up my whisper up to the night sky, saying, “Why do I feel this way, almighty Allah? Why has pure love come to my heart at the edge of losing my life? Is it a sign that you will bless the fight of my hands? But where can I find her, O Merciful One? She feels so lost to me.”

“Not all that seems lost is truly lost.”

I turned as Imam Saad joined me and stood by my side.

“Assalamu Alilkum,” said Saad. “Peace, mercy, and blessings be upon from Allah. Irshad, right?”

“Yes,” I answered. “And may the peace of Allah always rest within your spirit.”

Imam Saad smiled.

“I knew your father. He was an honorable man. His courage inspired the mass protests across Egypt that led to President Hosni Mubarak’s removal from power. I won’t say sorry for your loss because his ideals are carried in the hearts of many.”

“It is why I must …”

I kept quiet to keep myself for exposing my mission. I wanted so much to spill out my words and hurt and rage, but after a pause Imam Saad spoke gently. I could somehow sense a hollowness within him, a tranquility. within myself, a trembling combination of fear and rage and sadness.

“There are those who confuse the way of Allah for the sake of vengeance,” said Saad. “And the innocent pay the consequences of their actions.”

“Are you referring to my father?”

“No,” said Saad. “Your father was a mainstream Sunni who strongly disagreed with the interpretation of Muwahhidun .”

“What do you know about Muwahhidun?”

“The way of the Muwahhidun inspired the ideology of the Islamic State,” said Saad. “They cause disunity in Muslim communities by labelling Muslims who disagreed with the Muwahhidun definition of monotheism as apostates and justifying their killing.”

“It is not evil killing,” I replied. “As it is written, and slay them wherever ye find them, and drive them out of the places whence they drove you out, for persecution is worse than slaughter... and fight them until fitnah is no more, and religion is for Allah.”

“The textual context of those words refers to defensive war,” said Saad. “We must fight them with intelligence and unity among our people without becoming as violent as they.”

“The Sunni and Shias disagree,” I said before turning my face to him. I looked deep into his clear, soft eyes. “Maybe it is them that have forgotten the purity of the Holy Quran.”

“Did you know that the Muwahhidun massacred all the males of the city of Ta'if in Hejaz and enslaved their women and children in 1803?” said Saad. “They, too, believe it honored the purity of the Holy Quran. And what consolation is left for their families? Should they kill as well?”

“What other way is there? Will bowing down before the infidels promote peace and safety among us?”

Imam Saad stepped closer to me and placed his hands on both my shoulders. He looked into my eyes with a tender concern.

“Irshad,” said Saad. “Let me speak as a caring father to you. You don’t have to let vengeance bury your love. Isn’t it enough to say, O You who believe! Enter absolutely into peace. Do not follow in the footsteps of Satan. He is an outright enemy to you?”

I recalled those words from the Holy Quran and my father when he quoted those very same words back home. A comfort soothed my heart and lightened my mind. I nodded in agreement and proceeded to greet Saad goodbye, saying, “With peace”.

“In Allah’s protection,” replied Saad, as he hugged me.

I returned his caring embrace as if I hugged my father. My tears fell from my eyes onto his shoulder. That might have been the last moment I would feel the love of my people. I broke off carefully and left him there as I made my way out of the mosque.

My cell phone rang on my way out and before I could speak a man’s voice said, “Get inside the car,” and hung up.

I looked and saw a man standing by the passenger door of a parked car. I proceeded to enter.

We drove in silence for a while. I didn’t know who he was or where I was headed. I spent that moment reflecting on my conversation with Saad and commander Khalil. I found myself caught between peace and war. My soul needed rest. How I wished I could have one final conversation with Amera. I might hold her close and never let her go. I closed my eyes and slept.

I woke up to the driver’s call when we arrived at King Abdulaziz International Airport. My cell phone rang again. It was commander Khalil just hours before dawn the next day. He informed me that I was to take a flight from 7:15 am that Thursday morning to arrive at Cairo, Egypt at 8:20 am. After that I was to take the Cairo Metro train from Helmeyet El-Zaitoun to Martyrs station, a fitting name considering my true destination. After that a car would drive me towards my secret It was the day an American target would visit the U.S. Embassy before closing that week. Time and fear raced against me and my heart fought against it with all its rage and emptiness. His words from earlier resounded in my head after he ended the call, when he said, We don't need many choices, just one and that is to die in the way of Allah and purify Islam among our brothers.

“Money,” said the driver as he extended his hand.

I pulled out a sealed envelope commander Khalil gave me to hold as payment for the drive and handed it to him. He took it and extended his hand again. I couldn’t figure out why so we just stared.

“Scope,” said the driver.

I forgot to leave the scope with commander Khalil. For the first time in a long time I was proud of myself for being awarded something. Before that my father bought me a telescope for getting good grades in school. I’ve always wondered how vast the universe was and whether we’d be able to live in some distant planet some day. My father discouraged what he regarded as nonsense, but he never let that get in the way of getting me that telescope. The scope commander Khalil gave me was more a reminder of that telescope than it was ever to remind me of my earning it. With great pain I handed him the scope along with that sweet memory.

I stepped out the car and looked out to say goodbye to Saudi Arabia. It wasn’t my homeland but my brothers there prepared me to fight. It was 6:30 am and the sun’s glaze began to crown. I began to pray along with the angels that assemble at the dawn that Allah may send them to protect my cause. My father taught me that angels take turns in visiting us by night and by day, and they all assemble at the dawn.

All the way I listened to my collection of calls to prayer stored in my cell phone and with my ear buds stuck in my ear I completely blocked out the world around me. This was to keep me within prayers and meditation and focused but between them, more wandering thoughts.

As I sat on the window seat I contemplated what my life would be like if Amera and I were together. Nothing would make me happier than to walk her by the long, sweeping shoreline of Alexandria’s Stanley Bridge late into the night. Holding hands, reaching into each other’s souls with our eyes and trading sweet words. I would tell her how her ferocity excited me and yet her sweet smile shined into my heart like the sun in a cloudless sky. Her impulsiveness would make me laugh and perhaps, something I’d say might make her blush. Then I realized how alone I really was.

Eventually the time came to get picked up at Martyrs station. We drove until we parked near the US Embassy in Cairo, Egypt with three other cars that followed and I stealthily made it up to a top apartment of a building. I went alone and entered a door opened by a veiled sister in arms.

“Assalamu Alilkum,” I said. “Peace be upon you from Allah.

Though I greeted her with words of peace I felt none within myself as I realized this was it. She simply stood there and stared, didn’t say a word.

She led me to a room that had two Dragunov’s, Russian sniper rifles excellent for its firing range. They rested over separate dining tables before each window. I prostrated over a prayer mat that spread out on the floor and made a final prayer before Allah required my soul. That room was possibly the last place I would experience on earth. Everyone I held dear in my heart were taken from me and the memory of that moment filled my heart with rage again.

I rose up and the woman handed me a photograph of the U.S. Ambassador to Egypt. This was the man I was sent to kill and I’ve never saw him before that moment. I didn’t feel hatred to for that man. I looked up at the rifle. I looked up at her. I wondered who the other rifle was for, until she positioned herself behind it.

A female sniper? I wondered.

I approached her slowly, as she adjusted the mounted scope on her rifle.

“Assalamu Alilkum,” I greeted again.

She ignored me.

I went to position myself behind my rifle and adjusted my sights. I waited for any sign of my target but I wondered if killing this man would satisfy my need for vengeance, when the real shooter was probably still out there somewhere else. The killer was more likely an Egyptian soldier than an American. I had about an hour before the Embassy opened at ten, but I was told to stay there the whole day if needed. We were sure he would show up.

I fixed my right eye on the scope as I scanned everywhere with my left. These were the longest moments of my life. There was no room for mistakes and neither slumber nor hunger could keep me from doing Allah’s will. My people always took care of me and it was my time to honor them. I was ready.

When you’re looking through a scope, time no longer exists. Your mind empties, your heart slows and your body is left still like a stone. Like a fly catcher that only snaps at the nearby fly. I prayed for Allah to bring my target into my line of sight as I scanned up the stories of the building. Suddenly, a spit ball shot at my temple. When I turned to the woman she pointed down towards the street.

I looked through my scope as government vehicles pulled up. Hot Adrenaline flushed my body. I focused my left eyeball making sure to distinguish the target. I might just have a second to take my target down.

Suited men with briefcases exited their cars as they headed towards the embassy. I aligned my rifle and waited. Marines and diplomats hurried quickly. Perhaps they were alerted about us. CIA agents always spied on my people like we were their only assignments. Although we advanced our mission early it was momentarily. I needed to take a shot, but my hand started to tremble. As much as I wanted to hold on to hatred I wasn’t really killing the person who killed my family. It might all had been a blind, random retaliation by the Muwahhidun under the funding of Saudi Arabia. Still, I had the opportunity to respond and quell my inner pain. Someone had to pay. The only question left was why was I feeling compassion in my heart?

I whispered the verse, "Soon shall we cast terror into the hearts of the unbelievers, for that they joined companions with Allah, for which He had sent no authority".

Then, in a brief moment of clarity and stillness and the sound of a car horn that made the Americans stop and look back at the street, three silent shots fired into the Ambassador’s chest. He went down and I didn’t even pull the trigger once.

Alarms went off within the U.S. Embassy and police sirens sounded the streets as Marine’s took their positions to deal with thousands of storming protesters. Molotov cocktails were thrown at police officers and a car burned as many Arabs filled the streets with shouts of rage. A few men scaled the walls and pulled down the American flag. There was a continuous chant, “There is no god but Allah, Mohammad is Allah’s messenger!”

I turned to the woman and waited for her to unveil her face. I wished it’d be Amera, but thought it to be an impossible mission for her. But the way she pointed. The spitball on the face. The three repeated shots on the same target.

Could it be her? I thought.

The veil came off the face. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I answered an incoming call on my cell phone to the sound of a man’s voice, who said, “You need to leave now. There’s a car waiting for you downstairs,” and hung up.

I looked down at her, as she kneeled, whispering her prayers.

I rushed to pick her up, but she wouldn’t budge.

“Amera. We need to go now!”

She ignored my call. With her eyes closed, Amera pulled out a detonator from under her Burqa and held it in one hand. When she unwrapped her dress she revealed a suicide vest.

“No, America. Please, we must go.”

With her eyes still shut she said, “I will not miss my sacred explosion for Allah!”

The shouting grew louder outside and sirens and gun shots filled the streets.

“Amera, listen to me,” I said to her as I shook her shoulders. I knew she waited for Marines to come in so that she can blow herself up and take as many as she could down with her and it was a sacred duty for Allah in the war against our enemies, but I couldn’t let her go. She was in my eyes a glimmer of hope, a chance at finding a new life. “You don’t have to give your life here.”

“I have no choice,” she said with an angry cry. “This is the way of Allah!”

I stood up and examined her vest and detonator and looked around for anything that might help me secure a trigger for the explosives and save her life. My cell phone went off again, but I didn’t answer. I was pressed for time. Then it hit me when I saw duct tape on the floor. I could secure the detonator behind the door so that when the Americans blast open the door the doorknob could press the detonator and blow up the apartment with everyone in it. The plan excited me.

“Amera! I found a way!”

I proceeded to handle the detonator carefully from her hand.

“No! What are you doing?”

“I can set the detonator by the door, when it opens it will blow up. We can leave here now!”

“No! They’ll think I’m a traitor.”

“You’ll accomplish your goal here and still live to fight another day,” I told her, as I made my way closer to her. “Tell me, what do you think Allah would truly want?”

I gazed firmly into her eyes as it seemed the idea made sense to her.

“Please, come with me,” I said. “I can’t lose you like this.”

Amera looked up at me, staring into my eyes.

“You don’t know me,” Amera said.

“I know what I feel.”

Her eyes softened a bit. My heartfelt compassion for her must’ve melted her rage.

We carefully removed her vest and helped her up. I fixed the detonator on the wall behind the door with the duct tape sticking out vertically with the button towards the door. I grabbed her hand and we left the apartment.

I carried on our way down the staircase an exciting joy inside my heart as she followed behind me. I’ve found her and saved her life. I only hoped that she would remain at least a while. Perhaps, I’d get to know her better.

A car horn honked and caught my attention outside, around the corner of the building. The driver waved and we went hurried to enter the back seats. There was no conversation as we hurried by the massive crowds that gathered for the violent protest. When we finally made our way out of the crowds, the driver broke the silence.

“You’ve down a great service, Irshad. It’s time to fight back against our western enemies. Send the message that we’re not afraid of standing up for our people. And if their freedom of speech has no limits, then we’ll give them our freedom of action. Alahu Akbhar!”

Once on the highway the driver turned on his car radio to play an adhan sung by Mai Kamal. Her gentle voice calmed my spirit as we meditated in silence throughout her call to prayer. I turned to look at Amera, her head against the car window as she looked out. I wanted to hold her hand but wasn’t sure she wouldn’t retract her hand abruptly. Instead, I took the time to wonder about her thoughts. Mine were made up all of her. Was she married? Did she have children? Did she live with her family? Was there a place in her heart left for love?

Thinking of love reminded me of my mother’s sweet caress whenever she’d speak to me. How I’ve missed her. I wish I could go to her. Her gentle hands always left the most comforting grace on my face. Sometimes I’d hunger for her delicious cooking while she cooked and she’d give me a small bite before the whole meal was done. She never left me waiting for anything.

There was a portrait that hung on our living room wall that read:

In this house we are True

We make Mistakes

We say I’m Sorry

We Love ALLAH

We have Fun

We show Kindness

We Forgive

We are patient

We Practice Islam

We Show Mercy

We LOVE.

We certainly loved each other. We learned that the essence of family was learning and compromising. If we were true to ourselves and others, we made it easy for others to learn about us and understand why we made the mistakes we did. And when we did make mistakes we learned to say sorry and forgive and prove that our love for Allah was greater than for ourselves. We took trips often and laughed during dinner times. We learned to be patient and kind with others and each other. The way of Islam was woven into our daily lives. And we learned mercy from the greatest example of them all, our mother.

An old memory flashed stole my meditation. I was just a kid at the time. The morning my father shouted firmly at me because I gazed at a YouTube video of a belly dancer. He confiscated the phone he’d just bought me. He said they were likely prostitutes and that he didn’t pick a belly dancer for a wife and neither should I. I was angry at the time, but I understood. It’s amazing how easily the things we create for our own benefit turn to traps for our minds. One moment we’re head over heels and the next we’re in contempt before our Creator and our people.

There was something about Amera, underneath her fiery demeanor that reminded me of my mother. I sense an underlying tenderness I knew was there she just hasn’t showed it yet. I was determined to find out what it was.

The car stopped near my home. The driver turned to face me and said, “This is where you get off.” Then he turned to Amera and asked, “Where can I take you?”

“I’ll take her,” I interrupted as I waited for her response.

Amera looked back at me and agreed. We both exited the car and I hurried around to meet her. For the first time in months I’d felt like I wasn’t alone, though we didn’t know each other well. I was drawn to her, to uncover the mystery that veiled her beautiful face.

I eagerly proceeded to invite her in for a bite to eat, though I was sure I was missing garlic or any other ingredient needed in completing a home cooked meal, but I asked anyway, “Are you hungry? I can fix something for us inside.”

Amera lowered her gaze in front of me as if guarding her modesty and said, “The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said, not one of you should meet a woman alone unless she is accompanied by a relative. The Prophet also said, whenever a man is alone with a woman, Satan is the third among them."

“You know the words of the prophet well,” I said, surprised at seeing a calmer side of her. Chaste and modest. It melted my heart a little more. I took a step forward towards her and said, “I lost my family. My father, my mother and my little brother. I’m the only one left of my parent’s house. But I assure you, with Allah as my witness, that my intentions with you are pure. Perhaps, we can go out to eat and talk.”

Amera smiled and nodded.

We hopped in my car and I headed for breakfast, went sight-seeing, enjoyed a walk on the beach and when the evening came, I took her to Naama Bay, a beach resort filled with bars and restaurants. We went to On Deck, a hotel restaurant that overlooked the sea to see lionfish swim by. We ordered the buffet and helped ourselves to cocktails. The whole day felt like a breeze and every moment that passed she opened up more and more.

But it was during our walk on the sand in the afternoon that Amera shared with me the reason why she became a fighter. She was a soldier for the Egyptian army after she witnessed her father being shot by an officer. She was an only child and her mother had died from a tragic accident very early in her life. After her father was killed she joined Al-Aqsa Martyrs, which prepared suicide bombers for death. Alas, she found herself at our training camp. It was unfortunate that we shared the same tragedy between us, but as terrible as our losses were, I found joy that it joined us together. I believed it was a gift from Allah himself. The opportunity to start life again.

After seeing her enjoy a bit of the fried calamari I asked her if she was having a good time, when a belly dancer danced close to our table.

“I think she’s going to sweep you off your feet,” Amera said to me with a smile.

Without thinking the words blurted out from my mouth, “Nothing can sweep my feet away from being near you.”

She stopped her biting into the calamari. Mouth open, her eyes looked straight at me without saying a word.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel, uncomfortable,” I said.

“Is it me that attracts you or my pain?”

“The wound is the place where the light enters you,” I quoted from one of Rumi’s poetry. “But with you I feel a deep sense of healing. May Allah forgive me if I’m wrong, but I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to live. I want to love.”

Amera’s eyes glazed with an asking and her brows rose with a longing. She tried to limit her inner cry for freedom from vengeance I supposed, but they hinted like the crescent of a moon. As if they were beams I wanted to reach them and hold them.

After an awkward quiet moment she asked to be excused to the ladies room. I waited as I contemplated the swaying of the water’s waves. Never have I felt this content, my spirit at ease despite what we’ve been through. I was easy for me. I didn’t kill the man, she did. I hadn’t considered how she must’ve felt. How she might have been suffering inside. If she were more than anything I wanted to be her hero, though she was more like mine.

About forty five minutes passed when I check my wrist watch and the day was darkening. I went up to see about her inside the restaurant. I stood by the ladies room, waiting, until I asked a woman who came out for Amera. I described her. The woman nodded no. She was gone.

I returned to the table and she wasn’t there either. My face sunk with an awareness of not being good enough for her or perhaps, I scared her away. Either way I returned home, alone. Perhaps it was best this way.

A few days later I was met by a glorious celebration when I returned to the desert where we trained. We gathered for food, drinks and stories and more training. I completed my objective without losing anyone in my unit, at least in their eyes I was in charge and our brothers killed a few key officials that betrayed our government elsewhere. Some fighters went to heaven. We filled the air with bullets and loud cries that God is great.

They chanted, “Allahu Akbar” in honor of me.

That day turned my life into a new direction. I was an inspiration in the eyes of my brothers and a joy to my commanders. But my heart grew colder with each passing sun and the short but sweet memories of Amera began to wane like the moon, with its last sliver of hope fading away. I became a rising Muslim religious leader as our political brothers fought the Egyptian government with every stratagem we could devise. Egypt remained on high alert as we rested in our homes and in our mosques. We couldn’t continue training because America military drones scattered the Middle East and the Saudi’s didn’t want any trace of evidence to become a public disaster. So I took my new calling to encourage our brothers in Jihad, teaching at the beautiful Seven Mosques in Medina, Saudi Arabia. I was given a new home nearby. All that I possessed before, my parents home and things were all behind me now.

Weeks later, I returned to the desert to meet with our brothers in arms, when a general named Emir approached me with a dramatic proposal to prove the Bible wrong. I guess I never was aggressive enough to serve as a war commander and was more studious by nature. It would be a comfortable position where I could spent time with a literature, even if it were of the enemy.

“We need to put in a fight against Christian evangelicals, Irshad, whatever the cost.”

“Why not go to one of the Imams about this?”

“You have excelled in military confrontation. You’re a hero and now a respected leader and counselor in Islam. There is too much disagreement among the teachers. They’re more concerned about distinguishing themselves. Think, a logical confrontation in which we would write the book proving the Bible had been altered and couldn't be trusted. This is something that wasn't tried before. What's your problem are you afraid?”

“My mother said the Christians cast spells and do magic through this book and whoever reads their book comes under a spell and a curse. I will not read it now. No, that's impossible.

“Are you with me only if you believe in Allah and the last day? I outrank you. You must do as I say fully.”

We broke camp in the desert and I returned to the Seven Mosques. My mind was troubled. This was far a worst mission than shooting at the enemy. It is against Sharlia Law to contemplate anything that comes from the infidels.

A month went by without doing any work and I ultimately decided to follow his orders. I researched the Bible, searching for lies. I cross examined opinions from other sources. I read for days, thought long and hard. The original Torah, Psalms and Gospels have not survived. What we do have today could not even be described as an exact copy. It is a copy of many mistranslations of copies of a rewrite of accounts by people who weren’t a witness to the events. It is riddled with contradictions. As such, it is impossible to know what the original message might have been and, therefore, impossible for us to put any trust in it.

Hours became days, days became weeks and months later I decided the Bible was indeed true. I was confused. I prayed:

“Oh Merciful One, please hear me. Show me our way. All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is to know you and serve you with all my heart and soul. I have loved you since childhood. My whole life is in your hands. I'm so confused. I need you. I know you are one God. Are you the God of the Muslims or a god of the Christians and the Jews? If you are the God of the Muslims take everything out of my mind except Islam and if you are the god of the Christians then bring light to my heart to worship you. Heavenly one, show me your way. Show me the truth. Please.”

I waited in silence until something happened to me for the first time.

A deep sleep weighed down my eyes. I fought against it but my eyelids attracted each other like magnets. My strength drained and I almost fell from my seat. I crawled to my mat and gave a last, conscious breath.

“Irshad,” said a voice.

The call sounded gentle yet I felt the words deep within me, as with the depth and power of a trumpet.

“Irshad … Open your eyes.”

I opened my eyes before a blinding glare.

“I am the one you call Isa.”

The glare was heavy on me as if it were gravity pushing against me. I struggled to stand up but couldn’t. I kneeled and prayed.

“How do I know you are speaking the truth to me?”

“Point out your finger straight before you.”

I pointed and held it up until I felt something touch my fingertip. I was able to see a glimpse of a wounded palm, but there was no blood.

“I am the one who was crucified for the salvation of many. I am the only begotten son of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.”

“What about my people … Islam and the Quran … the Prophet Mohammad … and Allah?”

“Hasn’t my Father fulfilled His blessing upon Ishmael? Look, you are all mighty hunters and your hands against every nation. But you are willing to find the truth. I have set you apart for me and I will reveal myself to you in many ways. But first, rise up tomorrow and go to Saint Elijah's monastery where you’ll find Samaritan’s Purse. Your brother from Nineveh cries out for me there. Go to him and baptize him in my name.”

That night I slept deeply like never before in all my life.

When I woke up, I felt a deep sense of peace in my heart. I had no anger towards the Egyptian government anymore. I had no desire to target Americans and condemn Christians. Sharia law felt like a burden of rage and judgment. Then a delicious smell came to me. I rose from my bed and found a stack of steaming flatbreads on a large napkin and a cup next to it on the floor. The cup was full of red wine. I ate and drank, fell on my knees and thanked God.

Someone knocked on the door. I picked up the remaining flatbreads.

“Irshad?”

The knocking continued.

I rose up to find Emir at the door.

“As-Salaam-Alaikum. Peace be unto you,” said Emir. “Why do you look so happy? Have you finished the book?”

I detected the potential conflict in my mind but my face was frozen with joy. If I told him I found Isa and that I believed the Bible was true he would jail me and would keep me from leaving. I didn’t want to speak the truth, but I didn’t want to lie, either.

“Well?”

In my silent thoughts I prayed. That’s when I heard a whisper in my ears as real as any real person would whisper to me. I almost felt a breath on my ear lobes, saying, “Tell him to look in your box of notebooks.”

I kept a cardboard box full of notebooks, filled with notes, poems, songs and other literatures. I loved writing, but there was nothing there about disproving the Bible. Regardless, it made sense that looking there would keep Emir busy, giving me time to leave. But I waited a few seconds, to see if Emir had heard the whisper.

“Irshad!”

“I have a box in the next room full of books, look in there,” I told Emir. “I have to go!”

“Where are you going?”

“It’s important!”

I left Emir at my house and ran to my car and headed for the monastery as quick as I could.

There were many Westerners gathered upon the monastery who belonged to Samaritan’s Purse. I remembered hearing about them. They were a Christian organization that offered aid to the refugees that were fleeing from the Islamic State. IS fighters were just only kilometers away in Mosul. The people seemed to be stirred by a commotion.

I exited the car and hurried to the crowd. Among them was an IS fighter crying out to the top of his lungs. There was confusion. He wailed of sorrow as if he had lost a loved one. He kneeled on the ground without weapons, surrounded by Westerners, none of which spoke Arabic. A deep compassion weighed my heart as I felt his pain. He was angry, too, and would shout words out at the crowd. They stood back afraid, perhaps not sure if he was about to explode.

“Brother, Jesus has sent me to you,” I told him as I made my way to him. I embraced him with both arms as if he were my son and we cried together.

Behind me were commotions from different voices:

“I think he has a bomb!” …. “Maybe we should take cover?” … “We need to pray.”

I turned to them and said, “Don’t be afraid. Your Lord Jesus has shown his self to me and sent me here. I know you’re here because of charity and to evangelize your truth, but to us you are foreigners who only care about your own interests. Remember, that we are people just as you are. Love has no color or title or language.”

“But true love does have belief and that belief is in Jesus,” said a Christian man.

“Amen. And Jesus shared it with everyone freely and out of his own good will.”

There was silence.

Irshad went to Munvar who talked to the Christians but they didn’t understand Arabic, but he seemed to speak out of his mind. I took him to my home to speak privately and learn his situation. After we ate Munvar gave me his testimony.

“I was an Isis fighter in Aleppo, Syria. Something happened to me in the middle of the fight. I’m not sure, but “I lost consciousness. Even worse, I was dead. In a vision I went straight to hell and others like me, who have recently accepted Jesus after being left for dead near the eastern border of Syria. A few others who were with me saw similar things. We were finally rescued by Christian missionaries from the region after we miraculously survived multiple gunshot wounds after an altercation between us and Syrian Army forces. I was rescued by members of the same Dominican Catholic presbytery. After the conflict had interrupted the members of the Christian organization wanted to give me a proper burial and carried me over 26 kilometers before I miraculously came back to life. I looked at my wounds on my chest as my eyes opened. I told them of visions I had while in the afterlife, an event that profoundly changed my life. I came to Medina to see my sister, but she’s wasn’t there.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” I said as I smiled. “Please continue.”

“I was always taught that to die as a martyr would open the gates of Jenna or gates of heaven but as I had started to ascend towards the light of the heavens, devilish entities appeared and led me to the fiery pits of hell. There I had to relive all the pain I had inflicted upon others and every death I had caused throughout my entire life. I even had to relive the decapitations of my victims through their own eyes, images that will haunt me for the rest of my life. God spoke to me and told me that I had failed miserably as a human soul that I would be banned from the gates of heaven if I chose to die but that if I chose to live again I would have another chance to repent of my sins and walk along God's path. I was brought back to life moments later and eventually I converted to Christianity days later believing I had been misled throughout my religious life under Islam.”

“You and I have a mission together,” I said. “I know it will be dangerous, but more powerful is God than our brothers who are misled. We must teach the proper way and help preserve the faith of our brothers who have seen the truth.”

“My brothers in the faith have since died. I am that last one, Irshad,” said Munvar. “We cannot fight as they do. They will kill us.”

“It is a test of our faith.”

At that moment, Amera came into my mind. Deep inside my heart, I wanted a companion. I wanted a wife and perhaps, children we can raise together. Then I looked at Munvar and saw his need. He, too, felt alone and somewhat confused, still trying to figure things out. We were in a new mission and might just be that Amera was not in God’s plan for my life. Secretly, my heart wept a tear. But I had to let go.

“I know who can help us,” said Munvar. I’ve met a few Christians organizations that operate throughout the Middle East.”

“Come, take me to one.”

We left for Syria and proceeded to find a Christian that would recognize Munvar or would who would believe we were in fact converts in the faith and not spies. We made it the Bible Society’s bookshop in Syria where we met with a Pastor with Bibles for Mideast.

“Welcome and God bless you,” said the charming man that came out from the office at the back of the bookstore. “My name is Pastor Bill. How can I serve you?”

“May the blessing of God be upon you, my brother,” I said to him as I extended my hand to shake his hand.

He was very amiable, as if he’d known me his whole life. He took us back to his office to speak privately.

“Bibles for Mideast is a ministry that operates in the Middle East, Asia and Africa by giving away Bibles, evangelizing the lost and planting churches. Bibles for Mideast has helped establish 176 underground churches, 103 of which are in the Middle East. These churches have been turned over to the newly formed church called Assembly of Loving God.”

“Where can we find one of these churches?” I asked Pastor Bill.

“I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to imply anything, but these churches are underground for a reason.”

“We mean no harm, I assure you.”

“I hear you, but I’ve also heard the same from many Muslims who have tried to destroy what we have struggled hard to build.”

“Do you require proof?” asked Munvar.

Pastor Bill laughed.

“How about this?”

Munvar rose up and lifted his black suit to reveal his chest and said, “What do you see?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t —”

Pastor Bill squinted as he wiped his eye glasses. He neared Munvar’s chest to get a closer look and there it was. An open bullet wound, but there was no blood.

“Jesus!”

Pastor Bill exclaimed in shock as he stood up from his chair. I myself hadn’t seen it until that moment and my faith was strengthened. I simply smiled.

“We are as you in Jesus,” I said to Pastor Bill. “We need to like to learn more, find others in the faith and share our testimonies and find the calling the lord has for us.”

Pastor Bill looked at me but I wasn’t sure he heard my words. He remained speechless as he stepped closer to Munvar’s chest to examine the wound. After a long silence in the office he asked Munvar, “Does that hurt?”

We left after we received the location to an underground church in Syria. It was called the Syrian Refugee Camp Miracle. I’ve never heard of the place, but I had to trust that God would open the path for me to walk and find my destination.

When we arrived at the camp we were met by a man named Elias, who had received word from Pastor Bill that we would arrive. He was chubby Arabian fellow with a wide smile. He smile was so bright and excited that it made me feel somewhere uncomfortable, like trying to look into the blazing sun. I couldn’t help but to squint away, sort to speak.

He grabbed us and pulled us into the warmest hug anyone could imagine. We went into his home and there were two other men sitting on two separate couches and open bibles beside them.

“This is Farooq,” said Elias, as he pointed to a tall man from India, very dark skinned. The white in his eyes stood out more than it should. “And here’s Rivas.”

Rivas seemed to be a quick tempered man, grumpy. He stared, but never spoke a word. After a quick meeting and a meal we prayed together and proceeded to open a discussion. We all took a seat. Farooq remained on his feet.

“I had no reason to have hope. My family was among the thousands who fled from the Syrian civil war to a border country. Before escaping our home city, our family had been trapped in a war zone, cut off from supplies. We survived by eating leaves, twigs and grass. I had to endure the pain of watching bomb shrapnel kill my oldest son right in front of me.”

Rivas looked at Munvar and growled.

Munvar was still wearing his black suit, given to ISIS commanders.

“Though they are now far from ISIS’s continued devastation inside Syria, the family still must endure life in a refugee camp where food, medicine, and other critical resources are severely limited,” said Elias. “I am from Alpha Relief. I answered God’s call to be an underground missionary inside the refugee camp. Although sharing Jesus is forbidden in the camp, and severely punished if discovered, Farooq and Rivas listened intently as we spoke about Christ.”

“The ministry prayed for my youngest son who had leukemia. This unprecedented act of kindness, in an environment where professional medical care is almost non-existent, began to soften our hearts. What happened next would truly transform us.”

Rivas uttered a harsh sound of agreement with his mouth closed as he looked at me, then he turned to stare at Munvar.

Munvar looked around with a bright smile.

“On their way to an appointment with the doctor, I told Farooq that, although it was against everything Islam had taught, he believed Jesus answered the prayers for his son. In the doctor’s office, the group listened overjoyed as their beliefs were confirmed. The test results were negative. The cancer was gone. Farooq now knew that Jesus was the Savior and He had miraculously healed his son,” said Elias.

“I’ve since left my son with his uncle and have come to follow in the footsteps of Jesus to whatever end he may take me.”

We remained with Elias and studied the Bible in depth; every book, every chapter, ever verse. We shared our horrible pasts, our war stories and our testimonies in the faith. Munvar received a new, white garment which accented the constant joy on his face. Rivas still hasn’t said a word. He only agreed with everything and followed us wherever we went. Farooq prayed constantly and was eager to speak to people about the gospel. My hunger for studying the word could not cease. I would forget to eat if I wasn’t reminded to every once in a while. I didn’t mind. Every inspiration from the Spirit of God nourished my soul. I had no desire for anything else.

It was like my spirit was charred and gray and faded into the darkness of evil times and every time I consumed the word of God, I could feel a brightness come over me. I’ve never thought of light as tangible aside from the feel of heat it emanates. I felt cool within yet warm at the same time. I was enlightened and standing on my faith was the sweetest feeling I ever experienced. I didn’t fear death or imprisonment or criticism, I only feared losing the light of God.

It’d been six months since we attended the underground church. We were baptized and became Pastors. We weren’t a church structured like Western churches, with one Pastor and tens if not thousands of followers. Instead, once we received a calling and have proved our faith we were like shepherds, helping to nourish in spirit all those who have to be freed from sin.

Farooq and Rivas separated to help other causes.

We met on a Saturday morning one day for prayers and studies new believers and I rose up to speak.

“A few months ago I met with several of you here, when police forcibly entered Elias home. Elias was killed trying to negotiate a peace with them. A shot to his heart ended his life, but there was no expression of hurt on his face, only a profound relief. He died with a sparkle on his eyes, as if he saw angels floating above him.”

There was subtle sigh of sadness among the crowd. We grew to a group of twelve.

“That same day we were arrested. Police brought us to a Shariah court. We were accused of blasphemy charges against the prophet, as well as misguiding Muslims into a false religion. The court ordered us to a secret jail. The first few days in prison were hard. They tied our hands up through the hole of a steel bar which forced us into a bent position while they beat us with sticks and whips. We ate only one piece of bread and a small cup of water each day. We expected to die. We asked our Lord, where are you? Why won’t you come and save us? We prayed for forgiveness of any sins and to purify us by his precious blood and save us from this hell on earth. We repeated, “the blood of Jesus is our salvation!” We imagined the sufferings of our Lord, and it brought us comfort and peace and honored that we were counted worthy enough to follow the holy path.”

The rest uttered praises and gave thanks as I spoke.

“On the third day, a tall, stout man came to our cell and he had the wardens untie our hands. We weren’t able to stand straight but the officer himself massaged our back with some lotion. Eventually we could move and stand up. He ordered for us liberal servings of good food, and then disappeared. We thought this would be our last supper. He came back to us at night, and sat down with us. He asked us to pray for him. We looked at him with apprehension and fear at first, but the officer explained he dreamt about Jesus the week before. He saw Jesus sitting on a fiery throne, with a blazing light around Him. Thousands of angels carried out his orders. Jesus raised his hands and showed his nail-scarred palms. The following days he had the same dream over and over again. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jesus ever since. After three days, he had yet another dream where he heard a voice that said, “My sons are \tortured in your jail by your people. Look, they are before you. They are the apple of my eyes,” so he rushed to our jail immediately. We prayed and learned together about Jesus and the Bible until he accepted the Lord as his personal Lord and savior.”

“We didn’t know the officer pleaded with the court to release us and within two days we were discharged.”

“He took us to his home, where we ate well and prayed together then he asked that we baptize him.”

We replied, “If you believe Jesus Christ with all your heart then yes we can.”

“He said, I believe in Jesus Christ who was crucified for our sins and rose from the dead on the third day,” he answered. “I accept him as my Savior and Lord with my whole heart and soul! So we baptized him.”

The official, whose name was Abbad, then drove us in his own car back to safety.

“Continue your great work for the Lord,” he advised us. “But be careful. No one in Islam will accept you and your works. But the Kingdom of God is near you.”

Every one applauded and gave thanks as they rejoiced in the story.

To my surprise there was a knocking on the door. When I opened I found Munvar. He stood there with the same bright smile I last saw on him before he departed to Jordan.

“Hello, my dear brother,” said Munvar. “I’ve missed you.”

We hugged tightly. It’d been almost a year since we were released from prison.

“Come in my brother,” I said. “I was telling our new brothers in the faith about our testimony. Come, let’s eat, too!”

“Yes, but first I have a surprise for you from our Lord.”

I stood shocked with anticipation.

Then Munvar moved to the side and revealed a woman standing behind him the whole time. She wore a white robe lightly tinted with ash. Delicate hands came out from around her back and she lifted her hood.

“Amera!”

I rushed forward to throw my arms around her. I even kissed her cheek a few times as deeply as I could. She smiled.

“She also has met our Lord Jesus,” said Munvar. “And you have all my blessing and all her love and the grace of our good Lord to take her as a wife.”

Tears of overwhelming joy rolled over my eyelids.

***End of Test of Faith***

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I hope you have enjoyed this short fiction romance (and my first post in Prose) and I welcome your reviews.  I will be posting literary works in various genres; psychological thriller, crimes, horror, poetry, romance, and sharing writing resources for writers, etc.  Hope to see you there.  Have a nice day!