The Clothesline Swing by Ahmad Danny Ramadan

Author:Ahmad Danny Ramadan [Ramadan, Ahmad Danny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

The King and His Throne

The clouds of Vancouver gather closer to the ground. Even when I leave the windows wide open, they rarely let light in anymore.

The grey skies, adding a gloomy filter to the colours of everything around us, feel too close for comfort. I feel claustrophobic. Even so many years after we moved here, I still can’t come to terms with the way the days get shorter and darker in winter here. The streets of the West End, filled with topless tourists and gay men in short-shorts back in the summer days, are now empty and covered in a sheet of rainwater. They look like mirrors, reflecting the lights of the street lanterns. The constant growling of the rain as it hits the ground becomes the background noise to our lives.

You retreat to our bedroom earlier every day, and I have too little daytime to prepare a story for the night. Death and I are still not on speaking terms. He sulks in a corner, looking at me with the side of his skull. Does he want to apologize? Is he waiting for the right moment? Despite the wet world around me, I

feel dry. I spend too long in the shower, welcoming the hot water and the steam on my body, shivering at the thought of leaving the hot bath. I miss the sun, and I find myself going through seasonal depression. “Years you spent here, and you still go through that?” you ask me. I’m a fragile soul. I’m easily touched by sadness and sorrow. My eyes reflect the grey world around me, filling me with an endless need for warmth, for sitting in the sun. I welcome its cleansing rays, filling my heart with a temporary peace.

On rainy nights like this, Death likes to play games with the souls of the dead. He brings one or two around for chitchat. I see his gesture as meaningless, but decide to engage in the game.

“If you’re going to play no matter what I say, I might as well enjoy it,” I say. I escape you as you drown yourself in Skype conversations with people you barely remember, and I leave to the living room. I carry a cup of hot chocolate, preparing to enjoy the show Death is putting together. I sit down on my favourite chair, across from our roaring fireplace. Death dramatically enters the room, waving his cloak. He silently pulls the soul from the darkness of his cape, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat.

“They called him ‘the beast,’” the dark soul says after it escapes Death’s grip. It stands there, glowing green shadows in the corner. “That’s what they called my grandfather. It made me feel proud.” He is faced with blank stares from both Death and me.

“What do you call yourself?” I demand an answer from the damned soul.

“My name is Hafez al-Assad,” it says.

His father, Ali Sulayman, had eleven children. Hafez was the fourth from his second marriage. By the

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