Creepy Twist Story -- Dreaming on

Creepy Twist Story -- Dreaming on Dreams and Nightmares

    Fouzy woke up with no explosions or screams. That was good. A couple times, he thought, he could hear the tide of the ocean from a couple blocks away; that was a while ago when it was warmer. They call this time "fall". He doesn't remember a lot of what his mother tells him from times past. He is small.

    He learned to hold up four fingers when people asked him how old he was, or how many years he had. What are years? They make you big, he reasoned. Older, harrier, wiser, smarter. But it might make you closer to death, for sure. But then again, he had seen little ones dead, too, so years were no true protection from that dark outcome.

    He was lucky to possess all his fingers. One of his brothers lost three in a bad building collapse. It is terrible to lose your fingers! Or any body part, really.

    Death. There was too much of it. He had many cousins, and an older sister, who were victims of death. Victims. That is a big word. Martyrs. That is a bigger word.

    Speaking of big words, what about hunger? Hunger. We could say it different ways, but all of them were bad. Lack of food. Poor nutrition. No meat. No bread! No beans, no candies, ever.

    Some vegetables would come. Some people had gardens! The trees were all chopped down. No fruit or berries. No food.

    Oh, they say that little ones should never be hungry. We have to grow ang get big, they say.

    What do they know? No one he knew had the right answers.

    Some people said they have sweet dreams, but he could not. Loud explosions, wails of terror and pain, people pushing and shoving for soup or wheat, or a few fish...

    Day and night were pure nightmares, but sleeping brought a few lighter moments than waking.

    We are Gazans, they say. I am a Gazan.

    I am Arab, too. A Palestinian. A boy. I have four years. That is my age. I am little. I am Muslim, not Christian, not Jewish, not a Zionist, like those killers. Some Christians are good, they say. His smart, kind uncle said that. His cousin Fatima thinks not, but his uncle should know. He used to work in Israel.

    Fouzy's mother was going to have a child, a baby newborn, tomorrow. He should be excited and happy, but he was not.

    This was not a good dream at all.

    Nightmares do not come from God, his father and the mufti say. 

    Where was God, these day? Where is His protection? Can we dream of Him?

    Only Satan the Stoned One came in nightmares.

    They must fight it out.

    Yes, God must shoo Satan away, and bring back our house, or at least food and clean water.

    These dreams may come some day. Maybe when he could add his thumb to his four fingers. They say that could be a long time away.