The Sandman
A short story by Alex Stargazer
Text Copyright © 2014 Alexandru Bujorianu. All rights reserved; however, the author does permit the sharing and transmission of this publication provided that the publication is made available as-is, the usage is strictly non-commercial, and the author’s name is attributed.
This book is a work of fiction: any similarities to real persons (whether living or deceased), places or items are purely coincidental.
‘Alex Stargazer’ is a pseudonym of Alexandru Bujorianu, and the names are considered synonymous.
Cover Image Copyright © 2014 Deranged Doctor Design.
Typeset in Georgia, by the author.
This story is dedicated to those who have suffered, and to those who continue to suffer.
Chapter One
My name is Leila.
It means ‘born of the night’ in my native Arabic tongue; a fitting name, considering my ignominious nature and my current predicament.
Around me, the desert stretched out; I could not see its end: for all I knew, it could be a few kilometres away, a light-year, a parsec, or infinity.
I don’t know how I managed to get here. I was washing clothes for Mama, and then… I thought I heard a child cry. I followed it. I kept following it. Now I am here—and now, I am lost, confused, and very much afraid.
Bad things happen to people who get lost in the desert. Terrible things. The only thing that could be considered worse was hell itself: the place of fire and brimstone—hah!—and the place where bad people went.
Was I bad person? I rarely obeyed my father, or my mother. My name is a tribute, you could say; a marker of licentiousness and disobedience.
I am engaged to Abdullah. His name means ‘servant of Allah’. It is even more fitting than mine: he is an obsequious, perfidious and sycophantic bastard.
I told this to my father—though more politely worded, of course—and he replied: ‘Leila, Abdullah is the son of the wealthiest man in the village. It does not matter if you love him or not. He is good for you.’
Rubbish, I thought. It is Amir I love: it is his eyes that I see twinkling in my dreams, his smile that makes me feel a strange, guilty sensation in my legs; he is the one I love. His voice is so deep, and so masculine, that I feel as if Hell itself could be after me, and I’d be safe.
Sand struck me in the eyes. A wind blew: it was a harsh, inclement wind, and seemed to mock me with abrasive fingers. The desert was an inscrutable mask of nature, but the wind always showed its cruelty.
It seemed to be getting worse. It was getting worse. I shielded my eyes from the burning sun—but it was unmistakable. A sandstorm.
Great, I thought. Allah has cursed me into this forsaken desert, and now he blesses me with sand.
The wind seemed to laugh as it tinkled across the cacti that surrounded me.
I turned.
There were mountains on the horizon; I could not tell precisely how far away they were. Perhaps they were really just a mirage, and I had gone mad. It didn’t matter—it was all I had.
Chapter Two
Sand ate into my eyes; sand burrowed its way into my mouth, forcing me to spit it out—until more sand came along. It wasn’t as hot. That was my only consolidation.
Oh, Allah, I thought; have you finally decided to punish me? Have I disobeyed you? Is it wrong to go against your elders, when love is on your lips, and your elders show such cruel iniquity?
What is love, anyway? Is it nothing more than a powerful, seductive crush—an illusion? Is it really more special than any of our other emotions?
Many thoughts were racing through my mind at that moment. They were interrupted by the voice.
***
Leila, follow me, it said. Oh, such a simple command! How could I ever hope to follow it?
Leila, do not be afraid. I am your only hope. Come.
The devil is speaking, I thought. Allah is not punishing you: he is testing you. You know what will happen if you fail.
Leila… do you really wish to never see Amir again? Do you wish to never feel your mother’s love, or your father’s strong hand? Do you want to become a spectre of the desert, trapping unwary travellers?
The devil’s voice is often seductive, I thought.
I could no longer see. So thick was the sand.
Leila…
I went.
***
I cannot tell you anything about what happened in those few minutes—or were they really hours?
For all I know, I might have been delusional. I just followed the voice; how I heard underneath the wail of the wind and the wrath of nature, I know not. I just put one foot in front of the other, first left, then right, then left again. I do not even recall what it said to me. How could devils not be heard? The irony!
But survive I did, and I walked many metres and many feet. I arrived in a cave.
***
Darkness. It was a tenebrous darkness; a miasma of uncertainty, deceiving me into safety. The sound of dripping water occasionally punctured its illusion, but otherwise, it was silent.
I thought I could smell sulphur. Hell, I thought. I have reached hell.
Feeling came and went. My throat hurt. That was all I could ascertain. My legs seemed to be on solid ground—but then, the surface seemed like water; and at other times, I could not feel anything at all. It was like a void: a void of nightmares and terrors.
I had heard stories told of hell. None of them could compare to this. This was nothing.
Then everything disappeared.
***
The first thing I felt was pain. I thought it came from my head. I also felt pain in my legs, in my arms, and in… just about everything.
I felt groggy. It took me a while to realise where I was.
Around me, walls—limestone walls, from the looks of things—enclosed the space. It was definitely a cave: I could see a stream—it was too dark to make out its colour—and some little insects flying above, giving off a faintly greenish glow.
Not hell, I understood. Not hell. There is no hell. What is hell?
The voice interrupted me once more.
***
‘Hello, Leila.’
Light enveloped me. Blinding, golden light. Stars danced across my field of vision. I ran.
‘Wait!’
Something grabbed my arm. I tried fighting; it held firm.
I opened my eyes. And there, right in front of me, lay a boy.
Okay, that’s not true. This is no ordinary boy: he is made from sand. Yes, sand. A thousand tiny particles, a million puzzle pieces in the mysteries of the universe. They move. They gyrate, suspended in the air; immune from whatever force kept us grounded, whatever curse had befallen humanity.
His hair was a sandy blond—that figured. His lips were smooth, soft, and curved. It would have looked effeminate on other men; on him, it gave the appearance of elegance, gentleness and superiority from the misogynies of my life.
His eyes were what captured me. They shone with their own inner light—the light of angels, or pretending demons. I could still see his iris. I wanted to say they looked like my mother’s baubles—the ones she said were made of gold, though none of us believed her—but in reality, nothing could compare to them. They were the finest crafted jewels of humanity; the sparkle of the sun on the sea, and all that was precious in life.
‘Please don’t run away again.’
‘I won’t. I thought you were a demon.’
‘Maybe I am.’ He smiled: it was such an insouciant smile, the twist of lips that know no pain. ‘Maybe I have lured you here, so I can ravage you and feast on your soul.’
‘You won’t do that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not a demon.’
This time, his smile was of irony. ‘A circular argument, but fair enough. A little optimism is never a bad thing.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Elmunahwem.’
‘The sandman?’
‘Yes.’
‘But who are you really? And why did you rescue me?’
‘I am the Sandman. I am the polemic, the feared, and the matter of which dreams are made of.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘It is the only answer I am going to give. Now, as for the latter point, I rescued you because it is my… duty, to ameliorate travellers from the vicissitudes of their predicaments.’
‘What?’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘What does “amelio—”’ I couldn’t even pronounce the word!
‘Ameliorate? To help those in need of help; to provide succour.’
‘Uhm… okay. What about “vicissitudes?”’ I could pronounce that one.
‘Unfortunate happenstance.’
‘Oookay.’
This was going to be an interesting experience.
***
I was hungry; I was thirsty. My head hurt. I said so.
‘I can’t do anything about your hunger—’
‘You don’t eat? I should have guessed.’
He couldn’t help smiling.
‘—but there is a potable stream nearby.’
‘You can touch water?’
I once again looked at him. It was hard to see much with so little light: but the tiny, vibrating sand particles were not to be concealed. I glanced away surreptitiously. I admit: he made me feel… strange. He made me feel… like I was betraying someone.
‘Yes, I can. Strange, is it not?’
‘Are you real?’
‘Are you real?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ I didn’t know how to complete my sentence.
‘I’ll let you ponder it.’
He disappeared. Just like that. One moment he was there; the next, there was a faint breeze, and he was not.
He must be a demon, I thought. Or I’ve gone mad. Maybe both.
He came back. In his hand, there was a rock—it had a little hole in it—with water. I wondered how he managed to do that. Could he cut through rock like I did with Chella’s butter? (Our cow’s milk was notoriously thin.) Or was it just a freak of nature—wait, was he a freak of nature? Was that it? Am I talking to a spirit?
I drank. The water tasted good. My headache lessened: though small slivers of pain still wrapped themselves around my eyes, informing me that I was still far from recovery.
‘Does that make you feel better?’ he asked, sounding eager to please.
‘Yes.’ Then: ‘Can I touch you?’ I almost covered my mouth—stupid Leila! Imagine how that would sound!
‘Yes, you may.’
He had no skin. That was weird. The sand moved around my fingers, reforming itself effortlessly. Somehow, it didn’t feel unpleasant. Somehow, I liked it.
‘What’s happening outside?’
‘Sandstorm.’
‘Can’t you stop it?’
‘I’m not a god, Leila.’
‘But…’
‘You’re wondering how I can control sand? How come I’m made of sand?’
My eyes spoke for me.
‘Yes, of course you wonder. That is your nature.’
‘To wonder? To… doubt? Am I cursed?’
‘Cursed? Don’t be silly!’ He laughed. So carefree. How could he be? I never understood it. Perhaps only men could be carefree: we women always had work to do.
‘No, Leila, you are not cursed. To doubt is a talent; to accept without question is to have no free will. If anything, you have a gift.’
‘It doesn’t feel like a gift.’
‘Many things do not feel like a gift, Leila. Some even feel like a curse. Responsibility ties you firmly, and stunts your body. And yet, to be irresponsible would mean always living life as a child. Do you want to be a child, Leila? Do you want to do what others tell you?’
‘But in the Qur’an…’
‘The Qur’an says many things. People do not always understand it. Take Adam and Eve.’
‘What about it?’
‘What do you think it means, Leila?’
‘It means to obey. Eve ate the fruit of knowledge; she was told not to. She paid for it.’
‘But was Adam never afraid?’
‘What?’ I couldn’t understand him. He used all these words, and he made me feel like a child. What could it possibly mean?
‘The real reason for Eve’s curse is fear, Leila,’ he continued. ‘Fear drives humankind to commit many evils. Adam was afraid of Eve: she knew things he didn’t. She was no longer a child, playing puppet to things outside of her control.’
‘Is that what forbidden knowledge is all about?’ I asked, awed.
‘For something to be forbidden, Leila, someone must make it forbidden. Ask why. Always ask yourself why.’
I wanted to ask him more. I really did.
He blurred. The darkness engulfed me. I could no longer feel my body: I was falling into a void—an infinite void, the place to which memories went, and our minds returned.
Chapter Three
I opened my eyes.
Light shone into the cave. But not the light of queer insects, and imagined beings: this was daylight. Pure, unmistakable, daylight.
I hadn’t seen it before, but little veins the colour of viridity criss-crossed the walls. They reminded me of my veins, and how they pulsed with life and energy and vigour. The Earth was like that too, I suppose. A living being, host to all other life around it.
I walked out. It was hot. That didn’t bother me. I had come to enjoy the heat: it made you realise how much worse the cold really was.
I looked up—the sun was there, blinding me with its cheery luminescence. I banished the dolour from my mind.
I kept staring at it: in its face, I saw my father, and my mother, and Amir, and Abdullah, and all of them. I even saw the Sandman, his eyes sparkling in delight, and his mouth curved into amusement.
You know what to do, Leila.
It was true. I did know what to do.
When I got back—and I would get back—I would tell my father this: life was for people. Money was for cowards. It is better to have lived and died, than to never have really lived at all.
Personal Essay
Hello!
If you have read this far, you probably liked my little short story. That is good. Now, I shall bore you with a short essay. If you only downloaded this book for the story, then there’s no need to read this; if you want a little more though, carry on.
PS: anyone interested in Creative Writing should read stuff like this. It isn’t an English Lit essay, I promise!
PURPOSE OF THE STORY
This book was written, initially, as part of my English GCSE. However: I thought it too much work to just leave it for the examiner to read. Also, I received glowing praise from my English teacher. And yes, it got full marks.
Of course, I write for than just mark-scoring, or even out of a desire for financial recompense. (Hint: short stories don’t make anyone rich.) I feel an insatiable thirst to move my fingers, to type, and to create. I have written a much more detailed blog post on this here.
In terms of what the story aims to do, that is quite simple: it tries to challenge totalitarian societies, and aims to instil a sense of doubt within the reader. It is, in many ways, a call to think about the world in which you live in; and whether it is how it should be.
You will know—or at least, you should know, if you’ve actually been paying attention to any of this—that the story is set in the Middle East. Some of you will no doubt be wondering if this story is an attack on Islam. The answer: yes and no. Yes, in the sense that it criticises modern day Islamic dogma; no, in the sense that Islam is targeted specifically.
The setting was chose
n because it is one in which human rights abuses—be they against women, gay people, ethnic minorities, or contumacious writers—occur most frequently. It is therefore the most relevant place.
Okay, enough with the intro. Time to do a bit of analysis!
A (REASONABLY) BRIEF ANALYSIS
We begin with the following:
My name is Leila.
It means ‘born of the night’ in my native Arabic tongue; a fitting name, considering my ignominious nature and my current predicament.
(For those of you on eReaders: sorry, but the text should appear dark orange as well as being italicised. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any better way to add emphasis.)
The story starts by naming the narrator—the main character. This is, to a degree, a product of the text medium: short stories do not have time to reveal the narrator bit by bit. It is also important because the opening sentence must always carry an integral element of the text within it. In this case, names are the key: they denote a person’s identity, and who they want to be.
This is continued in the next paragraph. We are now told that the narrator considers herself a dark being, and that she even regards herself as a shame on her family. This shows that totalitarian societies often make people feel guilty about who they are; for if we must force all members of society to conform to an arbitrarily construed paragon, then surely some—if not many—will not attain this goal and will be ashamed of themselves.
Also, bear in mind who I am: young, angry, gay writers know all about non-conformism and how harmful it can be.
Now let’s move forward a bit to the following:
Leila, follow me, it said. Oh, such a simple command! How could I ever hope to follow it?
The quotation is a little ambiguous: the reader is unaware of whether Leila is referring to following the voice, or the command.
Now, ambiguity is a bit of a red herring in CW—making the reader confused as to what you’re talking about is never a good idea. But if you do it right, it makes you sound really clever! (Sorry, boffins.)
Actually, I’ve used ambiguity not to sound clever—although that would be an added perk—but to suggest to the reader that Leila is inherently doubting the idea that she should follow a whispered command.
The Sandman Page 1