THE MOROCCAN DREAM
AN ANTHOLOGY OF MOROCCAN NEW SHORT STORY

 

"Another dream targeting the dark
Hail!
Dream is that whiteness blackening the night,
That thirsty desire
Trying to wake up in me,
That heavenly testimony
Which the river praises
Hail!
I am the dream of a fish
Predicting inundation"…

Abdennour Driss
Scholar & Short-Story Writer
Author of:

"Women’s Writings"
-A Study-
2004
"Woman’s Novel & Reality"
-A Study-
2005
"Taboo Mythology & Religious Discourse Mechanisms"
-A Study-
2005

Getting ready for printing:
"Feminizing Virility"
-Short Stories-

The inner gap is as deep as labyrinth whereas the outer clothing tells about the imprisoned body: He used to sow his masculine name in his wives’ wombs but was good at nothing but giving birth to females. All the new bellies would bear him new expectation in ending that crop. The flag of victory, however, cannot be raised by catastrophe-loving feet obsessed with the nine scenes which had danced both in the emptiness of the belly and in the belly of the emptiness. These are the ends that he feels running deeply in his dry veins coming from no-one knows, bearing shameful masks!
“Cursed is he who gives birth to females!”
“Damnation” is his word to justify his impotence while cosmetics are women’s way to sneak into his pocket and organ, giving birth to a non-stop set of females. His poor status has not killed him. Rather, it might drive him mad or perhaps paralyze him or even redirect his thinking towards suicide.
Tackling this topic in his daily life will revive the old painful moments that has never stopped proliferating in his endless questions…
“Cursed is he who gives birth to females!”
That was his echo whenever his salt-filled worries and injuries flow out in his long journey to salvation through sorcery and magic weeds…
His childhood was a wretched past stamped exclusively for him. He was the only boy to love dolls. He used to find in this hobby real happiness and true pleasure. Dolls would stick to his hand and never fall. Memories lay new bridges towards the past proving that life has not changed. Memories are still standing against any possible change. Gloom and mud are the distinctive poetic features still present in children’s hymns playing carelessly with the angles and sides of the district…
He drowns himself in his night pleasures and never gets sober before experiencing the butterfly joy… He has such a crazy story with females starting from his early admiration for dolls and ending with absolute adoration to them all.
He was sober but the moaning of the glasses made him drunk again. His looks seemed unsteady, wandering, fluffy, drifting away with the winds of his song towards the sterility of the whisper, towards the heart of the scream, towards the menopause that has eaten his wife’s womb. There is nothing left to do. That is the law of feminity…
“Cursed is he who gives birth to females!”
This is the female’s labyrinth: a singular caravan made especially for loss and parting. There is no male to inaugurate her salvation from this never-ending painful memory.
He was lost in the arches of feminine lips juicing his dreams. Now, his ambitions are redirecting him to his private doctor’s cabinet. He is in such a hurry to have male dolls and perpetuate the torn-out moments that he is doomed to have with women tired of vain memories.

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Translated by Mohamed Said Raihani