THE MOROCCAN DREAM
AN ANTHOLOGY OF MOROCCAN NEW SHORT STORY


"Dreams are
Dreamers' way
To the world of love
Dreams are
The portal of the heart
To the whole world
Dreams are blue birds
Swimming deeply in the ocean of vision
But never do they drown.
Dreams are winged horses
Flying with the wind
And never getting tired or bored
Dreams are the mirror of the inner self
And the means for the lover to meet his beloved
Dreams are free spaces
For a different writing".
 

I saw in my dream that I was walking between foreign houses, holding many books proliferating endlessly. Coming to a verse of any poem written inside them, I find myself looking at its poet's name. Then, I see his face. I put the book down beside him and carry on my way.
Suddenly, I found myself changed into a giant book among the other books, keeping my human feelings within my book-like shape. I can see the world around me and read the sheets of paper thrust in me. The sheets were flying away. Every sheet was taking along part of the story. I read all the stories. I found some of them acceptable and comprehensible where the others were very humble or so they seemed to me. I decided to post these stories to some daily newspaper to be published but I remembered that publishing is not that easy. I thought to publish them in a cultural electronic website so that it may be read all over the world. I found it difficult, too. So, I decided to gather those foreigners, around there, to tell them my stories. However, those people looked as if they were dead. They do not move nor do they speak or look or hear. They looked as if they were bewitched into stone beings by some evil witch.
What is the use of my stories for those people even if I succeed in penetrating their weird beings?
Absolutely nothing.
So, I had to get rid of all those stories within the giant book. I took off all those stories and I started to pin them to the branches of the trees. Every leaf bears a story and every story should take its place at the trunk of the tree and so it was.
The mission was accomplished.
All of a sudden, I felt that the universe was filled with light and that birds came from all over the world heading for the trees. Every tree received thirty birds and every bird has its eyes fixed straight on the stories pinned to the branches.
The birds were reading and discussing the stories as if they were trying to find in them the Simorg image that they have, in vain, being searching for all their lives. When they have finished reading them, they seemed unsatisfied as the stories were not about birds' world. They were about man's, depicting human life. Again, the birds flew away high in the sky and disappeared in the wide horizon. I felt as if the leaves on the trees turned into eyes looking at me and inviting me to read my stories for them. I accepted shyly. I took the first story and i started reading (…).
The trees stirred joyfully. Their branches danced merrily. They asked for more stories. A snake, which I had not noticed before, said: "Entertain us, storyteller! » I smiled at hearing his flattery although I do not like to be qualified a "story-teller". I would prefer, instead, "short-story writer".
I started to read the second narrative text. In length, It was as short as Zakaria Tamer's short-short stories but, in content, it was quite different. My second text takes its subject-matter out of Reality. Anyway, I started to read and I felt myself shivering. It is difficult to read or write a new text when you are strongly flattered on the previous one. The fear from being unable to give valuable additions overwhelms you. Accordingly, the first text grows a real obstacle against any inclination aiming at change and innovation.
My reading flowed beautifully. The narrative text introduced itself through my voice like the following:"…".
I observed how the snake's eyes changed from laziness to brightness, from abstraction to concentration. That made me so happy and encouraged me to carry on reading my story. The tree branches were dancing again, discussing the story. I was happy hearing their comments. All their comments were focused on the text. No comment made a hint on me in any aspect. When the comments were over, the snake came out of his place and begged me to read the third story.
The third story was real indeed. I do not know when it happened but I used to feel the truth coming out of it. It is a real story, either it happened or not. I had that intuition.
I looked up at the tree to the branch of which this story was pinned. The branch was proud to be chosen as a support for the story. I asked permission to read the story. The branch allowed me to do by a nod. I paced closer, put on my glasses and started to read loudly and deeply: (…).
My reading was over. On ending my story, I felt as if some genie had kidnapped me and thrown me to an unknown, deserted place where there were no flying birds or walking beasts. I looked left and right. I could hardly hear somebody moaning. I was afraid but I recovered my composure. I kind of saw a stone moaning. I paced closer. I found that it has the features of such a very beautiful girl. I gaped at her, unbelieving. She smiled to me despite the intense pain she was suffering.
I asked her about her fate and she told me: "A monstrous genie has kidnapped me in my wedding day and wanted to rape me and when I resisted, he turned me so"…
I remembered an old poem written for children that I had read when I had been a little child. It was entitled:"A Mighty Genie". We used to learn it by heart as every child among us would have hoped to be that "Mighty Genie". I smiled at the presence of this childish memory.
The stone girl believed that I was encouraging her to tell her story and she went on: "This genie told me that my deliverance would be on of some poet's hands. As soon as he will recite me a courtly-love poem in regular lines on the iambic pentameter, I will recover my original human shape.
I informed her that I am actually a poet although I write only prose poetry. I have three poetry collections celebrating feminine beauty. The first is entitled "Love Papers", the second "Passion Interpreter" and the third "Love Book".
The charming girl turned to weep again. Her pain deeply touched my heart and verses on my tongue started to flow down automatically. At that moment, I felt that the stone girl was gradually recovering her natural shape. Sweat was pouring down both her face and mine. She was sweating out of transformation and I out of attraction to her beauty.
She was exceptionally pretty. When the transformation was over, she hurried away to hide from me. She was beautifully shy in my presence. I hurried after her, trying to get her and hug her so passionately.
Suddenly, I felt wholly shaken by the alarm-clock ringing, reminding me that it's time to wake up and hurry to work… Oh, the whole story was a pure dream!
I got up and went to work but I found out that my damned dream was still going on.
 

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Translated by Mohamed Said Raihani