Short Stories

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A daughter of only 7.
A beautiful cocoa complexion.
Every day she faithfully fulfills her duties.
The embodiment of grace, purity, and joy.

Her mother works many hours.
They hardly catch more than glimpses of each other as they pass by.
Mother on the way to another job, daughter running errands.

But they value even these short moments in time.
Because it is only every so often that they have the chance.
The chance to sit together.

It is almost always late at night.
Mother always scolds Dalia at first.
"You really need your sleep, my love."
But her smile is never withheld for long.

Sometimes they tell stories,
genuine experiences and tall tales galore - an escape from the painful reality of the one they called father and husband.
Often they simply sit and hold each other.
Speaking silent words of love, curiosities, and truth…



Dalia fell ill.
She had no choice but to wait it out.
Her father would permit no money to such a "frivolous" expense.

All through the night her small body lay shaking on her simple bed of the clothes that had become so worn they could no longer be of any use.
She sat up over and over to wretch into a small pail beside her bed.
Soon, nothing came of it but the sharp pains in her abdomen and the scratch at her throat.

In the morning, a harsh voice shook her from her half-sleeping state.
Her father demanded tea.

She tried to tell him that she was too weak to carry the water pail when it was full.
Her voice failed her.

She stood up carefully, shifting her weight as she rose, holding onto the wall besides her.
She pulled the pail up with her.


Dalia's mother had taught her to always be proud of who she was, and to look her best.
Dalia quickly ran her fingers through her hair and wished for her mother’s gentle touch.

She emptied the bucket as much as she could in the gutter as she left her home and began to walk.
Step after step, reminding herself to just keep walking, that the journey was only one step after another, and another, and another. Just one more. Just one more.
Never give up, her mother said.



When finally she reached the city well, her heart leapt as her body sank.

She gathered dirt and sand from around the well and poured it into the pail.
Using her hands she rubbed the mixture against the stubborn remains from the previous night.

Once the pail was empty, she carefully tied the handle to the rope, which hung from a bar at the top of the well.
She watched the bucket as she lowered it into the darkness.
She listened for the splash of life.

She clung to the rope tightly as she began to draw the pail back to the top of the well.

Knowing the value of the water she retrieved, she balanced the pail on the edge of the well wall.

She held her face beneath the edge of the bucket and let 6 drops of precious liquid roll down her tongue to her parched throat.

When she was sure that it would not drip any more, she wiped her hands on the sides of the bucket and then touched them to her face.
It seemed the only thing that would ever have true value, of all the things that could ever be bought.
It was life-giving. It gave Dalia hope, and an ounce of strength.





The way home was much busier.

Dalia liked to pretend she was a warrior.
A damsel on a quest.

She wore her best smile.



She clung to the pail so tightly that her hands began to cramp.
She knew her father expected that bucket to be filled to the brim.
She was a graceful child, and often made it home with only a teaspoonful or so missing.

This was not enough for Dalia’s dad.
He made sure she never forgot each drop that was spilt.



Her body longed for sleep, but her will was stronger.
She forced her eyes to stay open.

As she maneuvered her way through the town, each time the bucket came close to colliding with something, or someone, each time Dalia nearly lost her balance, her stomach leapt to her throat.



She was getting dizzy, but she couldn’t even take a sip of the water she gave her life to save.
Suddenly, a man behind Dalia rushed past her and jolted her forwards. she was falling.
As she frantically attempted to put her small hands to some use, the bucket slid from her grip.



The pail landed a few feet in front of her.
It was right side up.

Dalia breathed a sigh of relief, but quickly drew her breath back in.
Sharp pain shot up her leg from her ankle as she tried to pull herself into a sitting position.


She could not let it overtake her.
Her good foot sprayed gravel in every direction as she made her way back home, trying to hurry without sloshing the water or putting too much pressure on her bad ankle.

As she reached her front door, she fell to her knees.
As hard as she had tried to be gentle to her ankle, she could feel her pulse pounding viciously through it.


She did her best to compose herself before knocking on the door.
She could not stand up, but knew it would be better to risk dishonouring her father than to deliver the water any later.


She weakly raised her hand to knock.
She was able to hit the door only twice before her hand disobediently fell to her side.

Dalia shut her eyes from both dizziness and fear of her dad's reaction.
Seconds later, the door creaked open.
She flinched in anticipation.

A rough hand touched Dalia's jaw.
She opened her hands in surprise as she realized it wasn't pulling away again in preparation.
She recognized the tough fingertips which lifted her face higher than she could hold it alone.

Her eyes fell upon those of her gentle mother.
Simultaneously her eyelids filled with tears.
Confusion, weakness, and joy mixed into one.

As Dalia's mother fell to her knees in front of her, she noticed her mom's eyelashes holding water, her cheeks already red.
As gazes connected and held, Dalia understood.

Her father's lungs had finally given in.
Images of him in his armchair, smoke spindling into the air, cigarette butts scattered on the floor, spilt through Dalia's thoughts.

Of his hard glares, his harsh words, his thick fists -- they were free.

No more.

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