The Rock Short Story by Abeer Almadawy
London- UK -12/ November/ 2025
The story is translated from the fictional story collection (Not I ) .Writer Abeer Almadawy.
The Rock
On the rippling shore, the last fortress of the ancient ships shattered.
Its tattered state captured my heart, and I felt my pulse echo its ruin — for I have become like her, and it will be only days before I awaken to the wreckage of my own being.
My feet sank into the sand, while torn fragments of old images floated around me —
embracing me as if they were calling, whispering their stories.
I reached out and touched some of them,
and felt the depth of their pain —
wounded, fragmented, stripped of truth, and scattered by the sea.
The sea cried out to me, saying:
“This is not your end.
Gather what is left and learn from the tales.
You are my daughter — still wild, innocent, stubborn, and wise;
a little child despite the years you have earned.”
The sea drew me into its depth.
I did not realize that I had become a captive of the images circling me,
a prisoner to the love of memories.
The waves sensed my longing from afar and rushed toward me,
striking my feet until I fell into their arms.
I did not resist — I thought they had come to lift me —
but they hurled their rage upon my face and blinded my eyes.
I imagined myself running away,
but he — the sea — chased me,
and when I looked down, I found I had not moved.
My feet were trapped in the sticky mud of the shore,
sinking deeper as I struggled, patient yet defeated,
whispering to the waves for mercy.
Then suddenly, he threw me onto the shore and cried in anger:
“I no longer want you here!”
I gathered what was left of me,
covering my bare body with the dust of the earth,
hoping it would hide the bitterness of years and memories.
Then I returned to collect the old pictures
and carved them once again into my heart.
But the sea, with a stern leap, decided to erase every trace of them from the sand.
He struck and withdrew —
and with his retreat, the last lines of my story were gone.
I remained alone before the sea,
listening to his cruel waves.
He had never been fair to the innocence of my love for him.
I waited for one last chance —
to lay my pictures upon his face
and ask him what sin I had committed
to deserve his wounds of hybrid love and salt.
My rock wept, whispering its hidden secret through the years.
She and I were once companions of tenderness and longing.
They said of us: “Mad stones, cold and unyielding.”
Yet we both bled beneath the strikes of the waves,
our souls splintered,
and none of them knew that the sands of memory
were the treasures we had gifted to the sea.
But his heart, hardened by recklessness,
returned them to us — bleak and broken.
The End
Abeer Almadawy
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