There is a story – I cannot tell it – I have no words. The story is almost
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns seven men in a house in an old street.

If I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose–it would rattle against my teeth.
The seven men are in a living room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually doesnt laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
Sickness but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. All the men are waiting –
waiting but one wants to get out.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I understand that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the seven men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid – he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness – he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman he was insecure.
There she was – waiting.
How silent the house was – how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved power. That must have been the story but not yet.
She hungered for power with her whole being. She wanted to create in lust.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
In one of the rooms the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog but there was no dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He woke again.
The dandified fellow lay on his bed too. He laughed and played with his
Little phone.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I can tell the story.
The white silent one may have been ill.
The woman may have been Lies.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all i dont need ti. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling  wonderful little stories. I would no longer be vague.
Why was I not given words? Why am I stuck?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it without wordpress.

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Arash has been writing stories ever since he could hold a pencil! What started out as an intrinsic love for storytelling has turned into his lifelong passion. There’s nothing he likes better than writing (and reading) stories that is humorous in English and Persian languages, with a touch of Suspense and a poignant streak of truth running through them. Arash is also a YouTuber, Persian singer/songwriter, blogger, traveler, filmmaker, big dreamer, and professional kabob eater. When he’s not writing or dreaming up new stories, you can find him in an adventure road-tripping to national parks! If you want to see Arash in his element (ranting about stories) check out his YouTube channel.

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