Winged Dreams

Chapter 21: The Thought of Losing You

1st December, 2015

Hi all! So one of the readers told me that I should consider restarting the less than twenty four hours update challenge (If you remember, the one where I update in less than 24 hrs if the new chapter I post reaches the votes received by the previous chap!) Lol, while I'm pretty okay with the current schedule, let me know if you guys want me to start the challenge all over again :D Also, I would really appreciate some honest feedback from you guys! What do you expect from the book? How do you like it so far? How different do you think Winged Dreams is from my other works? I absolutely lovvve reading your comments and I look forward to them In sha Allah :)

Aisha, the wife of the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh), was asked, "What did the Prophet (ﷺ) use to do in his house?" She replied, "He used to keep himself busy serving his family (كَانَ يَكُونُ فِي مِهْنَةِ أَهْلِهِ) and when it was the time for prayer he would go for it." 

(Bukhari)

Chapter 21:

The Thought of Losing You

Four year old Shams clutched his little backpack, which was nothing more than an ordinary cloth stitched to barely hold more than four books, and stared at the widespread terrain in front of him. The land was still barren from the explosives that had been dropped mercilessly a month back, and in place of lush green trees, all that one saw was scarred land, a mirror of those still alive.

As was routine, Shams did not hesitate to walk ahead and stopped by the spot which was home to him.

"Mama," he said, sitting on his ironically favorite spot and removing his workbook and pencil.

"Today, Miss. Saima said I was the best boy in class. She appreciated me for completing my home work, and said I would grow up to become successful. She offered to take me home with her for lunch but I told her I had someone to visit and thus, I'm here. I miss you, Mama, and I love you. No one saves me a cookie, nor do they give up their sandwich to let me eat. Why did you have to leave me, Mama?"

But he was met with no reply, a deafening silence lingering in the soft breeze.

"Jameel Uncle said martyrs never die, and I know that you can hear me, Mama."

Said the little orphan, as he sat on his mother's grave and narrated his tales to the woman who had lost her life at the hands of oppressors, leaving behind a child who had seen more bombs than toys, and heard more explosions than lullabies.

Bilal untangled his legs from the covers, and tip toed towards the kitchen, careful not to wake up Dina. After using the bathroom in the hall, for he didn't want to use the bedroom's en suite washroom, he prayed two rak'ah of Duha Salah, and headed towards the kitchen.

Now, he knew that he belonged somewhat at the margin of the most horrible cooks of the world, but he still wanted to try his hand at it. It was a bright Sunday morning, and there was no rule that your wife had to make you food every day. So, keeping in mind that the prophet helped his wife with house chores, muttering a string of duas, he entered into the kitchen.

He rummaged through the pantry and settled on a simple scrambled eggs and toast menu. He clicked on the video he had seen last week and went through the recipe of scrambled eggs.

First, he chopped the onions and put them in a frying pan, quickly lowering the flame when he realized the oil was too hot and the onions were almost burning. He then went through the video at least four times to see how the chef actually broke the egg, and standing at a distance from the stove, he took a fork and hit the shell, only to realize that the shell fell with the eggs in the frying pan.