The tale of a thief.
Nylah, an Arabian girl who steals to make an ends meet, until one day she makes a deal with two american men to go on a cross country journey all for one million dollars.
#8 in Arabian nights - 20/06/2020
#1 in Arabian - 30/06/2...
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March, 2001
"It's a gift from your Uncle Smith, he said you might find it interesting." I blew the dust from the leather cover of the small book and grazed my hand on the intricate pattern, it looked like a journal.
Richards had handed me a small journal that was worn out and old. The sheets of paper were bonded together by strings instead of the modern day glue, so I suspected it was a pretty old book.
"Where did he get this?" I asked Richards when I removed my glasses.
Richards was the family butler who has been with us for the past thirty years or so, he was more of a father than my biological father was. Richard was balding due to his old age but very strong for someone of his age. His lack of emotions was evident in his eyes but when he conveyed it, he was the nicest person.
Richards responded. "It is from Arab, actually. He did mention something about the text being translated from hieroglyphics to English a long time ago before it went missing."
Interested, I shot up from my chair. "It's an Egyptian text?" He nodded, "I believe so."
Suddenly there was a knock on the door before it creaked open revealing Martha; the maid.
"Mr McDane, your father wants to see you." Her voice echoed across the quiet library, "he says it's urgent."
I gave a tight smile. "I'll be there." Then the door shut close, "what does he want now?" I muttered in disdain.
"Don't be like that," Richards chided, "he's your father, Bryan, although he doesn't seem to display any affection towards you, he cares about you, he really does."
"Now is not the time to be sentimental, Richards." I say bitterly, as I close the library door behind me heading towards my father's room. Lying on the satin sheets was my father; looking tired and helpless. Breathing tubes were connected to his nostrils and his olive skin was now sickly pale.
Smoking had it's dangers, Lung cancer was one of them and my father was just another victim of it.
His hands were entwined together with my mother's. Her blonde hair was turning to an even shade of grey and her worry lines were now more prominent.
"You called for me." I state in a blank tone.
"Bryan, my boy, sit." My father's deep voice was now hoarse and concealed with severe coughing.
"I prefer to stand."
My mother shot me a warning look, "Bryan." I crossed my hands and watched as she left the room for my father and I to talk.
"I know I don't have much time, but I want you to know that you're next heir to the company." He began.
Always. It was always about the company. This man never had time for his family. Never. Always work, work, work. Even in death he was still thinking about his company, what a champ this guy is.
