hatim boughait
Bio
My name is Hatem Boghith
I introduce myself to you, my beloved. I am a professor of Arabic, English, and media. I also worked on s platforms. Read books of all kinds. several
I also write stories and articles
Stories (5)
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The Dad
The man whose story is here to be told was the richest and most compelling individual in his area; his name was Thord Overseas. He showed up in the minister's review one day, tall and sincere. "I have gotten a child," said he, "and I wish to introduce him for submersion."
By hatim boughait3 years ago in Fiction
lost hearth
A nighttime light shone on the construction, making the window-panes glow like a lot of fires. Away from the Hall in the front stretched a flat park studded with very well and fringed with firs, which stood out towards the sky. The clock in the church tower, buried in bushes on the edge of the park, handiest its golden climate-cock catching the mild, become hanging six, and the sound came lightly beating down the wind. It changed into altogether a nice impact, although tinged with the form of despair appropriate to an evening in early autumn, that became conveyed to the mind of the boy who became status within the porch looking forward to the door to open to him.
By hatim boughait3 years ago in Fiction
cat in snow
The snow was falling, and the Cat's fur was stiffly pointed with it, but he was imperturbable. He sat crouched, ready for the death-spring, as he had sat for hours. It was night—but that made no difference—all times were as one to the Cat when he was in wait for prey. Then, too, he was under no constraint of human will, for he was living alone that winter. Nowhere in the world was any voice calling him; on no hearth was there a waiting dish. He was quite free except for his desires, which tyrannized over him when unsatisfied as now. The Cat was very hungry—almost famished. For days the weather had been very bitter, and all the feebler wild things which were his prey by inheritance, the born serfs to his family, had kept, for the most part, in their burrows and nests, and the Cat's long hunt had availed him nothing. But he waited with the inconceivable patience and persistence of his race; besides, he was certain. The Cat was a creature of absolute convictions, and his faith in his deductions never wavered. The rabbit had gone in there between those low-hung pine boughs. Now her little doorway had before it a shaggy curtain of snow, but in there she was. The Cat had seen her enter, so like a swift grey shadow that even his sharp and practiced eyes had glanced back for the substance following, and then she was gone. So he sat down and waited, and he waited still in the white night, listening angrily to the north wind starting in the upper heights of the mountains with distant screams, then swelling into an awful crescendo of rage, and swooping down with furious white wings of snow like a flock of fierce eagles into the valleys and ravines. The Cat was on the side of a mountain, on a wooded terrace. Above him, a few feet away towered the rock ascent as steep as the wall of a cathedral. The Cat had never climbed it—trees were the ladders to his heights of life. He had often looked with wonder at the rock and miauled bitterly and resentfully as man does in the face of a forbidding Providence. At his left was the sheer precipice. Behind him, with a short stretch of woody growth between, was the frozen perpendicular wall of a mountain stream. Before he was on his way to his home. When the rabbit came out she was trapped; her little cloven feet could not scale such unbroken steeps. So the Cat waited. The place in which he was looked like a maelstrom of wood. The tangle of trees and bushes clinging to the mountain-side with a stern clutch of roots, the prostrate trunks, and branches, the vines embracing everything with strong knots and coils of growth, had a curious effect, as of things which had whirled for ages in a current of raging water, only it was not water, but wind, which had disposed of everything in circling lines of yielding to its fiercest points of onset. And now over all this whirl of wood and rock and dead trunks and branches and vines descended the snow. It blew down like smoke over the rock-crest above; it stood in a gyrating column like some death-wraith of nature, on the level, then it broke over the edge of the precipice, and the Cat cowered before the fierce backward set of it. It was as if ice needles pricked his skin through his beautiful thick fur, but he never faltered and never once cried. He had nothing to gain from crying, and everything to lose; the rabbit would hear him cry and know he was waiting.
By hatim boughait3 years ago in Earth
