The Story of a Young Sprite

I got in to my room and opened the window, as usual. But that day was unusual, the view has changed.

A 16-year-old young girl, named Anne, has lightened the street with her innocent nature.

She was standing at the yellow gate wearing a white dress and her dark blackish eyes was staring outside the street. The black ascot rolled in her long neck was a little intimidating for her because it frequently comes down to her neck. She was not much concerned about the scarf. She was flowing into the amusement while she was setting in the street.

This street was not that amusable but whenever she finds herself in the street there glitters a sparkling light in her face.

Anne was not allowed to go alone without the consent of the family. So, the only place for her was the main gate where she finds herself comfortable and gets to enjoy the relief of freedom.

Outside the gate was a wide street. In the evening, the street becomes a playground of the young kids from the neighborhood playing crickets, football and several other kiddie games little children enjoy.

Anne used to watch the young children playing on the streets. It’s painted on her face the urge to play with them, but she’s all aware that she’s restricted and can’t get along with other kids.

As if this half kilometer street is blocked on both sides. Either entrance or exit were closed. It’s like the entire universe was cordoned and reserved for children fanfare intended for Anne.

Every evening, I always saw here on her favorite place at the yellow gate watching over the street.

I reached to my room and opened the window like I used to every single day. To my surprise, she was not there. I waited an hour and I glanced back to the window pane. But it seemed like, there was no signs of her. She was not there — at the yellow gate. No, Anne at all.

I ran outside and found a few people gossiping around. I mimic the moment and tried listening to their conversation. People were calling her names.

“She’s a slut who ran away with her lover.” I overheard a woman. “She even did not care about the honor of her family!” The woman continued.

From then on, the street did not leave any trace of her apart from her disappearance. And the myth about her continued to surge around the neighborhood.

To Anne, I dedicate this poem:

The Young Conqueror Sprite

by Shahzad Baloch

Your sparkling eyes

own an occasion of desire

the desire of love

the desire of fire, the desire of resistance

Your wounded body own a sprite of the conqueror

conquer of the beauty

conquer of the silence

conquer of the firing sprite

Your mischievous smiling own liberty

liberty of wait

liberty of long-lasting pain

liberty of self

Your decisiveness soul owns a massage of resilience

the resilience of given identity

the resilience of barriers

the resilience of boundaries.