Erm, what can I say? Totally been out of writing anything for nearly a year now... The surplus of stories written out is vast, but the effort to publish anything was absent... Let's try to give it a go again. Here's one step. Thanks for reading, reviewing and so on!
Chemin Du Plan-Bouchard/Rue de la Mairie,
Ville de Thérèse-de-Blainville, Québec, Canada, November 2nd 2006, 1.45 PM
On the baseball-field opposite of the Parc Équestre de Blainville the chilling wind made the spectators huddle together for more shelter, provided by the nearby hedges that stood alongside the old
Chemin de Fer, (railroad tracks) that ran from Sainte-Thérèse-Ouest and Boisbriand (just north of Montréal) all the way to Saint-Jérôme. The rumbling of a commuter train passing by made the cheers of the children out on the pitch inaudible for a few seconds, its horn signalling twice. For residents it was a sound they knew, the train driver warning traffic on Chemin Du Plan-Bouchard it was coming.
The batter, a small boy with a tinted skin, stood near home-base. His clothes providing him with warmth his little body wasn't able to generate, but hindering his movements, the bat lay heavily on his fragile shoulder, and with great effort he swung it towards the ball the pitcher threw. With a dull thud leather hit aluminium as the ball bounced of the bat towards mid-field.
"Allez, Pascal, courir à la première base! (Come on, Pascal, run for the first base!)" his father cheered, pressing the boy forward when he was still deliberating what to do next. Pascal dropped his bat and as fast as he could, he started running down the white chalk-line that led him to the second-base.
His team-mates yelled he should press forward, the mid-fielders had trouble to get the ball, and he could very well make it to third. He looked back to his father, not sure whether he should. "En avant, Pascal, à la deuxième, c'est possible! (Go on, Pascal, to the second, it's possible!)" Determination set on his face, and putting his tongue out he ran, when half-way he was tackled by one of the mid-fielders.
He hit the ground hard, his body rolling over the gravel, the dry material clouding as he did, his helmet bouncing off his head. His sight blackened a little, narrowing through the impact and Pascal felt dizziness set in. Quickly followed by tears.
"Maudit! Ça c'est un faute! (Damned, that's a fault!)" he heard his father's voice piercing through the wheezing sound in his ears, as he tried to get up. His opponent, just as small as him, offered him his hand, his face somewhat pale as he obviously was as shocked as little Pascal was. "M'excuse, Pascal. (I'm sorry, Pascal)"
The boy's father sat down again on the bench he had been sitting on, when his cell-phone rang. He reached inside his pocket and took it out. He stared at the digits on the screen: nombre inconnu (Number unknown). He pressed receive.
"Mahmood Ibn-Aziz?"
His heart stopped for a fraction of a second, a shiver ran from the top of his head down his spine when he heard the name. He closed his eyes. His past had caught up with him, the same past he had tried to flee from. He went by Bernard Moussedeq now, at least the Canadian passport he had said so. So did his driving license, and the signature on the mortgage of the suburban Rue De Maricourt house he shared with his Canadian wife Michelle.
After September 11th 2001 no one had called him Mahmood Ibn-Aziz anymore.
"Je crois que vous devez vous être trompés, (I think you're mistaken)" he said, trying to suppress the quiver in his voice.
"Le temps est venu, nous avons besoin de toi, (It's time, we need you)" the dark-timbre on the other side of the line said. "Ecoute bien, Mahmood. (Listen carefully, Mahmood)" And then he said the three words former-Bernard-now-Mahmood feared to hear knowing he would never see Pascal growing up now he had. "Barsaat Salagna Allahu, Mahmood. C'est la volonté d'Allah. (It's Allah's Will)"