کتاب The Grey Stories

کتاب The Grey Stories – داستان‌هایی از سایه روشن زندگی

کتاب The Grey Stories مجموعه‌ای از داستان‌های کوتاه است که به بررسی پیچیدگی‌های زندگی انسان می‌پردازد. هر داستان در این کتاب نمایانگر تقابل میان روشنایی و تاریکی، حقیقت و توهم، و انتخاب‌های دشوار انسان‌ها در موقعیت‌های حساس است. این اثر با سبک نوشتاری عمیق و مفاهیمی تأثیرگذار، خوانندگان را به سفری در اعماق احساسات و تفکرات انسانی دعوت می‌کند.

درباره کتاب The Grey Stories

The Grey Stories مجموعه‌ای از داستان‌های کوتاه با موضوعات متنوع است که به لحظاتی از زندگی پرداخته‌اند که در آن‌ها هیچ چیزی سیاه یا سفید مطلق نیست. نویسنده با روایتی جذاب، شخصیت‌هایی را خلق کرده که در چالش‌های زندگی‌شان با تضادها، انتخاب‌ها و پیامدهای آن‌ها مواجه می‌شوند. این داستان‌ها نه تنها سرگرم‌کننده‌اند، بلکه به خواننده فرصت می‌دهند تا به ابعاد جدیدی از زندگی و انسانیت بیندیشد.

موضوعات کلیدی کتاب

• تضادهای اخلاقی: بررسی موقعیت‌هایی که در آن‌ها انتخاب درست به آسانی قابل تشخیص نیست.
• روابط انسانی: روایت داستان‌هایی درباره پیچیدگی روابط میان انسان‌ها و تأثیر آن‌ها بر زندگی.
• جستجوی حقیقت: نمایش تلاش شخصیت‌ها برای پیدا کردن حقیقت در میان تاریکی و ابهام.
• مفاهیم فلسفی و روانشناختی: پرداختن به سوالات عمیق درباره وجود، معنا و هدف زندگی.

ویژگی‌های برجسته کتاب The Grey Stories

• سبک نوشتاری تأثیرگذار: نویسنده با قلمی قدرتمند و تصاویری زنده، داستان‌هایی را خلق کرده که ذهن خواننده را به خود مشغول می‌کند.
• داستان‌های چندلایه: هر داستان دارای لایه‌هایی از معناست که خواننده را به تفکر عمیق‌تر دعوت می‌کند.
• تنوع موضوعی: مجموعه‌ای از داستان‌ها با موضوعات متنوع که هر کدام تجربه‌ای منحصر به فرد ارائه می‌دهند.
• ارتباط با واقعیت: داستان‌هایی که خواننده می‌تواند با آن‌ها ارتباط برقرار کند و در زندگی خود بازتابی از آن‌ها ببیند.

چرا کتاب The Grey Stories را بخوانید؟

اگر به دنبال مجموعه‌ای از داستان‌های کوتاه هستید که علاوه بر سرگرم‌کننده بودن، به چالش‌های فکری و عاطفی نیز بپردازد، کتاب The Grey Stories بهترین انتخاب است. این اثر برای افرادی که به داستان‌هایی با عمق فلسفی و روانشناختی علاقه دارند، بسیار جذاب خواهد بود.

مخاطبان کتاب The Grey Stories

• علاقه‌مندان به داستان‌های کوتاه: این کتاب برای کسانی که به خواندن داستان‌های کوتاه و تأثیرگذار علاقه دارند، مناسب است.
• عاشقان ادبیات فلسفی و روانشناختی: اگر به مفاهیم عمیق و چندلایه علاقه دارید، این کتاب را از دست ندهید.
• خوانندگانی که به دنبال تفکر و تأمل‌اند: این داستان‌ها شما را به بازاندیشی در مورد زندگی، حقیقت و تصمیم‌گیری‌ها دعوت می‌کنند.

سفارش کتاب The Grey Stories

برای خرید کتاب The Grey Stories و آغاز سفری هیجان‌انگیز به دنیای داستان‌هایی با مفاهیم عمیق و تفکر برانگیز، به بخش فروشگاه سایت مراجعه کنید یا با ما تماس بگیرید. این کتاب فرصتی برای درک بهتر انسانیت و کشف تضادهای زندگی است.

در ادامه فهرست این کتاب قابل مشاهده است:

The old man and the tea stall 1
Waiting 3
Reza 4
Beat 5
The woman 7
The photographer 9
Frida 10
Plane 11
Mrs. Hajar 12
The passenger 13
Threat 14
Wedding 15
Visualization 16
Ant 17
Drama 18
Shrine 20
Sea 22
The old man 23
The guardian angel 24
University 27
Hearing aid 28
Baby 30
How late he was 31
The rustling leaves 32
Mehrbanoo 33

در ادامه بخشی از مطالب این کتاب قابل مشاهده است:

The old man and the tea stall

He sometimes lifted his rough, wrinkled hands from his ears, and the sound of the hustle and bustle of the crowd and the cars left in traffic resonated in his head. He preferred to drown in a silent and obscure world where he could only hear the sound of his heavy breathing. His face full of pain and sad look told of the hard times time in his life. These damn days must pass so that may be an excruciating death that will come to him and take his revenge on life. His white hair, which extended to his side-whiskers, was reminiscent of the boring and irritating days he had gone through. There is no evidence better than white hair to show pain.
His tea stall was mixed with the stalls of other hawkers. The crowd passed by him quickly, and he was immersed in himself amazedly. The pain had engulfed all his being. What fate this is by which he has been caught. If only time would end so that the terrible pains would end.
The old man was immersed in a cruel world, with a slim body and worn-out clothes that smelled of dirt and smoke. Every passer-by would understand the secret of that sad face if he/she looked around and did not pass quickly.
He wondered if life was what he was looking for, living in a crowded and unmerciful world where no one even looked at the pavement anymore, lest he/she might have kicked something, something like an old, glum human being.
The tea stall scratched the old man’s soul like a rasp. His inner pains pressed on his brain, wishing he could break everything, escape from his stall, get free, no longer has to sell tea, find peace, the peace in which there was no population, no car, no peace, no job, and not even tea, but only absolute freedom.
He lifted his hands from his ears again for a moment and glanced anxiously at his belongings spreading on the street floor. The world disobliges. One must tolerate or release, even if deafness and dumbness. His hands could no longer bear all this external load, slipping slowly and transmitting the usual panic to his brain. The hands could no longer bear the burden of so much responsibility. The man was aimless as if he were dying and leaving the world. The crowd and the sound of cars rose again, and this time, the tea stall with a dead man could be seen from a distance. This man may have said goodbye to a crowded and ruthless world years ago, far from everyone’s eyes.

Waiting

The phone booth was covered in dirt. The woman took a deep breath and threw a coin into the aperture of the phone. The coin went down screeching. The woman folded her chador with the corner of her lip and quickly dialed a few numbers. The phone rang but no one answered. It rang again … The woman lifted her face from the phone and stared at an unknown corner. Her recently dimmed brown eyes were full of water. She wiped her nose and eyes with her chador.
She mumbled, put down the phone, and called again… This time, she said without delay: Hello Hajj Agha … How are you? … What’s up? … Hope you are well… Haji, I don’t know why I called you at this time of day. I was just impatient and restless, so I decided to call you. Zari and her children were here last night. She had brought her little daughter Maryam. The children shouted so loudly that it was as if a ball has exploded in my head. I baked cookies for Parastoo’s children yesterday evening, and I could not come to see you. I thought to myself today that Haji must be worried now, so I called your shop.
She wiped her nose with the corner of her chador, hesitated a bit, and said again, “Haji, the weather is cold. Please take care of yourself, I’m taking care of everyone.” “God bless you, my dear,” she said hesitantly. “My dear,” was said slowly by her. She put down the phone, leaned on the soiled phone for a few minutes, raised her head, and stared at one point again. A tear flowed from her left eye that prevented her from seeing the sentence on the glass.
I have to go to Behesht-e Zahra next week, see Haji, and tell him how much I loved him all these years.

Reza
As a child, I was terrified of him, as if he were not human, as if he were the devil in the skin of a human being. He was three years older than me, but my mother would never let him come to our yard and I would play with him. He always told me that Reza is not a good boy, and you should never go alone with him. I nodded in agreement.
The noise of the children was getting louder. I could not resist and went to the alley under the pretext of playing. Reza was excitedly explaining to the children that a few-day-old cat was wandering in their yard, and he trapped it in a sack with great skill. I saw a dirty, muddy sack in his hand in which something was shaking. The children pushed me and I fell to the ground. I was crying and I saw a moment when Reza ran and the other children ran after him. I limped behind them. I was walking a little slow because of falling, and the children were getting farther and farther away. I sat down and cried a little, both because of my leg wound and because I dropped behind the children. I got up again and limped to the end of the alley. The children were standing in the back alley next to the wild berry bushes. Some were frozen, and some laughed bitterly. I also went forward with my leg wound and dusty clothes and saw Reza wrapped a wire around the cat’s neck, which was suspected between the air and the ground. The poor cat screamed and made a strident voice. Reza was laughing with his deformed teeth some of which were fallen out. His face was like the devil. For a moment, I felt that two horns were growing on Reza’s head as if he was becoming a devil. I was crying, I don’t know if it was because of the cat or Reza’s face.
I cried and limped back to the house. The voices of the children could be heard from the beginning of the alley, making fun of me, but I did not care. From that day on, I was afraid to go and play in the alley. Several years later, Reza was executed for harassment. I was always wondering if Reza remembered the cat when the execution rope was around his neck. Maybe at that time, the devil was in his skin, and he just laughed, maybe.

Beat
I remembered the past when my mother asked on the phone why I rarely go to my grandpa’s grave. I remember my grandpa always talking to himself, squatting in a corner of the house, and sometimes having a nervous breakdown and crying. I saw him like this for years. I often asked my father why he was never feeling well. He nodded and said, “He has Alzheimer’s and he can’t be treated.” However, it wasn’t just Alzheimer’s that bothered him, it seemed like he was suffering from another pain we were unaware of. My mother and father had taken him to the doctor many times but to no avail.
One quiet summer night, when the sound of the river and frogs was ringing in the house, my grandpa took his last breath and calmed down forever. We never understood why he always suffered so much.
The first anniversary of my grandpa’s death, Somayeh, my cousin, whispered in my ear: I understood what Grandpa’s big secret was. I turned, looked, and said: What secret? She said: The secret of why he was always angry and bad-tempered. I could not hide my curiosity and said: Well, tell me. She began her word like this: Many years ago, Grandpa had a very beautiful wife named Hajar.
– Well, I knew that Somayeh.
– Oh, we do not know everything.
– Like what?
– Grandpa killed her.
– Do not be stupid Somayeh, what are you saying? Shame on you. Hajar died while giving birth to her daughter. Both she and her daughter died, everyone knows that.
– Yes, but Grandpa beat her during pregnancy and pushed her on the porch. Hajar did not survive until morning because of this beating.
I did not think of anything for a moment. I saw my uncle’s tired and exhausted face through the hall as he passed. I remembered Somayeh’s words for a moment. My heart seemed to quail as hearing his words. I turned and looked at Somayeh’s constantly moving lips. How could Grandpa be such a person? How could that kind-hearted man kill his wife? Now I understand why he has been suffering and squatting so much lately. I did not listen to Somayeh anymore. I did not want to think badly of someone who had passed away.
On that day, my aunt’s cries at her father’s grave made every human being saddened. When I was alone around the grave, I found a corner and sat down. I was thinking about Grandpa, how inferior and humble our lives are that we even want to beat someone. I felt that my Grandpa was looking at me from under the ground and was aware of my thoughts. I was embarrassed and got up. Since then, I did not want to go to his grave. But I’m sure Grandpa has never forgiven himself, even if years pass.

The woman
The sound of fruit and vegetable bags in her hand filled the sad atmosphere of the house. Tired of repeating routine work, she leaned against the wall and untied her sports shoes. She gently placed the items on the counter, opened the refrigerator door, and swallowed a bottle water of without wanting to. Feeling the cold of the refrigerator for a moment, she revived, thinking about what to make for dinner. She imagined her husband with a tired and tangled face. She was so busy these days that she forgot to tidy up the house and prepare dinner for two.
She spent the whole day just thinking about doing worthless things. Both returned home tired and bored and ate in silence. The woman sighed and went back to several years ago when they were both full of energy and happiness.
She felt a heavy burden in her heart as if she were a child longing to see her mother. She imagined how attractive and pleasant her husband was with gray hair and tired face, a man whose love for his wife had not diminished due to the hardships of the times. She then shook and noticed that the flame of love was burning inside her. With a faint laugh on her wrinkled lips, she got up, filled half the kettle with water, put it on the gas, and turned on the stove with enthusiasm.
The woman was full of love, a love that merged with the house. The woman imagined the first days of her life, a weary and lean man with tall stature and a kind heart.
She could never have imagined that she would marry this man, but since her marriage, she has been incapable of facing him with all her independence and pertinacity.
When the woman was busy with her daily activities, it was the thought of her house and the existence of her husband that healed her wounds, as if the house was a haven that would not let anything bother her. Her house and husband were like strongholds that saved her from the wounds of life that were like enemies.
Every time she thought of her house and husband, she was encouraged, her heart rate dropped, she could feel the movement of blood in her brain, her heart sank, and a faint smile was on her lips. Although she was serious about doing things, sometimes she wanted to run away, fly home, open the door, and see her husband lying on the couch, tired, turning the key in the lock, smiling at his wife.
She repeated these thoughts over and over again. Repeating these thoughts warmed her body and ignited the desire to meet in her heart. How slow the clock was moving. She wished she could order the clock hands to move faster so that she could see her husband sooner. She sat down in the armchair in front of the door, stared at the door, closed her eyes, and smelled her husband’s cigarette and coffee. The key swung in the door, and the smell of cigarettes got closer and closer.

The photographer
The smell of rain moisture on the asphalt was spreading in the air. There was no doubt that a great calamity was coming that day. Debris was scattered everywhere, and cries could be heard in the distance. Officers who came to help ran in all directions. The photographer was slowly moving towards a house with one of its four main walls remaining. He saw a girl with messy, dusty hair in the corner of the wall, staring at him.
The photographer kindly approached the girl, put his hand in his pocket, took out the gold-plated chocolate, and held it out to the girl. The girl stepped back a little, but then snatched it from his hand when she saw the photographer’s smile. The girl’s worried eyes were fixed on the photographer and his camera, green eyes full of dust and blood the beauty of which had not been diminished even a little. There was a silence interwoven with death in the girl’s eyes.
With a long smile, the photographer said to the girl: How beautiful you are! Do not you tell me your name?
The girl seemed to follow the extension of the sentence do not you tell and was looking for a clear meaning for it. She turned her face to the ruins behind her and whispered. The photographer did not notice and asked the girl to repeat, but the girl did not answer and moved slowly towards the ruins. The curious photographer hurried behind the girl.
The half-naked body of a woman with a boy in the middle of the yard bothered every viewer. Seeing this scene, it was as if the photographer’s brain was shattered. Tears could no longer resist and flowed from the photographer’s eyes. However, the photographer, who could no longer take the photo and could not bear to look at this scene, came back and wanted to take his tears away from the girl’s curious gaze.
Cold and indifferent, the girl was leaning against the half-ruined wall. There was nothing in his eyes, no sadness, no tears, and no sensation. It was as if she was dead. The photographer came forward and hugged the girl. The girl put her small hands on the photographer’s shoulder and said: They will not return, they went on a trip. The photographer said: Yes. At this time, the roar of an airplane rose from a distance, and a huge amount of dust formed in the wet soil. Neither the girl nor the photographer was seen anymore.

Frida
Her eyes sometimes saw the white wall above her head, and her pupils returned to the dark world again. She strangely saw a moody, whey-faced woman on the white ceiling, drawing on a painting with her fingertips. She thought to herself that the woman might be deluded because of the great pain. Whatever the woman and delusion were, they made her forget the pain for even a few short seconds.
Her body was filled with pieces of hot iron as if there was no more sorrow and pain in the world unless originated from herself. The woman thought to herself, I wish I was dying … yes, I wish I was dying … in that case, at least I would not have to open my eyes and tolerate the hated people around me.
The woman closed her eyes and felt the whey-faced woman hanging over her head from the ceiling and slowly approaching her. She pressed her eyelids together in fear and said to himself, “Damn, I can’t move.” She opened her eyes and saw brown eyes that looked strangely like hers. The woman painter stretched out her cold hands and touched the woman’s fingers. The woman’s spine screamed. It was a deep pain that ran from her toes to her forehead. However, the woman herself did not want to show her pain. The woman painter on the ceiling took the woman’s index finger and drew it on the bedsheet as if writing a name or drawing a design. The woman closed her eyes as if she did not hear or see anything.
A few hours later she regained consciousness with a buzz around her. Pain again! Anyway, something warmed up inside her. It was her index finger that was drawing on the bedsheet. This time, she gave a faint smile to the woman painter on the ceiling who was looking at her instead of crying in pain, and how strange she looked like her.