Another guard sits in his high tower like an angry demigod looking over his creation. A few women and children in their blue and white striped uniforms and shaved heads stare vacantly at us. Their eyes are like little broken windows. These children have probably seen more horrors in their tiny lifetimes than I’ve seen in my entire life.
This place is dark, not literally. It must be around 10 in the morning, but the city is as quiet as a cemetery at night. It sucks the air out of me. This seems like a place where where happiness comes to die. The air hangs thick, as if the sky was filled with viscous tar. I see barbed wire everywhere. The staccato clomping of combat boots is probably the only heartbeat this place has.
Dusk was streaking the Californian sky with ocher and saffron. Redwood trees towering above me had started whispering ominous secrets. Two trees had formed an arch ahead.
I take refuge in her when life trips me and kicks me in the gut. She always listens, intently, without an urgency to respond.
A thought, an idea grazes my brain. She’s touching me, but barely. She plays coy. I try to catch her, but she’s mercury.
But today, for once, dinner won’t be just about eating. He expected arguments and fireworks. We’ll be having dinner with dinner today! Garth chuckled at that thought.
Like every morning, I get dressed up. I wear my starched white doctor’s coat. My Medal of Honor catches the morning light and shines like the memory of my glory days. For outstanding service to Earth during the Great Epidemic of 2152.
The word collided with her tongue and palate over and over till it bloated and morphed into an amoeboid, anomalous word, yet vaguely familiar. Millions of tiny minions in her limbic system, suddenly charged with an unknown strength, darted off to Archives to retrieve the phlox file from a dusty back shelf.
Present day Jallianwala Bagh with actual bullet marks Pic Courtesy – Dr. Graham Beards on Wikipedia One step, two steps, walk, walk, walk, I chanted to myself, coaxing my legs… Read more »
A short fiction in response to Yeah Write’s weekly fiction prompt – “He looked overworked at only half past noon.” Pic Credit – David Clare on Flickr It was a beautiful spring… Read more »