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Somewhere in the Middle East. Scene 4

04/06/2011 15:19 (comments: 0)

A short story

Irakis children and GI's

Rashid…

Smells from the delicacies to swallow, from spices, colors to drown your eyes…
Colored cries, veiled faces , smiles filled with teeth…

In the distance, the Americans, promises of Sweets and Chewing gum.
The adults ignore them, The soldiers melt into the background.

The big guys haggle, the kids dodge in and out and life scrolls.
Everyone makes the same gestures, as a game, as a tale.

It will be jostle, have fun, tasted.
That horns, that smells, that vibrates.

The place turns into a merry-go-round.
I am a wooden horse, you’re a swing, she is the candy…
He is a fairground, we are the children, you are happy, they are the big wheel…
The festival market.
Recently, the roar of the helicopters, invite to the dance of the dragonflies.

“But where is the kitten ? I’ve seen it from afar, with his eyes like two green lakes , with his hair a mess, fleeing the sound of helicopters.”

“Rashid ? Rashid ?”

“I hear Mom, who seek me. Don’t worry little mother ! I just want to catch the cat, I am not far from you. I would like to take it at home, Aisha and Momo will love it…
He runs, the emergency. He must act quickly…”

“Rashiiiid ?”

He stops, surprised to see Ali and Omar, for them, he played the messenger yesterday. He turns back to his mother and he smiles. He looks in her eyes and imploring, he want to show the small animal. Please…

BOOM !

Terror

He falls, they fall…
The stalls are flying in the air, members, tears, the kitten also…
Destroyed sounds…
The extreme violence…
The absolute surprise…
The fire, the heat…
Red and black are the only colors !

He could see nothing, not feel anything more, yet it is not bleak. So to calm his fear, he recalls…

He evokes memories, his mother this morning, kissing for the wake. The breakfast that gave him so much force. Aisha’s sweet little face and her beautiful smile. Momo’s funniness, behind Mom’s back. The candy stolen from shoplifting. The small cat…

Then suddenly, irresistibly, come back to the surface, memories of the war.

Papa, bathed in his blood, eyes open to infinity. Mom screaming in her black burnous, striking her face with both hands. Momo, slumped on the father’s body. Aisha in tears in his arms.

The bombing at night, as a magical waltz, bringing terror and admiration.

He fights to find sweet images, but violence is strongest.

Then he pass away…

This work is protected - © 2008 Thierry Benquey - All rights reserved

Image Children - Work of the U.S. federal government - Spc. Grant Okubo - 2008 - Image Terror - Work of the U.S. federal government - licence :

Public domain

A short story : Hazârajat or the country of tears. (1)

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