Feelings
What if it went like this?
By Emmanuelle
SHE must have to write this. She must have to have the rest.
Two weeks to the day, almost all in the village, except the very dumb and the very dead, were aware that something was amiss. Even the neighbors sharing the village borders were keening from the stirring of the wind. Something was going on. Something was coming. And it is not only a storm.
He who dared to challenge the gods felt it first. He must have had. He could not be raising his fist to defy the king if he knew not the risks. He is of the place; the place is his second skin.
He knew that no matter how low he bowed his head, or how courteous he was when he asked for the nod of the gods, he was courting trouble. It was no mean little thing he was doing. It was big. He was Jack waking up the sleeping giant at the top of the beanstalk.
Two weeks to the day, he could not have missed the whispers about two huge craters being dug where no building shall stand, where no people shall shop, where no fine road shall pass. It is after all the killing fields.
That day, two weeks after, the sun shone bright and hot. The sun bode of no harm to come. It was just shining bright and hot.
If he who had challenged the gods knew the risks, if he too felt the wind as it began to stir then keen, then why on that day send the wife, she so lovely so smart? On an errand so coldly fearsome even he veered away? She needed so much warm bodies not to shield her from the wind stirring but more to hide her from the glare of a sungod that sees near and far and melts all flesh?
There was enough time. He could have instead gone himself on that mission on an early date, on foot in the stealth of the night. Or he could have flown on metal wings.
He did not. He sent her. She of the fairest oval face, of the widest and darkest of eyes, of the smile to wipe off tears from the face of her child.
She was in the midst of an army of their own, half of them armed with pens, and tapes and cams. She felt she should feel safe, but why does her heart quiver so? Why does the stomach flutter so? Why the ice at the tips of her fingers? And why the sadness in her eyes as she left?
She kept in touch to the last. She was telling him what and who stopped them on the road. She knew it was the end of the road for her, and all who were with her. She knew. Why did he not?
There was time. At least, near enough time for one who loved. He could have called on his own army. He must have himself an army of his own. He could have run and rode and rushed. He could have armed himself with sticks, rocks, guns, big guns, the biggest guns. She is his wife, mother to his child. He maybe could have saved her and some or more of them who were with her. He who had challenged the gods, he who had dared defy the king. He knew the risks, he felt the stir of the wind. Why did he not do all of these things?
Another woman as pretty and as tall as his wife, who could not have loved her as much as he did, she perhaps have done for his wife more.
This woman draped her shawl tighter around her face. Only her eyes showed. Eyes as dark as soulful as the wife.
When the beasts called for the wife, this woman stepped forward swiftly ahead of the wife. While she was being raped, this one ugly beast rammed into her mouth not a kiss but the mouth of his gun. And bursts open the back of her skull.
Hers was a kinder death.
When the beast found out they had the wrong wife, their rage knew no bounds. They found the wife fast. While her body was being raped, it was also being riddled by bullets with each and every grind.
She must have welcomed death as one welcomes a dear, dear friend.
And so we end where we had begun. She must write this. She must have the rest.
(Note from the Author: This article was written using words of only one or two syllables.)
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