There is no preparation, no test; neither assignment nor hint to prepare us for certain things in this world. We see tales of tragedies and its almost always someone else’s family, no one expects its going to be theirs. No one prepares for that. And then it happens.
The dreaded phone call which brings our carefully crafted glass house of security, crashing with one single statement- “I’m sorry”.
Sorry. And you wonder what they are sorry for. Sorry for the fact they couldn’t save “her”, sorry that it was too late, sorry there’s little they they can do to appease your pain, sorry that they have to be the bringer of bad news, or simply sorry for the departure of another beautiful soul from the world.
There is no preparation, no practice… In that Moment, you either walk across the broken shards feeling the loss with every stinging sensation or, you stare unmoving, long and hard at the broken pieces. Nothing can prepare you for that split second reaction. You either grieve or you don’t…
The above image is courtesy of: Campus health.unc
For the kids with stone as their weapon,
The sky as their roof;
Bloodshed a daily occurrence,
Freedom to live besieged;
For the kids whose tears fall unnoticed,
Voices hoarse from cries;
Struck from every angle,
Their innocence dimming.
For the mother who buries lifeless bodies,
Of children she’s outliving;
One whose milk has dried from hunger,
While her newborn is weeping;
For the ones who dread the sun at daybreak,
For the onslaught it brings forth;
I say, is it worth it fighting-
The ones with stone as their weapon.
photo credit: taken by Peter Biro/ IRC
The water moves with a speed akin to that of dogs chasing after squirrels, it rushes towards the rocks. Rises with vehement force into ginormous waves and then, collapses all at once with a turbulent sound- that’s on a cold stormy day.
During the Summer, the rays of the sun reflects on the cerulean sea with its low tides, swaying in a slow rhythmic fashion.
The isolated fortress located at the center of Norman’s island (a place rarely visited) was Kiara’s home for six years and 277 days now. Silence and loneliness were the backbone towards her friendship with the sea- she had become at master at the language of water.
She was the sole survivor of a ship wreck and had sought refuge in the fortress, that was the last time her pale feet graced the grassy outside of the building’s four walls. But yet, she hoped, someday, HE would set her free. The price of being rescued couldn’t be that expensive, could it?
word count: 165. This story is In response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge. We get a photo every week and then wrote a 150-175 word story on it. To read more or even participate, clink on the highlighted link above. Thank you TJ Paris for such an astounding picture.