Creative Writing "The Interior - Chapter 2"

The story continues...

The Interior – Chapter 2

The dust had long settled in her kinky black hair and formed streaks that ran lengthwise from her scalp down her face. Dust mixed with tears forms mud which is caked to her cheeks in such a way that she resembles a warrior princess preparing for battle. But her heart is not prepared for war or pain or loss. It is not ready to move forward… alone. It isn’t ready to address the insurmountable tasks that sit right before her. So, she lies there alone in a pile of rubble allowing the weight from the debris to embrace her like the clutches of a parent… a parent she never knew.

The yelling had long ceased and the activity had been followed by an eerie silence which penetrated the atmosphere. It was a silence that brought a ringing which started as an annoyance and grew so loud that you’d have to cover your ears, knowing that the hands upon your ears made no difference but simply to placate your own soul.

A young woman in her early twenties passed the empty doorway of the hut. She saw the blood and had heard what had happened, but was looking for something else.

“Sharah. Sharah.” Her voice was low. Taking two steps into the hut she whispered, “Sharah, it’s me. Are you here? Sharah. Answer me.”

Her eyes moved quickly from the left to the right, surveying the carnage. It looked nothing like the hut she remembered from her youth. It was darker now. The sun didn’t set the way it once did and the rays which would dance on the walls had been replaced by shadows which only haunted its inhabitants. Reaching over, she grabbed a board and moved it. Then another. Then another. Then another until she exposed a small hand encrusted with blood. Her heart sank, realizing that she had found what she came to find.

With a burst of energy she began throwing the pieces of wall to the left and the right. Her tears fell steadily as she repeated, “No Sharah. No Sharah. No Sharah.” First an arm was exposed and then a leg and then a torso until finally, Sharah’s face was lit up by the shadows.

A deep cut was exposed on her forehead. Lips split from dehydration. Her eyes remained fixed upon the ceiling as her stomach exposed the thin, shallow breaths she was taking.

“Sharah. Can you hear me? Are you OK? Sharah.” She scooped the pile of bones into her arms and brought her close to her chest. She wished that she could give away life. She would freely give hers at this moment. She would allow this young girl… this child… to take her very breath… to take her very life. She would gladly die in this jungle to know that another child didn’t have to perish under the hands of that madman.

Sharah coughed and then whispered an unintelligible word. The woman was brought back to the reality of the situation. Putting her arms under Sharah’s legs and back, she picked her up and carried her to the door. She peered deeply to the left and to the right. She could still see the truck tracks and the trees which had suffered under their wrath as the soldiers exited the village. She could hear the soft muffled cries of moms who had lost sons or wives who had lost the love of their lives. She tiptoed through the doorway and went right – hoping to make it to the hut of Tsu-Tsu, the village doctor.

Every step brought a crack of a twig or the rustle of palm branches that echoed in the silence. She knew how much the militia would love to get their hands on Sharah. She had heard stories about how entire villages had been stripped of their young girls. She also understood that even though she had grown up with the people in this village and knew that they all had good hearts; she also knew that they’d be willing to give over Sharah at the hopes of getting their loved ones back. She couldn’t blame them. Loss and grief causes you to do the unspeakable sometimes, allowing you to look at your actions from the past tense instead of the present.

Dipping in between trees and huts, she was making good time. Sharah was repeating the same word over and over again. All of a sudden they stopped and slammed into the side of a hut.

“You! You! You! Everything… Put it all in here!”

The one speaking orders was close. He was right on the other side of the hut and spoke with authority and rage. Then she heard the voice… the voice of Tsu-Tsu.

“I will give you whatever you want. I will give you whatever I have. But, please sir, please don’t hurt the people. You can have everything here in the village. Just please let the people go. Please don’t take them.”

“We will do whatever we do. I’m not asking for permission. I’m giving an order.” She heard a button unlatch and then the sound of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back. “If you choose to disobey, I will treat you like the others.”

“Ok. Ok. Just don’t shoot. Please put that away. I’ll do whatever. This? Do you want this? Ok. Where do you want it?”

You could hear the hammer fall gently back into place. “That’s better. I want this entire hut placed in the truck. We need all the medical supplies we can get. And hurry up. I still have to catch up with the trucks before nightfall.”

Leaning tightly against the thatching, she slid down. Sitting there, she pulled Sharah close to her chest. Her heavy breaths told of sleep. In the background, she could hear the boxes being loaded onto the truck. These boxes carried with them life… they carried hope. With their disappearance, so went the only chance of restoration… of rebuilding… of renewal.

So she sat, buried in thatching. She sat buried in her thoughts. She sat buried under the weight of a child who was in desperate need of something far greater than medicine. She was in need of hope… of love… of redemption.

(C) 2009 GP Hintz

Creative Writing - "The Interior"

So i am back on track... that's write (ha ha), i've picked up the pen and the paper (or maybe it's just my laptop and microsoft word program) and started writing again. It seems to be the one thing that always gets pushed to the back of my life, but the one thing that i love to do! I'm challenging myself to begin writing between 500-1000 word stories. I'll share them with you and you can let me know what you think. If you aren't into reading fiction - i understand. But, give it a chance and let me know what you think. Also, stay tuned and hold me accountable... i need to write more. GP

The Interior – Short Story

He pushed hard against the cold bricks, allowing the sand from their surface to fall between his cotton shirt and dirty brown skin. His knees rested below his chin and his arms squeezed legs tightly. Breath rose like the smoke from Hitler’s chimney – clouding the atmosphere and smelling like death. Exhaling, he let his stomach fall heavily against thighs. Inhaling, you could see his ribs.

The room was the size of a closet and the air as dark as night. Sounds echoed against its thin walls and carried with them anxiety and fear. Footsteps meant men and men meant death. The footsteps came closer and stopped; so dwelt death only a yard away. He held his breath and his bones squeezed tight against the flesh of his legs.

He heard a hand touch the wall which lay only a few feet from his nose. A plastered jail cell created for his protection. The fingers tapped lightly and then ran softly – first up and then down. There were shouts heard in the distance and gunshots which rang through the air, but the volume of the hand was soft.

A child, under the age of four, lay to his left and began to stir in its sleep. He reached over, putting his hand softly over her mouth and bringing one finger to his lips. Her eyes opened fast and registered terror. He hated to see this look which had become so normal for her, but knew that it was a natural reaction to their situation. Her eyes expressed her understanding. Her childhood was a distant memory and replaced with atrocities that even grown men should never have to witness.

The hand against the wall began to move again. This time to the left and then to the right – as if a giant cross had just been finger painted on the exterior. Voices were heard again, but this time they were closer and directed at the plaster. Words couldn’t be understood, but the inflection caused fear to rise in his heart.

‘Could it be?’ he thought. ‘After all this time? After all these days? And now… now here? In this tomb? In this place of refuse?’ He grabbed the child and brought her into his arms, allowing her to bury her head into his shoulder. He could hear a soft whimper and feel the tears begin to wet his shirt. He closed his eyes to the moisture of his own reality.

The hand which was gentle now attacked the wall with fury. First, the violent slap of an angry palm rang between the walls and then a sharper sound – one of fists and butts of guns – rang out like a popcorn machine. There was no rhythm or steady beat; just the chaos of rage personified in action. Plaster began to rain like hail on the duo.

The butt of an M-16 was the first item to enter their safe haven. It slammed through the plaster and exploded upon the bricks which lay beyond it. He lay upon his little angel and protected her like a mother bird upon her eggs. Not looking, he could feel the plaster now falling in chunks on his back and the dust entering his body through his mouth and nose. The voices could be heard clearly now – yelling vulgarities at the pile of flesh which was mounded on the floor.

A soldier in camouflage reached through the wall, falling heavily upon the man – grabbing his left arm in one hand and a chunk of his hair in the other. With one tug, the man was lifted up and thrown through the wall into the middle of the room. Laced up boots began to punish the man, relentlessly kicking without discretion. Bones could be heard cracking and blood began to paint the floor red. Groans of pain filled the room.

As this continued, a dirty faced four year old remained buried in the rubble watching the only one she knew as family be tortured for doing the only thing he could to protect her… become the target.

GP

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