[Fiction] Raptus 2065

Golden streets with cobble pavements.

Lightly browned winds guiding leaves

under the feet of weary walkers.

Leaving ruin and debris lost.

 

Children running, playing, screaming with

pockets of voluptuous arrogance. Mothers

cradling infants that cannot yet play

while fathers watch their wives.

 

Flags and posters hang from

poles, street lights and windows

proclaiming a death or supposed

death of one women’s spoil.

 

“If you see her kill her, kill the sinner.”

“If you don’t, pray she don’t see you first.”

 

The sun is bright, gleaming,

blinding the children who play

on the golden cobble. White

linens and silks flow in

 

windows bare.  The doors are

open wide, always wide, welcoming

the girls who play wearing

skirts soft.  The baker lays

 

out his ration, his life

on a shelf for the

children to beckon, call home

and plead.  His work smells

 

of warmth, pride.  The boys

beg their mothers, the children

gather on the street.  Gleam

through the windows busy, at

 

at the toys, trinkets, all

laid out in a row. Gathering

around like rust forming on

wheels, flies fleeing to rotten

 

meat.  The butcher has no

peering children, curious girls looking

through the dress shop windows.

The children don’t understand.  A

 

shadow pulls a blanket over

the golden cobble.  The faces of

crying children for their mothers,

fathers weeping for their daughters.

 

Black cats mew for their

dinners, cry for milk and

meats.  Shadows fall over shop

windows, darkening the fabrics and

 

the girls.  Hiding the baker’s

gold and flies swarming the

meat.  No more boys calling

out to the girls walking.

 

Horses crying,

carriages rattling.

Doors shutting,

shoes tapping.

Ovens humming,

kettles screaming.

Knives chopping,

scissors cutting.

Dogs barking,

young laughing.

Boys scoffing,

mothers fretting.

Fathers gloating,

birds chirping.

Shop keepers yelling at boys stealing,

the girls are shrieking, the babes weeping.

Bombs sounding,

everything falling.

 

No more boys calling out to the girls walking.

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Indigo is a writer living out of Seattle. She plays a lot of video games.

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