“I see behind you a path littered with human obstacles.”
“Some, it appears you dragged onto the path yourself. Many of their number caused you to be distracted for great lengths, only to find when you parted company, you had not been following your own path at all.”
“So intent were you in traversing this path of your own desires, you failed to notice the pieces of yourself you sacrificed along the way.”
“Your path is growing short, soon the end will be in view. It is imparitive that you retrace many of your steps. That you go back and collect all the little pieces of you that have been bought or sold along the way.”
“For only then, when you are whole, will realise the gift that was to have been your destiny. As you will love again, the stranger that was yourself.”
The capitol grew rank in the summer heat, the humid streets clogged
with sweating tourists and rats.
flocked to the coastal capitol seeking to pluck eager to be rid of
dollars from the plump damp palms of the rich touristas in exchange
for cheaply made trinkets and bastardized versions of local
Beyond the hawking vendors brightly painted lean-tos lay the garbage strewn alleyways along which hungry mothers and hollow eyed children hid in shadowy alcoves and awaited the less savory tourists who frequented the capitol not to purchase trinkets or sample local stews, but to sate their twisted appetites on the salty brown skin of island children- over which they salivated in the flickering blue light of their computer screens the remaining weeks of every year.
And it was there, in just such an alleyway that Isaiah crouched- amongst the severed fish heads and the flies, clothed in tattered loin cloths and reeking of the accumulative filth of a lifetime’s insanity, waiting for the moist little man in the white summer suit who had once bought him ice-cream and promised to return to him his little sister, Esmerelda, before he had finished the cone….
Together they witnessed their paralytic brother painstakingly free himself from the confines of his wheelchair, and slip silently from the pier into the same dark waters that had taken from him the use of his limbs only a few short summers before.
Together they knelt
at the waters edge as the bubbles ceased to rise, and prayed that god
have mercy, and receive his sin stained soul into heaven- even if it
meant they would together take his place in hell.
guarded their brother’s secret even after his once best friend was
arrested and charged with his death. Even as the man was tried and
convicted and sentenced to death- for a murder- only they knew was
not really a murder at all- they remained tight lipped.
Chained undauntingly to a secret that in the end would claim four lives, and hold three tattered souls in it’s clutches.
This was written for the photo prompt provided on Crimson’s Creative Challenge #39. For once I adhered to the 150 word count. I guess a little forced time away from a computer summoned my more obedient nature… Not..
If God is love, and Ismael truly believes He is, and love is the most powerful of God’s attributes, then no man, no law, and no government could forbid his love for Marta. And yet man’s law decreed a black man could not love a white woman, and his government, enforced it.
Driven like a fugitive from his homeland. Ripped away from not only Marta, but his family, his culture, his people. Forced to flee from one strange city after another, in hope of remaining alive long enough, to someday return, and lay eyes on his first born son.
Law enforcement cast a dragnet deep into the seething underbelly of the city- putting quite a damper on her usual late night activities. There was dope to be peddled and women to be pandered, but every junkie was a plant, and every john an informant. On every street corner resounding cries for normalcy could be heard.
“You know what’s wrong with this world? Nobody cares about the little guy anymore. Some idiot decides he’s gonna go for the big money, snap up some rich guys kid, but does he stop ta think about what that’s gonna do to the guy in the street bustin’ his ass just tryin’a make a livin’?”
over. Stuff like dis always does. Remember a couple a years ago when
dat guy, what was his name? Took a pot shot at da president? Ha! Dis
berg closed up tighter dan a drum! But we bounced back. We always
“So we got some
time off. Wadda ya say we go fishin’? Rocco’s been tellin’ me
about a sweet little number over in the Dockside Marina. Dual 500 HP
outboards, depth finder, tuna towers. Owners in Hong Kong or
something. That little babies just sittin’ there waitin’ for some