Musings

Post script recovering from the previous "disturbing" post.

This is a more personal posting mainly because anything else is currently escaping from my mind. How often do people talk but their words have no substance. Almost akin to what I am doing now. I need to bring out the journal.

In the meantime, here's a short story I created one night on a spur on the moment on MSN messenger.

Pasperou. Doing Homework says:

please do tell

Oculus says:

Of a story of tragedy, woe and faith?

Oculus says:

And so you shall have it

About A Boy

Omar was but a simple boy in Palestine

He cared not for the finer things in life

All he needed was the dirt under his feet, the clear blue sky, the shining stars at night

What for he the riches of the Imperialistic Westerners?

But Omar has not yet realized that the Westerners were never content with what they had

They came, always looking, always searching

Our people have been killed they said. Our people have been murdered. Your kind did it. Your kind are guilty

And they slaughtered Omar's people in the thousands

His village was wiped out in a night

Planes of the infidels he was told. Screaming Eagles of Doom and Destruction that had obliterated his village in a single silvery swoop

He was transported after that, with what was left of his family. Of his eight brothers and sisters only two remained. And his mother with them. There was no time to bury them for Israeli trucks came to take them away with fierce soldiers pushing and shoving

Their house and all the rest were crushed and driven over by a monstrous bulldozer that tore down two storey houses with ease

He ended up in a camp. A temporary camp he was told. Lies, he already knew at a young age. All lies. The dirt here was different from the ones back home. There was the aura of disease and pestilence which seemed ingrained into it's grains

Still, Omar made the most of his life. He made friends with some children who like him, were survivors of a wrecked home.

He enjoyed his time with them. There was nothing to do in the time otherwise. They spent it trying to become proficient in a Imperialistic Western game called Socur.

Slowly he began to heal, perhaps inside and out. There was still naught to do but now he had the comfort of friends and in a sense a predictableness in his life long gone that terrible nights many Summers ago

Alas for him, it was not to last. Another fine hot day as the sun beat down, he and his friends played Socur as was their wont

Omar had the ball, and was about to pass it to Ahmed when Ahmend suddenly stiffened as a puff of red appeared on the side of his head. Someone has thrown a dessert Omar thought, his ideas still naive.

Thats when he saw the blood and the gaping wound which seemed to suck him unto itself deeper and deeper down into a whole of red and purple

He ran. He ran as though nothing else mattered

He managed to make it back to camp with only a few scrapes and bruises.

Unlike twelve of his companions who lay dead. Target practice for a bored platoon

He thought rest and relief would appear as he finally trudged round the last corner towards the camp

It was when he found out the massive pillar of smoke blotting into the sky was not a bonfire as he had cheerily thought in his desperate flight back.

The camp looked like a scene out of hell

Attack helicopters looking for all the world like malavolent black hornets scuttled back and forth smoke lipping from their noses. People fell. The stench of burning flesh was everywhere.

And somewhere a boy began to scream...