Kalinka Petkoff
Stories (2/0)
Thughra
Thughra curls up into himself, warding off the morning chill. The sun hasn’t quite risen over the top of the mountains, leaving the valley in a purple haze, turning the shadows into lurking figures hiding between market stalls. A small wrinkled woman lays out prunes at the fruit stall, her hands melding into the crumpled skins and a young man carefully displays his colorful scarves of silk and linen. A pain fills Thughra’s stomach, his mother used to wear the same silk scarves, they smelt of burnt amber and frankincense, now their remains drift across the desert, the smell of smoke lingering behind, a black stain on a golden dune. He squints and shakes the thought from his head, focusing on a small beetle scampering across the dusty ground. It’s difficult to distinguish the difference between the pain of loss and the pain of hunger and he wraps his arms tighter around his ribs. The wind sneaks in through the holes of his clothes. As the sun shyly appears above the tip of the mountains, the market begins to wake up. Traders and hagglers begin to fill the streets, replacing the menacing shadows. Life returns and an energy buzzes through the air, an energy that Thughra hasn’t been able to connect with since he lost his family to the fire. He scans the crowd and is drawn to a particular figure. The thick brown cloak is unusual for these parts of the world. The figure stands with his back turned, peacefully still. If it had not been for the colourful patterned bag that whispered stories of travels and different lands Thughra would have completely missed him.
By Kalinka Petkoff3 years ago in Futurism
Thughra
Thughra curls up into himself, warding off the morning chill. The sun hasn’t quite risen over the top of the mountains, leaving the valley in a purple haze, turning the shadows into lurking figures hiding between market stalls. A small wrinkled woman lays out prunes at the fruit stall, her hands melding into the crumpled skins and a young man carefully displays his colorful scarves of silk and linen. A pain fills Thughra’s stomach, his mother used to wear the same silk scarves, they smelt of burnt amber and frankincense, now their remains drift across the desert, the smell of smoke lingering behind, a black stain on a golden dune. He squints and shakes the thought from his head, focusing on a small beetle scampering across the dusty ground. It’s difficult to distinguish the difference between the pain of loss and the pain of hunger and he wraps his arms tighter around his ribs. The wind sneaks in through the holes of his clothes. As the sun shyly appears above the tip of the mountains, the market begins to wake up. Traders and hagglers begin to fill the streets, replacing the menacing shadows. Life returns and an energy buzzes through the air, an energy that Thughra hasn’t been able to connect with since he lost his family to the fire. He scans the crowd and is drawn to a particular figure. The thick brown cloak is unusual for these parts of the world. The figure stands with his back turned, peacefully still. If it had not been for the colourful patterned bag that whispered stories of travels and different lands Thughra would have completely missed him.
By Kalinka Petkoff3 years ago in Futurism