The Man In The Red Sweater
I awaken, the bright sun rays pierce my eyes, I squint and hastily protect my clouded vision with my hand. I can feel the warm earth beneath my body, the soft long grass soaks me in. I run my hand through my long raven hair, unravelling leaves, dirt, grass, and a few ants scramble on my fingers. The air is thick, hot, and hazy. I smell the summer breeze, combined with the scent of smoke, possibly derived from a nearby forest fire, or something else. Smokey, like my memories, why am I here? I don’t know. I battle with gravity, as I struggle to pull myself from the ground, I manage to balance on my weak legs. My vision becomes more clear and I am able to scope out my surroundings. I see oceans of grass hills, for miles, and a little off in the distance a cluster of trees, smoke emerging from them. The inside of my head wildly churns, as I attempt to search my memory in hopes of understanding my placement in these desolate fields. I found nothing. The dirt beneath the grass gently absorbs my bare feet, each step I take. My feet aren't the only things that are bare, my legs remain exposed. I am wearing a mini sundress, white, with tassels along the edges. Should I call out for someone? No. I may be in danger, it would be foolish to reveal myself. Do I walk towards the forest? Do I walk the other way? The other way, I don't know why heading straight for the smoke was even an option. Trudging through the long grass, I begin to search my memories again, still, no thought to be found on how or why I ended up here. Do I have friends? Do I have parents who are missing me? I look down at my body, my breasts are a decent size, maybe I'm too old to have parents missing me.
His Father deserved it.
The room was dark and grungy, the slightest bit of sunlight shone through the small windows, revealing the dust floating around like a swarm of flies. I could barely breathe properly without inhaling the particles. “I feel like we should be wearing masks in this place” I coughed.
Beneath The Thorn
It was a scorching day in the small village of Magaya. The vengeful sun beat down Chuki’s head, it sometimes felt to her like the sun was trying to punish everyone. Chuki was a sedulous worker, she almost worked a little too hard, she spent her days in the fields nurturing the crops as if they were her own children, like her life depended on it, because it did. Magaya was one of the poorest villages in Mali, no one had it easy, but Chuki never let her poverty overcome her prosperity.