International Writers Magazine: Flash Fiction
- l'heure bleue
white bones, they are everywhere. Heaps of hipbones, leg bones,
fingers pointing at the sky. You turn away in horror but you can't
escape, you find rows of skulls, broken like egg shells, smashed
with machetes - without a human thought - by men with cold hands
and eyes of hyenas.
All this you see
under a monkey tree while the whole world is turning violet and soon
blue - and after that - nothing.
Memories are erased, shaved off with sharp objects, medicated with powerful
potions, shredded and thrown away. Only you can't forget. Still, you
wish you could sleep - if only one night - breathing calmly like a baby
I'm holding your shivering body while you keep repeating you can't make
the movie. Can't I see how impossible it is in this evil country? But
then why are we here, I keep asking. You can see it all so clearly through
your magic lens but you close your eyes every time a silent baby dies
and a man without legs begs for food. Didn't you know what kind of hellhole
you would find here?
During the blue hour you drink whisky and cry. You say I don't understand
you because I'm disconnected and lost. You don't believe me when I say
the world will listen to you. We both know I'm lying.
© Marja Hagborg May 2006
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