Vonkfiksie: A Cup of Tears

Hierdie is oorspronklik geskryf vir Flash Friday op 30 Mei 2014.

Cup of Tears

Outside the city walls red battlefields baked in the sun. Elah poured her tears into the palace garden’s dry fountain. “For my brothers,” she said.

Beside the fountain lay the broken statue of a woman – a reminder of a story almost forgotten. ‘There would only be freedom from the war when enough tears have been shed.’ Elah’s tears stained the grey stone. Women in mourning veils crowded behind her, cup in hand. They shuffled forward, each tipping their cup into the fountain. Tears blended, slowly filling the bowl.

“For my father.”

“For my husband.”

“For my son.”

But it was not enough.

Elah stood by the fountain for seven days and cried under a burning sky until she had no strength left. For fathers, brothers, sons, her people, her enemy.

“Is this enough?” she whispered.

Her last tear filled the fountain and spilled over the edge. The sound of battle stopped as darkness took her.

Vroeë dinastiese Illa, ca. 2600 – 2500v.C., Sumeries. The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Flash Fiction: A Cup of Tears

This was originally written for Flash Friday on 30 May 2014.

Cup of Tears

Outside the city walls red battlefields baked in the sun. Elah poured her tears into the palace garden’s dry fountain. “For my brothers,” she said.

Beside the fountain lay the broken statue of a woman – a reminder of a story almost forgotten. ‘There would only be freedom from the war when enough tears have been shed.’ Elah’s tears stained the grey stone. Women in mourning veils crowded behind her, cup in hand. They shuffled forward, each tipping their cup into the fountain. Tears blended, slowly filling the bowl.

“For my father.”

“For my husband.”

“For my son.”

But it was not enough.

Elah stood by the fountain for seven days and cried under a burning sky until she had no strength left. For fathers, brothers, sons, her people, her enemy.

“Is this enough?” she whispered.

Her last tear filled the fountain and spilled over the edge. The sound of battle stopped as darkness took her.

Early Dynastic Illa, ca. 2600 – 2500 B.C.,Sumerian. The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Flash Fiction: Graffiti

This was originally written for Flash Friday on 23 May 2014.

Graffiti

Letterboxes, Area 51 by MartinStr. Via FlashFriday

Steve stood by his graffitied mailbox. A few dropped paint cans lay around.

“Bloody teenagers!” He would have preferred an echo, but only got the screech of cicadas. At last the postal van drove up and a postman sauntered over. He tried stuffing more unpaid bills into the mailbox.

“Some of us actually pay our bills, buddy.”

“I would love to. Of course, if you came into the house for a moment, I could show you why I can’t.” He kicked another can and sent it flying. The man didn’t notice it as he walked back and drove off.

Steve picked up another discarded can. It didn’t matter if he could move stuff if people didn’t notice. He covered the black spray-painted word “alien” with the more appropriate “dead man” in red. He added an arrow pointing to the house and threw the can as far as he could.

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