I have decided to participate to this week’s Flash Fiction Friday, because the picture was so evocative, heartbreaking and real, this story burst into my mind.
FORLORN
The plane’s cargo hold filled with screams and cries. Soldiers piled more people inside, the air stale with fear. They held machine guns and wore masks, their shiny boots crushing fingers, hands and feet. They pushed and shoved, gave bruises and wounds.
‘‘Daddy, he’s coming now.’’ The girl’s voice broke, tears falling down her face reddened by the wasted run—no one could escape the Army. ‘‘I need to push,’’ she said, eyes closed and chin tucked in as she cried in the surrounding madness.
The old man held her hand, shocked by their brutal arrest, by what was to come.
‘‘Daddy, help me!’’ she cried out, the people around them making way for her spread legs, blood and other fluids leaking out of her. The smell of booze and unwashed bodies was so pungent the old man covered his nose with his spit rag. ‘‘Promise me you’ll hide him well.’’ With her painful words, his trance broke.
The old man stood up, even if he’d been told to stay down and shut it. He grabbed a soldier’s arm and pulled. ‘‘Darla is having her baby.’’ Never good with words, he feared his voice got lost in the roaring of the engine and the gusts of wind coming from the closing cargo hold. ‘‘Got a doctor?’’ Like the Army would keep one to check on the hobos they forced to fight on the war fronts.
When the soldier brushed him off, the old man lost it. He screamed, ‘‘You have no right to keep us here! We are New American citizens!’’
‘‘What the hell is holding up my plane?’’ A general advanced from the cockpit. ‘‘You the trouble maker?’’ An oxygen mask covered his face, the stink too much for his rank.
The old man noticed his daughter unconscious on the floor. He sank next to her, gently tapping her cheeks to wake her up. Tears fell from his face and joined hers.
‘‘Get them out, the both of them. Waste of space, she’s dead and he can’t walk straight,’’ the general ordered, and soldiers grabbed the girl roughly, her head dropping to her chest.
‘‘Darla!’’ the old man shouted, but she didn’t open her eyes. ‘‘Darla, wake up!’’ But fright seized his throat and squeezed it shut, letting nothing more out. The old man wanted to scream, to run, to keep her safe, but he was too late.
The soldiers pushed them out of the cargo hold, and the old man landed hard on the makeshift runway in the field. After the soldiers threw her out, the girl’s eyes remained closed, her fists clutched to her belly, nothing moving inside. The old man rocked her just like he had when he’d found her as a baby, left in the trash to die. Back then, he’d promised himself to never let her die.
‘‘Don’t leave me alone,’’ he repeated until it became a lament in the middle of the cornfield, miles from the Macro-City.
The plane lifted off with sounds of chaos, the old man hoping it would wake the dead. ‘‘Darla?’’ No use, she was gone, with the baby still inside her.
*
The old man ran, the pain from his knees shooting up and down his weak legs. He thought someone was following him, but it was his own rattled breath bursting out of his mouth.
Tears didn’t come up, even after he left Darla’s body in the field, no time for a grave since soldiers, planes and spotlights infested the place.
He kept to the ditches, deep enough for cover when Army trucks lifted dust from the roads. He prayed for the night to engulf him, so easy to disappear in a Macro-City of millions but so hard when surrounded by nothing.
‘‘Smells like trouble,’’ he’d said to Darla when she found out about the baby inside her. She would love him just like the old man had loved her; he’d saved her from a life of nothingness. So he’d helped her any way he could: found better food for her, even got a teddy bear for the baby and stashed every penny he found—where was the money? He’d need it to get away, to survive.
*
The dump crawled with soldiers searching for unwilling recruits, their weapon muzzles aimed at the darkest corners. Media Screens blared news about the courageous souls heading to the fronts, forgetting to mention how these were homeless people kidnapped to go.
The old man kept to the side alleys, away from the boulevards. He passed by Sally’s corner and noticed her gone—impossible, she peed where she slept to keep her good begging spot. He checked Ricky D’s palace by the dumpster but no more couch, no more broken TV set. The Army got everyone he knew.
The park square he’d called home for the past twenty years had been raided and destroyed: boxes flattened to the ground and litter rolling in the stuffy breeze. He saw it, his dejected box, by the manhole in the ground. If only he could reach it…
‘‘Hey you, stop right there!’’ one of the soldiers called to the old man.
This was his territory, his Macro-City: he knew every way out. Screw the money, he’d been surviving without it long enough.
‘‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’’ the soldier shouted, but the old man had already scampered into the side alley leading to the underground station.
He slid into the subway station and crushed his body to the Ads Screens under the stairs. The train slowed to a stop and he sat down by the door, waiting for soldiers to come and take him away. But the doors closed, he was safe for now.
His beloved Darla was gone. Back to being alone. Sooner or later, the soldiers would catch him. War raged inside him, he saw the enemy everywhere he looked. If only he could disappear and forget the daughter he called home.
July 21st, 2011 at 7:51 am
There’s something profound in this, truthful – how many stories like this do we ignore, everyday? You’re one of those writers who keeps a fragile distance that makes the story even more disconcerting and moving and, in a way, cinematic. This feels like part of a greater whole. Worth expanding on, even. Real gut-wrenching, heartbreak. Excellent read.
July 21st, 2011 at 7:56 am
DJ, will you marry me? Praises indeed:) Truth be told: this world is my novel’s Rebel, with raging war destroying the world and a new army branch controlling everything. Thanks for your comments, you’ve made my day!
July 21st, 2011 at 8:55 am
I agree. i want to know the back story of this dystopian nightmare and these two characters caught up in a hell not of their own making. Very nice Anne.
July 21st, 2011 at 5:26 pm
Thanks, Mike. If luck is on my side, you just might be able to read more of this dystopian tale in the future.
July 21st, 2011 at 9:48 am
I agree- beautifully written and heartbreaking, especially from a mother’s perspective with the infant and mother both perishing. Well done, Anne!
July 21st, 2011 at 5:27 pm
Yay, thanks Angie – I do like to explore this kind of perspective since I don’t plan to have children!!
July 21st, 2011 at 9:50 am
Very moving. I recognized the Rebel backdrop. You’re shining a light on someone most people would look away from, ignore. Heartwrenching.
July 21st, 2011 at 5:28 pm
Thanks so much, Di! I do want to write more about forgotten people…
July 21st, 2011 at 12:05 pm
What a though provoking and poignant post. You and I must share the same muse! All it takes is a picture to trigger a story. You’re writing is beautiful and moving. Thank you for speaking to my heart today!
July 21st, 2011 at 5:29 pm
Anita, this is too much!!! Thanks for reading me, your seal of approval means a lot:)
July 21st, 2011 at 12:56 pm
He does have that harried look, pursued. I look forward to reading more about this dystopian future you’re writing about.
July 21st, 2011 at 5:29 pm
There won’t be escaping it, mister Salami:)
July 21st, 2011 at 1:34 pm
Haunting and to be honest a tale that feels like its a few people’s reality. Well thought out, carefully crafted and lovingly presented. Well done Anne.
July 21st, 2011 at 5:30 pm
Thanks, Gareth – from someone who reads as much as you, your praises mean so much…
July 21st, 2011 at 5:52 pm
If it had ended with ‘the baby inside her’, I think that for me, it would have been just a bit more thought provoking. Aside from that, your truly haunting and beautiful prose, was a complete joy to read. You did more than justic for that picture. 🙂
July 21st, 2011 at 6:10 pm
Thanks so much, Tammy:)
July 21st, 2011 at 7:52 pm
I don’t know why, but when he melts away into the allies of Macro-City, his territory, it put me in mind of the Casbahs in certain Arab cities. A real gritty the personal is political feel to this story.
marc nash
July 21st, 2011 at 8:56 pm
Wow, thanks Marc:)
July 21st, 2011 at 8:19 pm
A very haunting story! The dystopian background is very interesting, would like to read more about that.Beautifully written.
July 21st, 2011 at 8:57 pm
Sonia, I’ve been writing Rebel for 7 years (on and off) and it’s the same dystopian world…I do love it, too:) Thanks!
July 21st, 2011 at 11:05 pm
This felt like it was an intro to something more, very captivating and sad. However I for one want to know where the old man ends up…..
Nice writing.
July 22nd, 2011 at 7:59 am
You’ve just given me an idea, Helen….we just *might* meet this old man again:)
July 21st, 2011 at 11:09 pm
Wow, you drew a lot out of that image! Downright tragic if he ever had even a vaguely similar existence. Though this was for another prompt-related circle, I think you should still add it to the #fridayflash collector. You’re already getting feedback from those folks, and I know more will like it.
July 22nd, 2011 at 7:59 am
I did add it, John – I didn’t know it was an option! Thanks for your kind comment:)
July 22nd, 2011 at 8:19 am
Very interesting and disturbing at the same time – impressive tale to come from a photo
July 22nd, 2011 at 8:29 am
Thanks Glen, I do love to disturb people:)
July 22nd, 2011 at 1:06 pm
Thw photo spoke volumes to me too – but nothing like what you were able to take from it. Beauitfully done.
July 22nd, 2011 at 1:26 pm
Thanks so much, Dana:)
July 22nd, 2011 at 3:21 pm
…the stink too much for his rank.
Knew a few high-ranking officers like that even back in the 1980’s during peacetime. Great story, I enjoyed it very much.
July 22nd, 2011 at 3:26 pm
Thanks so much for stopping by, BB:)
July 22nd, 2011 at 7:31 pm
I found this really sad. In a way, it almost reminded me of Children of Men, but much, much better. I really felt for the old man – and it takes a lot to get me to empathise with characters.
July 22nd, 2011 at 7:34 pm
Wait: better than Children of Men!?? *faints* Thanks, Icy!!! *faints again*
July 22nd, 2011 at 8:33 pm
Anne, c’est triste, poignant. Je suis bouche bée là, bon travail!
July 23rd, 2011 at 8:12 am
Merci, Jaw Jaw:) Tu sais comme j’aime les choses tristes…
July 23rd, 2011 at 2:09 am
I as mesmerized for the whole read. I was just saying to someone else how I love the mix of reality with not so much, the blurring that can make the story seem just a tick off from the here and now, but not that far off that it become eerily believable. You write with such emotion, but the way you blend it into the story, it is not a “preachy” kind of emotion. The emotions become part of the story as opposed to just descriptive. That, to me, is a real art.
Excellent. Thank you.
Kwee
July 23rd, 2011 at 8:13 am
I’m speechless after such kind words…thank you doesn’t seem enough, somehow:)
July 23rd, 2011 at 3:10 am
Great work! Made me really angry with the soldiers that they treated anyone that way, let alone a pregnant woman and an old man.
July 23rd, 2011 at 8:14 am
And sadly, I’m pretty sure somewhere around the world, kids, women and men are treated this way right now:(
July 23rd, 2011 at 12:13 pm
Wow, when a story bursts into your mind it doesn’t hold back. What a horribly sad story and so well written.
July 23rd, 2011 at 12:26 pm
Thanks, Tim! Yeah, my mind has a mind of its own…
July 23rd, 2011 at 8:04 pm
You have a real talent for writing dystopian Anne. Another excellent example of the world you create with your words. Sad and a fantastic piece from a photo. 🙂
July 23rd, 2011 at 8:33 pm
Thanks so much, Pat:) So glad that you think I’ve got it because I’m heading for a new draft on Rebel…
July 24th, 2011 at 10:52 pm
I almost couldn’t finish reading this… it is tragic and sad and more than a little chilling… “a waste of space” the general says of the old man and his pregnant daughter. It left me cold and in tears. This is very powerful, Anne. Horribly tragic… it is brilliantly written. I found myself wanting to say a prayer for Darla. I had to remind myself that this is just fiction… right?
How far off is society from realizing this dystopian nightmare… the way we treat those on the edges of society today… the elderly and homeless… the mentally and physically incapacitated? We are no longer (if we ever truly were) a classless society, casting aside those who don’t “measure up”… technology relentlessly driving us to…?
I shudder to think that this very thing is happening somewhere in the world right now… or just a “tick” away.
Reading some of the comments on my way “down” here… I agree with Icy… the feel of the story… it did remind me a bit of Children of Men… a movie that disappointed me in the end.
Your story did not disappoint, Anne. Thank you so much for sharing this.
July 25th, 2011 at 6:52 am
I’m glad you could finish it, though:) Thanks so much for stopping by, Veronica. I hope the story won’t give you nightmares…
July 25th, 2011 at 1:28 pm
Dystopian, indeed, and stunningly vivid. I love writing that you can almost taste.
July 25th, 2011 at 1:35 pm
Well, thank you very much, Paula:) I hope this story didn’t taste too bad, though – with all the hate and destruction…
July 25th, 2011 at 1:52 pm
Very dark! Frighteningly, this could almost be the very near future!
July 25th, 2011 at 1:59 pm
Thank you, Sue. Indeed, it could easily happen in ta few years…
July 27th, 2011 at 7:46 am
A very visceral piece with excellent pacing!
July 27th, 2011 at 8:37 am
Thanks so much, E:)
July 28th, 2011 at 4:18 am
So many comments, so many great things to get excited about. Beautiful and poignant writing: I felt that I was in that aircraft hold with the noise, smells and fear. This father/daughter relationship is touching and moving which makes her death and his reaction to it so much more believable.
Very glad it found its way to the fridayflash list. Thank you.
July 28th, 2011 at 6:37 am
So glad you liked it!! I’m thinking of doing a series of that dystopian world as my Fridayflash.
August 1st, 2011 at 3:20 pm
I’m late to the party, but this was a great piece about the bonds of love. The last line is perfect. Home isn’t always a place.
August 1st, 2011 at 3:23 pm
Better late than never, Dani:) Thanks for stopping by!