On the Fringe

Tim crouched in the corner of his cell. Arms wrapped around his knees, back pressed hard against the wall. Fear and tension stiffened his joins. All around him he heard the sounds of the ongoing riot; banging, cursing, yelling and screaming. He was on the fringe of a warzone and there was no escape.

He was sure the guards had abandoned their post hours ago, or maybe he was growing immune to the sounds of their tazers or the smell of their smoke bombs.

‘They’ve given us up for dead!’ he thought ruefully.

The very people who were supposed to keep this place regulated had fled at the first sign of trouble. Tim wished he could have fled too. The fringe of hell was no place for a guy like him. For anyone, really.

The warning alarm had been droning for so many hours that he hardly noticed it anymore. It was simply a part of the chaotic mix of screams, blaring sirens, and bi-lingual curses, which slowly began to lull him into a restless, but inevitable sleep. God, it felt like years since he’d last slept.

“And I’ll never sleep again if I don’t stay awake!” he said aloud to the empty cell. He checked his waistband to make sure the homemade shank was still there. Devon, his cellmate, had given him the rudimentary weapon, before he ran out to join his gang in the fighting.

“Protect ya’self, aight? I ain’t tryin’ to get a new cellmate ‘n shit.”

“Thanks!” he yelled to Devon’s retreating back. Without the 6’3, 280 lbs other man in the cell, it felt empty and strangely enormous; enormous enough to hide something, which could kill him. As soon as Devon left, Tim clamored off the top bunk and desperately tried to push the steel bed against the cell entrance. It may not stop anyone for long, but it would hopefully deter them and send them off in search of someone else to rough up. But unfortunately Tim wasn’t built like his cellmate. He was only 5’10 and 165 lbs, barely. Definitely not strong enough to move the 200 lbs steel bed frame the 10 feet across the cell to block the door. No all he managed to do was create a little pocket between the bed and the wall of the cell for him to crouch in.

And that’s where he’d been crouching for almost 9 hours. Tim’s lower half was going numb, the stone on the floor and walls were cold, despite the typical California weather. There was no heat or light, besides the low-level blue of the emergency lighting. Water and power were the first things to be cut-off during the melee. The flickering shadows he saw in the hall came from one of the many fires that were burning throughout the prison compound. Ghostly orange flames wafted by casting shadows of 20 foot tall men-like creatures. Truly the fringe...

The sound of breaking glass had died down within the last hour or so. He assumed it was because all the windows that could be broken were. Still no sign of the sheriff or riot police to come in and stop this. Perhaps they really were waiting for the Blacks and Latinos to finish each other off. Waiting and hoping. But where did that leave him, a scrawny half-Black, half-Mexican? Were they waiting for him to be killed off too? Was he just par-for-the-course? When they found his body would just be another dead nigger? Or another dead beaner? Or just another dead darkie? Either way, it was clear that he would be one less problem for the California Penal System and that was really all they cared about.

They didn’t care why he was there, or if he was ever going to get out. Sometime Tim felt himself not caring, not believe that he would ever get out. Sometimes, just sometimes he wished he wouldn’t. Shit was tough in prison, but it was really tough outside.

He could still remember the sentencing hearing, his useless jackass of a public defender smiling at the judge as Tim was sentenced to 15 years, eligible for parole in 10. Tim remembered all too clearly.

He remembered the night that started it all; March 8th. He remembered how hungry he was. He was at the bottom of his luck and there was no way up. He couldn’t go back to the shelter; the last time he was there was a random sweep for people with warrants out for their arrest. So it was off-limits, at least for a while. But, back then he was so determined to avoid jail.

So there he was, cold (yes even California gets cold at night), hungry, and overwhelmingly depressed. He’d been to another one of those useless career centers that day. It was impossible for him to find a job though, with the economy being so shitty. It’d been 5 months since he got laid off. In 5 months he went from renting a decent apartment, to fighting with dogs on the street for a bone from the garbage. But even that was rare, most nights it was just the overwhelming hunger. He learned quickly the pecking order of homelessness. Who got which garbage cans; who could hold signs where. Oh he learned, mostly the hard way.

He wished he’d never run from those cops which got him his arrest warrant. But, he was new on the streets, he just been laid off a month before and cops scared him. He learned growing up, that men in a uniform meant trouble for anyone darker than a glass of milk. So he ran and they chased him. But he was quicker than they were, or maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t worth it them; another homeless spic, in city overrun by the dirty sweaty unwashed masses. He was just one of many problems to them. Another number to be reported, another warrant to be issued, another indigent to be lock-up for the crime of being poor. Another body on the fringe.

So that is how he found himself, on March 8th crouched under a rose bush, his Dodger’s jacket (the last thing his father ever brought for him before he died) spread over him like a blanket. A pain in his right side made him realize, he’d probably lain on a rock. Rolling over, he tried to get back to sleep; he needed to be awake soon, to make sure that he wasn’t found on anyone’s property come sunrise. This time the pain was in his left side; a dull jabbing, that he absently swatted at with his arm. Then he heard it, a woman’s voices gasp.

‘Shit!’ he said as he scrambled to his knees, ignoring the pain of his face and arms being scratched by the thorns on the roses. And there she was, a middle-aged woman, maybe Latino, maybe white, he wasn’t sure at the moment, holding a broom that she was using to jab him in the ribs like some sort of dead animal.

“I’m sorry maam, I was just tired, and so I thought I’d lie down. I’ll be on my way now. “He blurted out in a rush. Grabbing his jacket about him, Tim moved into a crouching position, getting ready to stand up and run off the property. He felt the damp spots on his pants and shirt where the moisture from the ground had soaked into his clothes.

In a flash he stood up, but just as quickly the woman, either startled or angry, let out a shriek to wake the dead. Without thinking Tim leaped forward and grabbed her with his hand over her mouth. He just wanted her to be quiet. He just wanted to leave and not make a scene. But it was too late. Lights were coming on in the surrounding houses, neighbors were coming to investigate. He let he go and turned to run. But even that was not to be. As he turned around he heard the sirens and the now-too-familiar flashing blue and red lights. The woman must have called the cops before she decided to poke at him. The sirens and strobe-like lights sped down the block.

He could have run had he been stronger. Maybe he could have run and gotten away too. But it was hard to focus and think quickly when you hadn’t eaten in three days. Hard to motivate your feet to move when your stomach was so empty it felt like you inhaled a balloon. He hardly even noticed the cramping anymore. But he noticed the lightheadedness, the subtle feeling that something was just beyond your grasp. Some great idea was on the fringe of his consciousness, some idea like running away, some idea like not sleeping on someone’s property; some great idea, just on the fringe of his thoughts, which was only accessible through a good meal and proper bed.
But no sleep and no food make it very hard to focus. So Tim stood there, he stood there as the officer forced him to the ground, handcuffed and threw him into the back of the car. He felt like he was still standing, like time itself just moved around him, but he was still in the same place, when he heard the charges read against him: breaking and entering, resisting arrest, assault and battery, criminal trespassing, evading a warrant. The world shifted around him and he was still standing there.

“How does the defendant plead?”

“Guilty, your honor.”

His lawyer couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just sleep on the street, like a “decent bum” his words, not Tim’s. Tim didn’t explain to him that he didn’t know what a “decent bum” was. He didn’t explain to him that bums got arrested sleeping on the street. He didn’t explain that being a decent bum was what got him his first arrest warrant. It was a crime to be homeless. Tim realized, all too well, how guilty he was.

But that brought him back to now; crouching against a brick wall, sort of like he crouched underneath that rose bush, all those months ago.It seemed the worst of the rioting had died down. He wondered who’d won – the Blacks or the Latinos. Tim was in the new “mixed” cell, in which inmates weren’t automatically segregated by race; some shit about the Supreme Court deciding it was unconstitutional. It wouldn’t matter to him, who won, or who lost. He was on the racial fringe too; one of the only guys in here who hadn’t been in a gang since he was old enough to stand. Caught between two races, he’d never fully belonged to either. Caught between two worlds and now he was crouching in the shadow of hell.

He was on the fringe of society. Cast away like so much useless refuse. Cast away to be caught up in the dragnet called prison; caught up so the rest of the world could go on living their lives. Maybe on the 6:00 news they would catch a story about a riot at “Chino.” Maybe they would hear about the homeless interned in prison for being poor. Maybe someone would hear his story. But he doubted it. He was on the fringe and the only way left to go was down.

Check out the two articles today’s story was based on:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/10/us/10prison.html?bl&ex=1250049600&en=7d16ba3057e2733a&ei=5087%0A

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/09/opinion/09ehrenreich.html?pagewanted=1&_r=2&ref=opinion

Windowpanes

I didn’t remember this, but being here reminded me, of a time when we walked hand-in-hand together and no one said anything. We were young and innocent and no one would think to question our motives. Everywhere I went you went too. Together we were inseparable holding hands, skipping, and jumping; doing whatever it was that we damn well pleased.

It was autumn this particular time, your hand was clutched tightly to mine. Running across the street to the park, a strange light shone in your eyes. A light that I am sure was reflected in mine. We were two kids on a grand adventure and no one was going to stop us. That house across the street from the park (do you remember it?); the house with the huge windows that took up most of the front. You stopped suddenly in front of those humongous windows and let my hand go. I was hurt and for an instant I was confused that suddenly autumn had turned to winter and our spring had soured into fall. But in front of those windowpanes you stopped and looked at me, the queer light of excitement suddenly replaced with a new light. You looked so beautiful then, reflected against those windowpanes with the sun shining on you, like a cherub of God. You took my hand again and stepped closer to me, too close, but not close enough. I swear I felt your heart beating through your clothes, that jacket your mom made you put on so you wouldn’t get a chill in the brisk autumn air. Your other hand raised and looking at you in those mirror-like windowpanes I saw you lean into me. I smelled the shampoo in your hair; I knew what was coming, even if I didn’t know. A kiss; and you tasted like hot chocolate and peanut butter, an intoxicating combination. We stayed like that, neither of us knowing what to do, but knowing just enough to make it right. We closed our eyes and let our bodies mingle, becoming one before the windowpanes.

You died that day. A car accident took your life when we left the park. You flew up so high in the air and then falling like an angel back to Earth. Your neck snapped and then your eyes went black, red blood streamed from your body growing in a pool around you like some crimson flower. When they took you away in that body bag, a part of me died as well, a part of me that will never be recaptured. We were two kids, and now I am one alone. Even here in this graveyard I don’t feel as close to you as I do when I am walking past a window in the glorious sun on a crisp autumn day and I catch the reflection of two boys who thought they had forever.

A Jones Family History... The Beginning

The following story is a chapter of my family’s history. Some of the names have been changed, but the stories are all true or as true as they have been told to me. Enjoy.

Hello, my name is J. Bryan Jones, but most people just call me Bryan. I’d like to introduce you to the characters and stories that I call my family history. The next couple of weeks we’ll focus on my father’s family, but don’t worry, we’ll get to my mother’s soon enough. But before I begin to tell you their stories allow me to introduce them briefly. We will start with my great-grand parents on my dad’s side; the Marquis Reynaud Beaucoeur and his wife the Marquise Vivien Beaucoeur. Reynaud was born in 1893 in Marseille, France and Vivien in 1899 in Paris, France. They had two children my grandmother Rosalilé, who was born in 1918, and her older brother Victor, who was born in 1916. Both of these children were born on our family estates in Provence, France.

My grandfather Jackson Jones was born in 1910 in Augusta, Georgia. My grandmother and father had 11 children including my father; from the eldest to youngest: Jackson Jr. (1935), Savannah (‘36), James (Feb.’37), Elisabet (Dec. ’37), Reynold (’39), Samuel (’40), Peter and his twin sister, Sherry (May ’41), Reginald (’42) (my father), Perry (’52), and Lily (’57). From these children only seven grandchildren were produced. Sherry’s daughter Jennifer (1979), Reynold’s two children Richard (1983) and Katrina (1993), Savannah’s two children Tobias (1987) and Alicia (1989), Lily’s son Oliver (1997), and of course me (1985). Now that you know the players, let me tell you the stories.

My family’s lineage is old; our family claims to be entitled nobility since before the French Revolutionary War. Whether or not that is true, I am unsure and couldn’t verify it without plenty of old birth certificates and family Bibles. But what is true is that after the Bourbon Restoration ended in 1848 following Napoleon being ousted from power, there was a decree for previously entitled French nobles to reclaim their titles. Only about 300 or so families in the entire country did that; one of them of course being mine.

You see we apparently curried enough favor, or licked enough boots, whichever, to earn a marquisate in the South of France in the region known as Provence. I have never been there for reasons which will become quite obvious later on. But from what I hear it is quite beautiful, as most of the South of France is. For those of you who don’t know you’re French Peerage and nobility, a Marquis is a step below a Duc (Duke in English) but above a Count. So without being royalty it is the second highest title one could have held in France. While that is all fine and dandy, it is ABSOLUTELY worthless.

After the French Revolution the monarchy and all royalty was abolished. Napoleon reinstated a form of nobility, but when the House of Bourbon fell in 1848 nobility and noble titles were banished. However, a group of people known as the “Ultra-Royalist,” which is simply code for rich white men who didn’t want to give up power got a decree passed in 1852 that anyone who could prove with the appropriate documentation that they used have an official title as a Peer of the realm was able to claim that title after being sanctioned by the French government. However, it simply meant you could go around calling yourself Duc or Marquis, but there was absolutely no power associate with the title.

My great-great grandfather decided that he could not do without his title and petitioned the French government to allow him to use the title Marquis du Beaucoeur. Apparently he had the paperwork to back-up his claim and he got to use the title. Which passed down through primogeniture, meaning the eldest male inherited the title regardless of who was the eldest child, unless the only heir was female, and then the French government allowed the title to pass to her. Remember the purpose was to preserve old, rich white MEN’s power. Nonetheless, this was how my great-grandfather found himself Marquis Reynaud Beaucoeur.

Sorry about the French history and politics lesson, but it was necessary to understand where my family comes from. It provides some small context to the bizarreness that they exhibit later on. When my great grandmother Vivien was married to Reynaud, she was only 16. Her family, were moderately well-off business people, who thought that the monarchy was coming back and figured it would make sense to marry their only daughter off to someone with some sort of title in front of their name. At this point Reynaud was 22 and overseeing the family’s vineyard. Oh yes, I forgot to mention the estates in Provence make their money off of wine and olive oil.

Like any profession that is tied to the land, even the wealthy sometime experience hard-years. Apparently 1915 was one of those years. The Great War had just broken out (WWI) and Europe was basically a mess. Reynaud’s family needed the money that Vivien’s family were going to provide and poof my great grandparents found themselves hitched, and probably without as much as a “would you like this” from either of their parents. Fast-forward three or so years and along comes my grandmother Rosalilé, born just about the end of WWI, Rosalilé got to experience firsthand America’s rise to “superpowerdom.”

Apparently, mind you I’m hearing this 4th hand, since I’ve never met Rosalilé, but apparently she was a stubborn and strong-willed girl. Rosalilé wanted to experience life and etc. etc. all things proper French girls of that time shouldn’t be doing. She never cared too much for poetry or music, or husband hunting. In fact she didn’t even, prepare yourself, care about wine and oil-making! *Gasp*! Scandalous! Her parents, being absolutely fed-up with her shenanigans, completely ignored her and concentrated all their efforts on her elder brother granduncle Victor. Uncle Victor at least showed an interest in the family business, and also a knack for oppressing the working class grape-pickers at the vineyard, which probably earned him bonus points.

There is this darling story about Uncle Victor and a worker. Apparently it was grape harvest time, which is arguably busy, but this worker had the nerve to tell Uncle V that he had a young wife who had a fallen ill with consumption and he would like to leave early to spend time saying his goodbye since it was likely she was going to kick the bucket. Again, this is 4th hand, since I’ve never met Uncle Victor either, but my generous Uncle listened to the man’s story, with seeming pity. Then proceeded to tell him that since his wife was going to be dead very soon anyway, there was no point in him leaving to spend time with her. Instead he should continue to pick grapes because he knew “de quel côté son pain est beurré sur”, which side his bread was buttered on. He could either spend time with his dying wife or actually have a job to support himself. Obviously the choice was self-evident to my uncle; after all, his wife was dying anyway, what good was she compared to paying job. Understandably the worker didn’t agree, causing my benevolent and merciful uncle to chase him, literally CHASE him, off the estate wielding a riding crop. Mind you this was not a short run to the front door; the vineyard is probably about 120,000 ACRES, which is around 187.5 Sq. MILES!!! Yes, it probably wasn’t the entire length of the vineyard, and he probably didn’t chase him the entire way. But just imagine even part of that distance being chased by a crazy man with a leather whip. Note how the crazy continues.

Either way, while her brother was chasing poor farmhands, my grandmother was falling more and more in love with this new land of opportunity called America. So she does what any logical 16 year old does. She runs away! Yep, she runs away to a country where she didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the culture, didn’t know the people, oh and let’s not forget HAD NO MONEY. Because in her brilliance she decides to pack her suitcase, probably full of poofy dresses and hats, boards an ocean liner in Marseilles and sales across the ocean with barely enough money for her ticket and hopefully a meal or two.

But, be it by Luck, Providence, or Divine Intervention this particular ocean liner was bound not for New York like most were, but it was bound for the quaint colonial city of Savannah, Georgia. Where, as Luck/Providence/God would have it, my grandfather Jackson Jones was working as a longshoreman. And this, my friends, is where my family history truly begins…

If you like this story, want to know more about my family, or simply want to hear more about French history tune back in next week.

Two Times a Victim

This story is a work of fiction. I do not claim it to be fact or even resemble fact.

A warm breeze blew off the sea, bringing the scent of salt to Zahra’s nose. The weather was mild for this time of year, only 33°C. Somewhere she heard a cuckoo bird calling. She always loved the sounds and smells of nature. Allah be praised, for allowing her to grow up in such a bustling city like Kismayo. Things had changed some in Somalia since the war; the sound of gunfire was heard as often as the sound of birds. But walking in the grace of Allah, very little had changed in Zahra’s life.

She hurried down the path; the sun was setting and she didn’t want to be out after dark. She knew nana would worry about her. But it wasn’t only her grandmother’s worry that hurried her feet. The maraq, she had for lunch was beginning to wear off. The stew was delicious and the homemade lahoh bread that she had with it was filling. But, that was still almost four hours ago she ate that. Tonight’s dinner would be ful medammas, delicious slow-cooked beans probably served with more of nana’s lahoh. Her belly grumbled and she quickened her feet down the path.

“Hey girlie! Halkan imoow!” Come here!

Turning around in confusion Zahra barely saw the three men in the shadows beckoning her. Standing under the shade of massive garbi tree, the three men were dressed in traditional garb.

“No! I must go.” Zahra shouted over her shoulder. She wasn’t usually so impolite to strangers. But something about the men gave her a feeling of unease.

“Istaag ama waan ku tooganayaa!” Stop or I’ll shoot.

Fear gripped Zahra’s spine. Slowly she turned around and sure enough the three men were advancing to her and one of them was holding a gun. Tears welled up in Zahra’s eyes. Islam taught you not to fear death, but she did not want to die here, shot by these men on this road.

“Please, xabad ha ridin!” Don’t shoot, she begged.

“Shut up! I soo daba soco!” Follow me, the gunman demanded.

Closing her eyes tightly Zahra uttered a quick prayer to Allah for delivery from these monsters. But when she opened them again nothing had changed.

“Move bitch!” One of the other men grabbed her wrist and pulled her off the road. Allowing herself to be pushed and pulled, Zahra closed her eyes again. This couldn’t be happening. Zahra faced Mecca and said her prayers every time the call went out. She was never indecent, and she respected her elders. There was only one time when she wished something bad for nana. But it was only because she wouldn’t let her go to Nadira’s house to play. With tears leaking down her eyes, Zahra prayed an apology for everything wrong she’d ever done or thought.

Her tear-stained confession was brought to an end when she realized she was no longer moving. Fearfully she opened her eyes. She didn’t recognize the area she was in. It seemed like a back alley behind one of the shipyards at the docks. But she had never been there before.

“Take off your clothes girl!” This was the third man. His voice sounded much younger than the other two. The scarf that all three of the men wore to cover their faces had slipped down and Zahra could see this assailant clearly. She realized, looking at his face that he was only a few years older than her, sixteen at most. She thought his face was handsome. At another point she could imagine that being the face of her husband.

“Shit, she’s seen my face.” He cried as he pulled the scarf hastily back over his nose and mouth.

“Aamus! Is deji” Be quiet, and calm down, replied the man holding the gun.

“Dib u jeeso, girl!” Obediently, Zahra turned around.

Maybe if she listened they would leave her alone. Maybe, they would just take her money. Nana had given her 20 shilling this morning to buy groceries for papa. She had already brought the groceries but she still had change, about 6 shilling. Maybe they would just take that and leave her.

“I have money. Please take that and leave me.” She begged her voice hoarse from fear and tears.

“Oh we don’t want your shilling, girl. We own this town. No we want something much more precious. We see you walking by, flaunting your goods. We know you’re an easy girl. And we’re here to take our due” said the man who had pulled Zahra into the alley.

Zahra had no idea what the man was talking about. ‘Flaunting her goods?’ She’d made sure that when she brought the groceries from market that no one saw her. What was he talking about?

“I…” she began.

“SHUT UP!” Roared the man with the gun. She felt the barrel of it pressing into her back. “Now, take off your clothes.”

Zahra panicked. She did not know what these men were or what they wanted but she knew that she should never be undressed with a man who was not her husband.

“I CAAWIN!” Help me, Zahra yelled at the top of her lungs. She was pleading for anyone to help her, to stop this madness.

“Shut her up, before she brings the whole city down on us.”

This is it, she thought. Zahra felt the barrel of the gun move from her back. Suddenly sharp pain flashed across her head as the back of the gun smashed into it. She collapsed against the brick wall. The last thing she remembered was the face of the sixteen year old whose scarf had slipped off his face again. Then the blackness consumed her.

When Zahra woke up her whole body hurt. All that was left of her clothing was her hijab and even that was pulled off her head allowing her hair to spill around her face. For a moment Zahra was dazed, she couldn’t remember where she was or why she was there. Then the memories hit her like a hammer. She barely suppressed a scream of despair. Silent tears leaked down her face. Pain and shame flooded through her body and all she could do is ball up and wrap her arms around her knees and cry.

Zahra wasn’t sure how long she sat there rocking back and forth tears streaming out her eyes; her body on fire from head to toe. At one point she was surprised to see blood flowing down her leg. She thought she must have cut herself, but then she realized she was bleeding from her private area. All she could do was cry more and pray that Allah would forgive her. Allah would have to understand she did not want to lay with them. She wanted to save herself for marriage. Allah was merciful, he would not punish her.

“Hey you girl,” Zahra looked up at the man approaching her “what are you doing there?”

“Help me, please I need help.” Zahra’s voice was weak and unsteady. Her throat was raw from crying.

As the man came closer, he cursed. “Girl you’re naked Allah in heaven, what are you doing?”

“Please help me. I was… attacked” Zahra’s voice was steadier, but she could not admit more to herself.

Suddenly the man’s demeanor changed.

“Attacked?” he sneered. “Oh sure girl, attacked. I know your kind. You loose women entice men and then claim you were ‘attacked.’ No I won’t fall for your lies. By Allah, I will not. Get yourself dressed girl. The magistrate will know what to do with you.”

Zahra did not understand the man’s change in attitude but the magistrate would help her. She would throw herself on the mercy of Allah and his justice would prevail.

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

A warm breeze blew off the sea, bringing the scent of salt to Zahra’s nose. The weather was mild for this time of year, only 33°C. Somewhere she heard a cuckoo bird calling. Draped in ceremonial black, her wrists bound behind her back and a thin black hood pulled over her face Zahra was lead to her death. She could not cry anymore. For two weeks she was held in a small room fed only moldy bread and sea water. She simply stumbled blindly as she was pushed on to her execution.

“Please,” she began weakly “I’m innocent.”

“Shut your filthy slut mouth!” A guard barked at her as he simultaneously jabbed his gun into her back.

Zahra stumbled and would have fallen if another guard hadn’t grabbed her and pulled her upright.

“No falling, girl. Today is the day you face Allah’s wrath for being a slut.”

That voice! Zahra knew she was going to die but she was not crazy; that voice.

She was being led to her death by the very man who held a gun to her back two weeks ago; the very man who had stripped her of her virginity.

The insanity of it all; before she knew what happened she was chuckling and that grew into a full-blown laugh. Here she was going to die for lying with a man out of wedlock and the man taking her to her death was the one who forced himself on her. She laughed until it hurt and then as suddenly as the laughter began, it turned to tears.

“NO, I don’t want to die! PLEASE, ALLAH FORGIVE ME!” She wailed. Throwing herself on the ground she cried and screamed, until she felt herself physically being lifted.

She was still wailing when she was dropped down into hole in the earth. It covered her legs and up to her mid-torso, leaving her upper body unburied. She felt the dirt packed in around her “planting” her like some sort of flower. Even her arms were left free, to be her petals and leaves.

The hood was removed from head and she had to blink at the bright sun. Looking around she saw 50 men standing in a circle around her and beyond that ring, another hundred or so there to watch her die.

The magistrate stepped forward from the circle in his full clerical attire.

“This woman, by her own admission, has lain with men out of wedlock.” The magistrate paused and the crowd jeered. The subtle inflection had reached its target. The crowd truly believed her to be a wanton woman.

Zahra noticed a man walking around the crowd distributing sacks of fist-sized stones to those in the inner circle. He couldn’t be much older than her, sixteen at most. In another life she may have found his face handsome. In another life when she thought she was going to have a husband.

“In accord with the Law of Allah,” the judge continued “she shall be put to death by the stone. May Allah have mercy upon her harlot soul, in the next life.” The crowd erupted in cheers.

Closing her eyes Zahra began to pray. “Allah is great! Allah is great!” Repeating the Salaat by rote Zahra barely felt when the first stone struck her left shoulder. Another struck her rib on her right side.

“Glory to you oh Allah and Yours is the praise.” Pain racked Zahra’s body even before the first stone struck her head. She barely opened her eyes to see a stone hurling at her face. It crashed into her nose. Detachedly she felt the blood trickle down her face. Her body was pain, but in her spirit she was free.

“In the name of God, the infinitely Compassionate and Merciful. Praise be to God, Lord of all Worlds. The Compassionate and Merciful.”

Zahra was barely aware when the blackness consumed her.

If you were affected by this story please read the articles on which it was based.

http://www.aftenbladet.no/english/940794/13-year_old_stoned_to_death_in_Somalia.html

http://womensphere.wordpress.com/2008/11/03/victim-of-stoning-in-somalia-was-13-year-girl-whose-report-of-being-raped-led-to-adultery-charges/

http://www.amnesty.org/en/for-media/press-releases/somalia-girl-stoned-was-child-13-20081031

Please remember the humanitarian and human rights crisis which affect so much of our globe.

Finished Before They Began

This is an older story I wrote. I apologize if you’ve read it, though I doubt any of you have.

Finished Before They Began

It was a humid day. Sweat became glue, bonding his clothes to him. Jake wanted nothing more than to get home, strip his clothes off and jump in the shower. The red-orange sun hung low in the sky, beaming down on him like some merciless task master. He looked at his watch, noticing that the skin around it had already turned a distinctive shade of, what he referred to as, lobster red. Jake had never seen a lobster in his life. In fact he had only heard about them on the TV, and seen pictures of them in magazines. He wondered if he had seen one.

11:30 AM! Jake’s heart sunk, he had only been working for 2 1/2; hours, he still had 6 1/2; to go. He remembered once hearing about how exposure to sunlight, caused cancer. He wondered if he told Cal, the Foreman, that he was getting cancer, would he be allowed to leave. Jake remembered “Old Wheeze’s” wife, Madame Wheeze, (they were named that for the amazing amount of cigarettes they smoked each day). Old Wheeze got sick from lung cancer, (go figure), after working here for 27 years, and Foreman refused to pay for his medical expenses. Madame Wheeze came here, begging, pleading with Cal. He showed no sympathy, no sympathy at all, despite the fact that he made more in a week than they all did in a year. Finally, drowning in medical bills, Madame Wheeze offered to take Old Wheeze’s place at work. She began to realize that unemployment was a luxury she could not afford. That bastard, Cal, actually let her work (although we didn’t let her do anything). She stood out here, from 9 AM to 6PM, with the rest of us, in this hot burning sun. But Jake never once heard her complain. That’s why one day when she collapsed, everyone (but Cal) ran over to her. Imagine their surprise as she lay dying, muttering under her breath, “He’s gone!” No one knew what she was talking about, in fact they assumed heat stroke and dehydration had finally gotten to her. But, lo and fucking behold, she was right. The doctors say that Madame and Old died within two minutes of each other. Married for 45 years, now that was love.

Jake thought of him. He couldn’t wait until he got back. He wondered what he was doing, where he was, was he thinking about him. A distinct feeling of sadness overcame him. He knew that he would be the Madame to his Old when the time came.

“Hey, pretty boy! I don’t pay you to stand around and daydream!” FUCK YOU CAL, FUCK YOU.

I miss you!

It was a humid day. Sweat-rivers ran down his face from under his helmet. Steve wanted nothing more than to go home and strip off his uniform and take one of the barracks infamous cold showers. What the fuck was he doing here? Why was in E-raq? Fighting against people that he had never met before, and didn’t give a flying damn about. All around him the sounds of conflict, bombs exploding, people dying, screams filling the air. He was hot, he was nauseous, and most of all, he was tired, tired of death and dying, tired of loneliness, tired of being tired. Here he was working patrol in the outskirts of some Iraqi village, where “insurgents” had been spotted. What the fuck was an insurgent? He hated it.

Just last week a car bomb exploded in “Fau-lu-sha” (he couldn’t even mentally pronounce the damn place. Why was he here?). It killed a buddy of his, probably his best friend here. Gary was his name, he was 18 from Nashville, Tennessee, or so his dog-tag read. The bomb ripped most of his head off. When the medical unit got there, they found Steve sticky with Gary’s blood, crying hysterically. They put him in counseling, told him to see a chaplain, and two days later put him back on patrol. His Sergeant, Russ, told him to get over it and stop “moping like a bitch.” But how could he get over it? Gary reminded him so much of… him.

But that was the norm here, people lost best friends and buddies, people you knew all your life or just met two weeks ago, all the time. That was how war went. Steve’s justification was that it beat farming in Montana though. Didn’t it? The dull monotony of hoe-plow-hoe-sow; it was enough to make a man go mad. He remembered the look of horror when he told his parents that he was enlisting. They begged him not to go, but he knew that if he stayed in Montana for one more minute, he would explode. His mom cried for him not to go, to think about her and Lucy, his younger sister. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. He snickered sardonically; if they actually knew what his only motivation for not going was they would have personally deposited him in Iraq, faster than a car bomb can decapitate. BOOM.

He was in Montana. Steve remembered his exact words when he told him he’d enlisted, “Well, at least you will finally get to see what a lobster looks like.” That was it, no yelling, no screaming, no crying, just the strong support that he needed. That is why he loved him. It was pathetic Steve was so afraid of the consequences of his love that he couldn’t even think of his name. Don’t Ask- Don’t Tell. That applied as much for the Army as it did for the farm he worked at in Montana, as matter of fact for the entire no name, ass-backwards town he lived in. But when he left Iraq (in exactly six days, not that he was counting), he was going to say FUCK YOU Russ Madison and the entire United States Army and FUCK YOU Cal Green and your fucking slave labor camp posing as a farm and FUCK YOU mom and dad and your close-minded judgmental ways.

When Steve got out of here he was going to go back home and sweep Jake (THERE HE SAID IT) off his feet, in front of everyone and plant the biggest, wettest kiss on his lips that anyone had ever seen. So fuck all of you. Then they would move, Tennessee perhaps, he heard Nashville was nice. They would be free to be who they were and to do what they wanted.

I miss you too!

It was a humid day when Senator William Mitchell of Montana got the report of another soldier killed in Iraq. His already foul mood, deepen. Sweat stained the arm pits of his silk shirt, forcing him to begin dreading the visit to the cleaners. He quickly scanned the file, private blah blah blah, who came from blah blah blah town in Montana, like they all did. Who cares? “No one is going to miss him,” Senator Mitchell thought. He supported the war and was sick of these liberal pansies whining about causalities. Fuck them he thought! People die in war; that is just how it goes! If you didn’t want to be in Iraq, why did you sign up in the first place? Stay in East Nowhere Montana and shut up!

Just then his phone rang. It was his buddy Cal Green, they both went to same private high school and had been great friends ever since. Cal, as usual, was bitching and moaning; this time about some farmhand who just up and died on him, blah blah blah. Cal needed help, making sure the Department of Labor didn’t investigate this latest death too closely, just like with that old hag he had working there at some point. Senator Mitchell agreed after all, what was another death, FUCK THEM TOO!

“Who cares Cal? No one is going to miss him!”

“I know Bill!”

“Alright I have to go. I will talk to you later.”

“But Wait, Senator…”

“I hate when you call me that, Foreman. What do you want?”

“About the war…”

“About the farm…”

Silence on the other end. He hung up. Certain conversations, like so many other things, sometimes finished before they began.

The Beginning of the Silence

This is the sound that silence makes when you read it...

Welcome to the Unconditional Silence – a blog of fiction, poetry, and the beautiful words that you will never hear me speak. These are my stories, tales from my imagination and from the world around us.

'Why silence?’ you may ask. The answer is simple; silence is an irony an oxymoron, if you will. We often demand silence only to increase the volume of the voices in our head. I relish this silence; the sound of my mind turning and all words pouring out. My silence is full of stories; words simply dying to be put on paper (or screen as the case maybe).

Maybe your silence will be you reading my words; maybe you'll even hear my voice reading them to you. This is my blog of unqualified freedom. Maybe you'll lose yourself in my words or even find a bit of yourself in them. Maybe you'll know what sound that silence makes when it is expressed as words.

Now for the technical tidbits. This is my blog, all opinions here are opinions of the author, all work posted here is original work of the author as well. This is a writing project; a blog of stories, poetry, and other fiction that I create. Feel free to quote or copy, but give credit, where it is due.

I am going to try my hardest to update four times a week, with new and original content. On Saturdays I'll post a random short story or poem - whatever pops into my head that day. On Mondays I'll post a story or poem based off a news story or current event. Please feel free to recommend anything you think would be interesting. On Wednesday I'll post continuous sections of a longer story. I haven't decided what the story will be, so you'll have to check back on Wednesday to find out.

And on Thursdays, my favorite section will be erotic fiction. And yes by erotic I mean sexually explicit, as in the NSFW kind. If you're uncomfortable with adult subject matter, which may be of any variety (hetero, homo, bi, other - yes other) you may not want to check Thursday's updates.

Lastly, I welcome feedback and constructive criticism. But please let's make it constructive. Writing is dear to my heart and putting it out there for the whole world to see, is hard. Be nice!

Alright, without further ado... Enjoy