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Photo by Basir Seerat
visit Basir's photo blog at
http://www.basirseerat.blogspot.com/
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Suggested prompt...
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visit Basir's photo blog at
http://www.basirseerat.blogspot.com/
~
Suggested prompt...
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Give this boy a story.
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The street is not silent but for his pounding heart, slapping feet, and spinning tire. There are other noises: distant car engines rumble; horns scream point and counterpoint; air force planes roar overhead; and somewhere close by a couple is arguing.
But he hears only three things: his heart, his feet, and his tire. They consume his reality, shoving all else to the side, discarding it as unimportant.
The only thing that matters is getting his prize home before they find him.
He does not turn his head at the sudden shout behind him. He does not feel the struggle of his heart and legs to keep him moving.
Only home matters. He will be safe there. His prize will be secure there.
But then he reaches his street and as he turns to cover the final fifty feet to his front door he sees them waiting for him. He skids to a halt but the tire continues on its way, wobbling on unsteady rubber before collapsing midway between him and them.
He pauses in the midst of silent, swirling dust. They stare at him with no expression. Then smiles creep onto each scarred, dirty face, one by one.
And then they raise their guns and the silence is no more.
Marc
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4 comments:
The street is not silent but for his pounding heart, slapping feet, and spinning tire. There are other noises: distant car engines rumble; horns scream point and counterpoint; air force planes roar overhead; and somewhere close by a couple is arguing.
But he hears only three things: his heart, his feet, and his tire. They consume his reality, shoving all else to the side, discarding it as unimportant.
The only thing that matters is getting his prize home before they find him.
He does not turn his head at the sudden shout behind him. He does not feel the struggle of his heart and legs to keep him moving.
Only home matters. He will be safe there. His prize will be secure there.
But then he reaches his street and as he turns to cover the final fifty feet to his front door he sees them waiting for him. He skids to a halt but the tire continues on its way, wobbling on unsteady rubber before collapsing midway between him and them.
He pauses in the midst of silent, swirling dust. They stare at him with no expression. Then smiles creep onto each scarred, dirty face, one by one.
And then they raise their guns and the silence is no more.
For all the harshness of a world drenched in fear and bombing,
And all the wretched things this young boy has undoubtedly seen
or perhaps even been a party to,
And all the horror his young mind has absorbed, I wonder if his psyche can overcome, can forget. For now, his mind is occupied by something that gives him hope--just an old wheel caroming through the streets, with an audience of poster people who do not laugh. I wonder if he finds time to laugh; this photo brings out my tears for humankind.
Carve out play
in a bombed reality.
Dodging through streets
a boy focuses his joy.
Posters hide the pock marks left my cartridges. Ochre peels from the vertical plane.
Black cloth flaps round slim form as it runs beside. Simple pleasure in the revolutions of a hoop.
Soon the boy will arrive home, he will be feted. He will be dressed in a waistcoat of plastic and wires.
A clean robe will cover hiis frame, as his mother covers his face with kisses. He will walk out with pride until he reaches his destination.
As he atomises, his thoughts will speed from him, racing to meet his glorious destiny, a smile on his thin, chaste lips.
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