In Darfur

In Darfur
Divinus Arma

I keep my eyes closed and try to hold my breath. I can hear them approaching with each slippery crunch of their heavy footsteps on the mound. I lay motionless silently screaming as my cheek presses down against her slimy rotting breasts. The scorching oven of the sun roasts me within my hovel, surrounded and covered as I am and unable to move. Flies climb inside of my ears and nostrils, as do the maggots into my ragged torn undercloth. I feel them inside of my mouth, in my throat, and I wince in agony, depraved and desperate simply to allow myself to gag or choke.

There. They are closer now. I feel weight above me.

Crunch. Hot thick liquid oozes across my thigh.

Crunch. I feel the weight heavier and pressing now. Pain. I feel his heavy boot break through the flesh canopy covering and press onto my back. The hard rubber buries into my skin and takes my breath away, but I make no sound.

The soldier struggles to pull his foot out of the hole and the crushing pressure is relieved. He lifts himself up and complains of the stench. A second voice tells him to keep moving.

I betray myself and vomit. The reaction is instantaneous. The corpses above me are cast aside as excited voices fill the air. I make no move but it matters not as they grab me by my tiny arm and lift me from my hiding place, covered as I am with rotting flesh and insects.

My eyes open to light and the sting of the sun. I am thrown about and beaten and see myself cast aside within the pile of decomposing carcasses where I had been hiding. I feel a deep thud across my temple and the world goes dark. I never feel them rape me next to the pile of what last month was my family and tribe.

****

I awaken within a chain link cage, with twelve or so others. I am not the youngest girl, but close. I feel pain everywhere, and lay in my own blood, which I feel oozing from my bottom and my head. Outside of the cage, soldiers in ragged uniforms sit and stand around talking to each other. Some are my age. Some are very little boys, even younger than I and, shirtless, rest their oversized rifles in their laps.

A large straw wall is brought up by a group of men and placed around our cage. A gate is opened and one of my people is led outside, behind the straw. The gate is closed and I can see nothing. This happens again and again, until finally it is my turn. A brief fleeting desperate hope and fear overwhelms me but is quickly replaced with acceptance as I am led to the side of a small concrete wall. I sit against the wall, eyes open, and lift my head to better expose my throat. The blade cuts through the meat of my neck and flows hotly onto my chest. I never mattered.

If you happen to read this, I would be grateful if you offer me some kind of review or comment.

Much appreciated if you choose do so. :bow:

That made me feel all hollow and pointless.

Sounds like poetry some 16 year old kid with eyeshadow rights when his dad finds his girl pants. Div your my boy and all but this was short and bad. Good writing but bad story.

If you're serious about comments, here's the lemur's take:

It's vivid. That's a good thing. Not long enough to build up real tension, but you were within spitting distance.

The first half has too many adjectives. Eliminate half of them and you would have a better piece of writing. It's a simple way to punch up a paragraph.

You wrote:

I keep my eyes closed and try to hold my breath. I can hear them approaching with each slippery crunch of their heavy footsteps on the mound. I lay motionless silently screaming as my cheek presses down against her slimy rotting breasts. The scorching oven of the sun roasts me within my hovel, surrounded and covered as I am and unable to move. Flies climb inside of my ears and nostrils, as do the maggots into my ragged torn undercloth. I feel them inside of my mouth, in my throat, and I wince in agony, depraved and desperate simply to allow myself to gag or choke.

If we eliminate most of the adjectives, we get:

I keep my eyes closed and try to hold my breath. I can hear them approaching with each crunch of their footsteps on the mound. I lay motionless as my cheek presses down against her rotting breasts. The sun roasts me within my hovel, surrounded and covered as I am and unable to move. Flies climb inside of my ears and nostrils, as do the maggots into my undercloth. I feel them inside of my mouth, in my throat, and I wince, desperate to allow myself to gag or choke.

Thanks Lemur. Good points. Better balance would be wise.

Where an adjective is desirious from a decriptive point of view, I should include additional content to provide for the balance. :2thumbsup:

Lemur wrote what would have been my main commentary.

Where I disagree is that I think the brevity of the piece is its main strength. Apart from the emotional numbness that sets in with such vivid descriptions, one does not have time to get to know the narrator. That illustrates the denoument as she sadly notes how she never mattered. Not even to the reader, for there is not enough time.

Good effort, though I can't say I found it enjoyable.

:bow:

Thank you for the comments. :bow:

What is the message of this story? Brutality? Violence? Sheer revolting carnage and pitiless destruction of living flesh?

What does it teach us? We do not know the girl in the story, so for us she is anonymous. We do not know anything about the killers or the circumstances surrounding the atrocity, and there is nothing at all unusual or thought-provoking about it except its extreme nature.

The passage conveys a vivid image, which combined with other elements could be very effective. But I would not call it a story.

I wouldn't go crazy over the extra adjectives, that's more of an issue of stylistic taste, though some of them could probably be shaved for better effect.

Also, the descriptive details of the throat-slitting just don't strike me as credible. Knife sinks into meat and warm blood flows and that's it? Not that I'm an expert.

Last year I read a collection of short stories from a pre-WW2 european author who's name currently escapes me. One story was barely a page long. There was no character development, and the only intent of the author was to draw the reader into an experience. It was so well crafted that I became a hostage to the moment. And it was incredible.

Never before and never since have I read a similar "experience short". I highly value the ability of an author to force a reader to be totally swept away into another world in the blink of an eye. We do not always require a lengthy novel to engage our imagination. Sometimes we only need a brief escape.

Nothing is more impressive to me than the ability to capture the reader instantly and take them to someplace extraordinary.

These places not always need be pleasant.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Divinus Arma

Last year I read a collection of short stories from a pre-WW2 european author who's name currently escapes me. One story was barely a page long. There was no character development, and the only intent of the author was to draw the reader into an experience. It was so well crafted that I became a hostage to the moment. And it was incredible.

Never before and never since have I read a similar "experience short". I highly value the ability of an author to force a reader to be totally swept away into another world in the blink of an eye. We do not always require a lengthy novel to engage our imagination. Sometimes we only need a brief escape.

Nothing is more impressive to me than the ability to capture the reader instantly and take them to someplace extraordinary.

These places not always need be pleasant.

---

Well said.

It may be that the story lacks some irony to underline the surreal, some little bits of odd, true details to bring the story home, as if told by someone who had really been there. Hemingway inserted little fragments like this in between the main features of his story collections... his were often ironic.

Or it may be that the scene is so revolting that one wishes more to condemn than to praise.

'Cos I'm the kind of guy that goes through 2-3 500 page historical fiction/fantasy novels a week, the lack of character is indeed disappointing. It is very well written, to be sure, but lacks length (Oh, the ) and depth.

I wonder who this character is, where she is from, how old she is, etcetera, etcetera. The beginning would make an awesome start to a lengthy novel, though. You should probably consider that course of action.

Dialog. Interesting, to say the least. The lack of dialog is odd, however, I do not find it desirable. The soldiers would at least say something.

Apart from that, great writing. I hope you pursue this talent further. :medievalcheers: