D.E. Bartley Scifi sunday's with the Hipriestess

Bloodshot brown eyes shuttered wide open, darting from side-to-side in silent horror, deep in the unspoken agony of paranoia. The sheer blanket that sought to comfort him always seemed just shy of hiding the terror that haunts his prying eyes. His small, shivering hands grasp indiscriminately for the warmth of his mother in the folds of the blanket, as though she could stop the long, hair-raising whistles of mortars falling and the bone-rattling, earth-shattering explosions that follow. He could still remember the silent scream on his cousin's face the day before, as a rafe of bullets snuffed his young life out. The visions made him shake and moan as he lay very still next to his mother. Khewa was under attack again, there were
no Taliban here, only locals trying to get rid of the foreign invaders....

"THEY’RE HERE!" came Dad's whisper

Soldiers hustling from house to house, ransacking what’s left of a shattered nation, machine gunfire punctuating each visit as nervous soldiers fire at every moving shadow. A blood-curdling scream ruptures the uneasy silence, echoing for miles before the sharp, brutal cracks of rifle fire silence her forever, and a new fearful hush settled over the neighborhood. Hundreds are rounded up and herded like cattle two by two into large, rattling military trucks.

"THEY’RE RIGHT NEXT DOOR!!!" He hissed, his voice sounded hoarse and strained, scaring the bejesus out of everyone.

The boy’s mother grimaced as his thin brown arms wrap around her tight enough to break a rib. The clock seemed to slow to a near standstill. Each tick of the second hand knifed into the psyche of each of the five huddling family members. One minute trudged by …then another …and another. The soldiers were talking loudly, twelve feet away on the other side of the wall. All the lights in the house were off, as though no one were home. All huddled under a single blanket downstairs, his mother slipping a hand carefully over two-year-old sister’'s mouth to keep her from wailing. Five sets of fearful eyes stared through the window at the darkening heavens, whispering urgent prayers under their breaths, their eyes seeking only Allah.

KEFAYA! Came the yell of the platoon leader …having come within inches of death, Allah, answered the family’'s prayers...…the thump-thump-thump of boot-steps receded back to the truck, and the soldiers called it a day. The trucks grumbled to life, and roared off into the distance. Tomorrow, it would all begin again. Zahid decided he'd go with his uncle and father to plant IED's against these evil foreign invaders.

Mother rocked her three children to a fitful slumber, punctuated by sudden screams as nightmares seized their subconscious. When they awoke, the neighborhood remained clear. The air was still, but not rife with tension like before. Birds peeked warily out of their nests, giving test chirps to see if the monsters had left for good. No one left their house yet…they wouldn’t for quite a few days. The sky slowly brightened, as though sensing the tensions had eased. Fiery hues or red, gold, purple and orange hearkened the sunrise, welcomed by the bravest of birds.

Father pulled out his Rubab, it had 3 strings missing, he tuned it with fumbling fingers. He was no great musician, knowing little of A minors and B flats.. Still, with every unpracticed strum of the strings, the war seemed just a little farther away, just a little less scary, just a little less real to the three enraptured audience members who sat before him, listening to the tuneless music as though it were Brahms, or  Mozart. The song he sang was old and whimsical, free of finesse and complexities. The melody rocked and comforted them....this was their song, their life. Praise Allah.

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