Sunday, September 13, 2020

minimalism

She was there at the mass rally at the university the week before the struggle began to overthrow the dictator’s regime. 

He was there, too. 


Their voices joined together with the voices of hundreds and thousands of campesinos, students, professors, and rebel leaders and rumbled across the night sky to the furthest reaches of the land. 


“We ask for a fair price for beans and rice!


We ask for a fair price for a room to sleep in!


We ask for a fair price for shirts and shoes!


We ask for schools for our children!


We ask for care from doctors and hospitals!


we ask for work so we can build up these things for our people because we need them to live!


We ask for life!”


It was then that he saw her. 


Her fist was clenched and raised to the sky.


Her dark hair hung down along her back.


Her brown eyes glistened under the lights of the field where they shouted and sang their hopes and dreams for their country, for their poor families, for their people. 


His eyes could not leave her.


His heart could not forget her. 


He knew then that their compassion and courage would draw them together and bond them as friends and lovers. 


In those first days, he thought of what it might feel like to be with her, to feel her hunger for his body, for her to feel his hunger for hers…to be with her, to hear the stories of her childhood, to share the stories of his…to be with her as they were together now, naked and holding each other, protecting each other, loving each other.



- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

No comments:

Post a Comment