At The Edge

In response to the prompt from Friday Fictioneers..

“Water,” she murmurs before all turns black.

Where am I?

Ashen ground meets a starry dark azure firmament in the horizon. A crowd of people is standing in the distance. Getting near, she sees two men sitting in front of a chess board.

“What are they doing?”

“They are in a stalemate.”

“How long?”

“You are new here, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Those without nation have to wait until the game is settled between the Rajahs.”

Her left leg is tangled in the wires; the barbs punctured her skin in several places, hooking her upside-down in the border between two countries.

barbed2bwire2bprompt1
PHOTO PROMPT © Madison Woods

Some context for this story.

Enclave: A portion of territory within or surrounded by a larger territory whose inhabitants are culturally or ethnically distinct. 

There are around 162 enclaves in Bangladesh India border scattered among the two nations. It is one of the most violent borders in the world. People who lived in these enclaves belonged to no nations. Legends has it Rajah of Kuch Bihar and Maharajah of Rangpur used these enclaves as stakes in a chess game. Recently India and Bangladesh agreed on the exchange of enclaves.

Felani was a 15 years old girl who died during crossing the border. She was hanging from the wires untill she died of blood loss. She became a symbol of violence in the India-Bangladesh border here in Bangladesh.

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A madman at the end of world

I am reeling from two consecutive earth quakes, a first day of summer with the highest temperature in living memory and some healthy dose of real life. Lost track of what to do again. Stupid human life. All I can think about is Doom and Destruction. Here’s what today’s prompt brought out… 

He sits on a rock with an open notebook in front of him in the ruins of the world. He watches people on the road on their eternal exodus.

“What goes around comes around; Ferdinand circumnavigated the earth,” he shouts.

At night Vasimir engines light up the horizon; rising on pillars of bright smoke to the vault of heavenly bodies. He listens to the rumble, smells the propellants and in his sleep dream of alien skies.

kent-b
PHOTO PROMPT © Kent Bonham

“This is the tomb of Ozymandias.”

“It’s just some doodles.”

“The children will return.”

“Why?”

“Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair, huh.”

 

 

 

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