After an absence of weeks from your midst, my first return post is a rant. Forgive me. I’ve just been reading about the barbaric custom of bacha baziwhich is practiced in parts of the Mideast, northwestern Pakistan and most ubiquitously and flagrantly in Afghanistan. As a 2015 New York Times article reported and Tabletmagazine reminds us today, during their twenty-year tenure there, our soldiers were told by their “woke” military commanders to disregard the practice among their Afghan “allies” even as it occurred under their very noses. One Special Forces officer was fired for preventing the rape of an Afghani boy. What an amoral, self-serving, dictatorial sham is the leadership in our country and the world! Meanwhile, we pray for the 15,000 Americans who are trapped in Afghanistan right now. May God help them, and the Afghani women and children.~d
Patronized by our inferiors Elitists compromised by their behaviors Say don’t you know the bacha bazi “Dancing” little boys raped by Afghan “allies” So we could stay spending our dollars On defense contractors greasing legislators To turn a blind eye to “indigenous customs” Children enslaved to cowards “Allies” rebranded as refugees To soil the land with fresh blood of their victims Here in the streets where Harley-Davidsons Ride on the winds of freedom from oppression. Let the monsters stay with the warlords of Pakistan Or Qatar, or UAE with CCP camps of Uyghurs Don’t let the elitists tell you “better.”
raindrops in millions falling on petals in thirsty gardens collecting in puddles for children to play in drenching the sidewalks and a lone walker without umbrella dancing and singing a tune so uncanny it chases a rainbow through clouds
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: 39 words using “uncanny”
A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in the comments at Sammi’s #WWP.
Lisa of Tao Talk asks: In the shadows, did you ever secretly wish you were someone else, either as a child or an adult? My answer? I can’t say that I have but like so many children, I’ve often wondered what it was like to be the big creatures of the earth, including the now extinct dinosaurs. Many of them seem like gentle giants, elephants for example. Others strike terrors, like lions and tigers and bears, oh my! But it’s the fantasy creatures that overtake a child’s imagination, like unicorns and griffins and flying horses and magical birds, like the phoenix. Underwater, it’s the music of the whales which seem to have dominion over most of the vast recesses of the world. They live in a universe of their own, unfettered and majestic.
There’s an ocean of energy in swelling tides dancing in atoms and planets and stars but most of it’s not in the surface above it rides in the universe of the heart’s designs wanting the freedom of the sea’s vast lands where Atlantis lies buried and canyons unfold and gravity means little to eyes that glow.
Something is missing in the world above, something that my mind’s eye sinks below where dreams turn to dust and songs to wails and gates are just openings to walls within walls. So give me the sea and the skin of a whale and tumble me down to the music below.
Under the glare of warehouse light steel-eyed commerce crisscrossing vaulted space above while below we, in well-trammeled lanes, forage with brandished carts loaded, swallow claustrophobic desire stretch Ali Baba eyes to needful things as La-Z-Boys race past iWant-slick bling-gadgetry — only to be stared down by a winged unicorn: unflurried pinkness, nestled wonder in small chubby arms.
Canoop! the sound of your loop-tee-do Enough! the slough of your despondency Wooditch! the whinge of your panicky The meteor’s coming ‘ere election day!
Cannip the conniption fit, buddit the funk Swallow the glut of slubbish bilocracy Gnash, says the prophet Neal deGrasse Tyson, we’ll die in a blaze ‘ere election eve!
O Meteor of space! O Deliverer of grace! You’ll spare us, ‘ere you dare us, with crater Dustiferous, injurious, deleterious bringer Of sweltering doom ‘ere we galood election gloom!
Come the third of November, we’ll never remember Who’s Harris, Who’s Donald, What’s Joe Biden hidin’? We won’t know a thing when the meteor’s oncomin’ O’er helter-election-welter, combustin’ election eve!