A story I'm considering writing. Thoughts?
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He was a boy by name, though he never felt like the name had fit. He hadn’t been a boy in years, he wasn’t sure if he ever truly was. Reload the guns, boy. Load the truck, boy. Wash the linens, boy. He had never enjoyed the luxuries of being a boy. Never had he had a teddy bear, never had he eaten candy, never had he laughed and played with the other boys. When they were old enough to hold a gun, they were men. The childish ways of the first five years were gone; no crying, no whining, no disobeying. Whatever Al-Asma said, that was what he and the other boys did.
He was 18 now. Or 19. The Sahara didn’t have birthdays. The only thing celebrated in the desert is water. A meager existence means nothing, and one more year added onto your life is one less year on someone else’s. The boys weren’t worth much. Fit replacements were as numerous as the grains of sand in the Sahara. Al-Bakr always warned them. A step away from Al-Asma was a step away from protection. They were provided for, so long as they provided what was expected of them.
Any attempt at an escape was impossible. Four million square miles of endless sand was to every direction. And when you died in the desert, you truly died. Your body would never be found in the capricious dunes and sands. Never did the boys find even a bone in the untouched sea. An apple core that was thrown into a dune would disappear within the hour. Though, the boys didn’t have much to lose anyway. The only thing that truly belonged to them were the shoes on their feet.
Rarely was a gun ever lost in the desert, the punishments were too severe. The boys didn’t really know what would happen, but they often heard rumors about boys who had done it in the past. The myth was that the last boy to lose his was accused of stealing. Each finger on his right hand was cut off at the knuckle. In the grand spectrum of things, this was among the least of Al-Asma’s punishments. The worst was the Harr. A boy who stepped out of line was blindfolded and driven 5 or so miles into the desert and left with nothing but a small canteen of water. If he found his way back to the camp, Al-Asma would honor him with a feast and place him in a position of power. The Harr had been done a number of times. Not a single boy returned. Perhaps it was due to the fickle sandsea. Or possibly because the camp never stayed in the same place for more than a day.
But the boy didn’t have to worry about that. For now his only duty was to return to the camp with his find. He loaded the bag onto the back of the jeep and got into the passenger side. He switched on the safety on his AK-47 and let out a deep breath.
“Yalla, we’ve been gone a long time. Al-Asma is waiting,” he said to his partner. With a nod the other boy started the engine and began driving into the endless sands.
They had been gone a good four hours before they stumbled upon what they knew would be of more value to Al-Asma than anything they had previously brought. They didn’t normally find things in the dunes. Al-Asma would be pleased. Perhaps he would throw a feast for them. The driver’s mouth began to water. The taste of fresh gyro was on his tongue. He was ready to be praised. He glanced over to his partner. Behind the shemagh and sunglasses, his best friend was unrecognizable. He could have been anybody. But he knew him more than a brother could.
“I don’t see why you’re worried, Haydar,” he said. “You’re not facing the Harr anytime soon.”
Haydar said nothing. He simply kept his gaze straight ahead. Nothing, just sand. His mind was consumed with the bag in the rear, and, more importantly, its contents. It was strange to him. Nothing ever appears in the desert. So how did they find it? It shouldn’t have been within 1000 miles of the middle east. He didn’t see Al-Asma as pleased. He didn’t see anything good that could come from what they had found.
Where did he come from?
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He was a boy by name, though he never felt like the name had fit. He hadn’t been a boy in years, he wasn’t sure if he ever truly was. Reload the guns, boy. Load the truck, boy. Wash the linens, boy. He had never enjoyed the luxuries of being a boy. Never had he had a teddy bear, never had he eaten candy, never had he laughed and played with the other boys. When they were old enough to hold a gun, they were men. The childish ways of the first five years were gone; no crying, no whining, no disobeying. Whatever Al-Asma said, that was what he and the other boys did.
He was 18 now. Or 19. The Sahara didn’t have birthdays. The only thing celebrated in the desert is water. A meager existence means nothing, and one more year added onto your life is one less year on someone else’s. The boys weren’t worth much. Fit replacements were as numerous as the grains of sand in the Sahara. Al-Bakr always warned them. A step away from Al-Asma was a step away from protection. They were provided for, so long as they provided what was expected of them.
Any attempt at an escape was impossible. Four million square miles of endless sand was to every direction. And when you died in the desert, you truly died. Your body would never be found in the capricious dunes and sands. Never did the boys find even a bone in the untouched sea. An apple core that was thrown into a dune would disappear within the hour. Though, the boys didn’t have much to lose anyway. The only thing that truly belonged to them were the shoes on their feet.
Rarely was a gun ever lost in the desert, the punishments were too severe. The boys didn’t really know what would happen, but they often heard rumors about boys who had done it in the past. The myth was that the last boy to lose his was accused of stealing. Each finger on his right hand was cut off at the knuckle. In the grand spectrum of things, this was among the least of Al-Asma’s punishments. The worst was the Harr. A boy who stepped out of line was blindfolded and driven 5 or so miles into the desert and left with nothing but a small canteen of water. If he found his way back to the camp, Al-Asma would honor him with a feast and place him in a position of power. The Harr had been done a number of times. Not a single boy returned. Perhaps it was due to the fickle sandsea. Or possibly because the camp never stayed in the same place for more than a day.
But the boy didn’t have to worry about that. For now his only duty was to return to the camp with his find. He loaded the bag onto the back of the jeep and got into the passenger side. He switched on the safety on his AK-47 and let out a deep breath.
“Yalla, we’ve been gone a long time. Al-Asma is waiting,” he said to his partner. With a nod the other boy started the engine and began driving into the endless sands.
They had been gone a good four hours before they stumbled upon what they knew would be of more value to Al-Asma than anything they had previously brought. They didn’t normally find things in the dunes. Al-Asma would be pleased. Perhaps he would throw a feast for them. The driver’s mouth began to water. The taste of fresh gyro was on his tongue. He was ready to be praised. He glanced over to his partner. Behind the shemagh and sunglasses, his best friend was unrecognizable. He could have been anybody. But he knew him more than a brother could.
“I don’t see why you’re worried, Haydar,” he said. “You’re not facing the Harr anytime soon.”
Haydar said nothing. He simply kept his gaze straight ahead. Nothing, just sand. His mind was consumed with the bag in the rear, and, more importantly, its contents. It was strange to him. Nothing ever appears in the desert. So how did they find it? It shouldn’t have been within 1000 miles of the middle east. He didn’t see Al-Asma as pleased. He didn’t see anything good that could come from what they had found.
Where did he come from?