Extract

The child wove his way amongst the crowds of sixth street, keeping himself steered towards the citadel six miles from him- screeches echoed their way through, cries of men and women and children, and lest, his own family.
Yet the child did not let this burden him, he had a message for the king, one of utmost importance, and so his conscience was left to falter, alongside his own balance as he toppled onto one of the several market stands which were loosely scattered across the road.
“Watch where you’re going!”
Passerby’s gawped at the missiles streaming past them. The child picked himself up and continued his plight, keeping himself sidelined to street walls, where the beggars would make their homes, and cats their lavatories, his hands pressing their way for any chance of an exit from the claustrophobe onto an open plain of desert and a sudden wave of scorching heat.
One of the missiles had just exploded.
The child was stunned, but not stunted, he’d allowed himself time to breathe, taken off his patterned T-Shirt, and assembled it into a turban like headpiece to protect him from the naked sun.
Ashes drifted towards him in direction of the wind, the bitter grey memories of a possible family who’d left Sunday as their day of rest, had encountered one too many earthquakes, or were simply not prepared.
Never the less, the child’s ashen filled face covered much, but not his own stoic determination, but he did not sweat, he had become too tired to do even that.
Onwards the child went, until he’d become belittled by the shadow of a building not too far ahead.
The palace resonated; ivory temples glistened under the tyrant sun, one of great power and omniscience. But this did not intimidate the boy, for he was at home now.
He stepped inside two servicemen seemingly prepared for his arrival, they simply tisked at the rather clad boy but made nothing of his appearance, and neither the boy theirs.
He ran up the ivory stairs and onto the second floor, its floor gleaming of marble.
“Father! Father!”
There came no response, besides a hollow echo as the boy’s voice bounced on the walls.
“Father!”
As if an eternity later there came a grand bellowing, the double door at the end of the floor parted, slowly, but with confidence, and behind the door came a man, his stature dwarfing the boy; yet the boy felt no threat, and broke into a run towards the man embracing him with both arms.
“Why aren’t you with your brothers and sisters?”
The man’s voice towered the now timid child’s.
“I wanted to be with you.”
“I cannot argue with that.”
“Father, they’re coming.”
“I know.”
Then in an instant his voice calmed, all authority fell, it was no longer as sharp and harsh as it used to be, but instead a dulcet tone, it soothed the child, for as long he was with the man he would not be harmed.
“Then what do we do?”
“Nothing, America is here my son.”
“What do we do?”
“We surrender. It’s now over to better men to fight for us.”
“Then when will I see you again?”
The man didn’t respond, instead he knelt down and kissed the child on his cheek, ignoring the tar smudged along his face, the child did not weep, instead he emitted a soft moan, too quiet for his father to hear.
Then the missiles came.
Each round shattered the windows, ripping apart each floor, bursting with a violent energy which engulfed the entire palace, harmonising into a thick cloud of smoke and ash. Then silence.