Chocolate And Fire
Blurry visions of butterflies and rainbows, smoothly morphing into visions of violence. Violence and Fire. Violence in Fire. A distant acrid smell of tyres burning, too?
An 8 year old child, cute, innocent, clever, bright blue eyes, buries a bar of chocolate in the ground. Pats the mound of mud once she's done "hiding" her chocolate. She smiles a happy contented smile. Just the way an 8 year old can. Her white frock jingles hidden tunes, dances with glee and exudes an innocence. Just the way an 8 year old's frock can. She turns around, screams. Screams a terrible scream. Just the way an 8 year old can.
Her white frock catches fire. She writhes in agony. Agony that is capable of washing away innocence, happiness, the characteristic "8 year old's" smile and memories of buried chocolate. All gone. In a flash. In a possible eternity.
The 'morrow cometh, and the fires have subsided. There is a body which once held life, once had bright blue eyes, once clothed by a white frock, now covered in 3rd degree fire burns, now lifeless. No smile, possibly a frown. Charred remains, lying on top of some buried chocolate. Sadly, just the way an 8 year old can...
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A curse on those senseless ones. Ones who burn mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and innocent little children in the name of Religion, Death of an idol, and to subvert others for their own perverted pleasures. In memory of all those who had to give up their futures and their lives. Maybe these harbingers of doom should see the world for how delightfully happy it is. Just the way an 8 year old can...
An 8 year old child, cute, innocent, clever, bright blue eyes, buries a bar of chocolate in the ground. Pats the mound of mud once she's done "hiding" her chocolate. She smiles a happy contented smile. Just the way an 8 year old can. Her white frock jingles hidden tunes, dances with glee and exudes an innocence. Just the way an 8 year old's frock can. She turns around, screams. Screams a terrible scream. Just the way an 8 year old can.
Her white frock catches fire. She writhes in agony. Agony that is capable of washing away innocence, happiness, the characteristic "8 year old's" smile and memories of buried chocolate. All gone. In a flash. In a possible eternity.
The 'morrow cometh, and the fires have subsided. There is a body which once held life, once had bright blue eyes, once clothed by a white frock, now covered in 3rd degree fire burns, now lifeless. No smile, possibly a frown. Charred remains, lying on top of some buried chocolate. Sadly, just the way an 8 year old can...
---
A curse on those senseless ones. Ones who burn mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and innocent little children in the name of Religion, Death of an idol, and to subvert others for their own perverted pleasures. In memory of all those who had to give up their futures and their lives. Maybe these harbingers of doom should see the world for how delightfully happy it is. Just the way an 8 year old can...
