Tag: Homs

100-Word Fiction: ‘A Complaint About the Building of Walls’

~ MW Bewick ~ Leave a comment

There is no good in a wall that only divides;
That only seeks to hinder and stop;
That only aims to split into sides;
That takes rupture and acts as a prop

There is no good in a wall that feigns to protect
While causing obstruction and hurt:
If it camouflages the onslaughts it’s supposed to deflect;
If it’s just a conduit for a hatred built in dirt

Walls provide refuge, but should they only rise
At the expense of freedom, progress and scope,
And cast only shadows, and help cement lies,
Then they leave only a barrier to hope

100Word Fiction: ‘They Came Here’

~ MW Bewick ~ Leave a comment

The world is painted black and red. It runs down the walls and across the dusty floors. They came here. I tell the man. They came here, can you not see? Are you colour blind? Look at the walls. You can touch them now, go on, get it on your fingers. They have dried of course but they were hot and wet. This is my family. It was their home. Do you not see? Can you not see where it is heading? Follow the cloud of dust or this will happen again, it will, if you care, if you care…

100-Word Fiction: ‘The Rains of the Spring’

~ MW Bewick ~ Leave a comment

The rains of spring have lasted a year. I hear that in some areas now there are only showers, or perhaps someone said light drizzle. It was always too optimistic to think the rains were seasonal. It would take a decade of downpours to drench this scorched earth.

But the rains come and come: wave after wave of them across from what once might have been a horizon. Now it is just a fog of tears and smoke. And endless deep.

The wet blows through the broken windows, seeps into the khaki, runs down my chest, pouring even as we sleep.

100-Word Fiction: ‘If the World Was a Little Different’

~ MW Bewick ~ Leave a comment

At first it happened slowly, blistering the skyline and the dusty roadside only occasionally. People turned to look, crying out. But soon, more and more little outbursts came, a ceaseless bombardment, and the city became quickly transformed. The past was forgotten.

There were little explosions of colour all across Homs, cherry blossom firing spring into consciousness. The blossom was soon lying thick on the streets and the children said it looked like snow from the movies on TV. Delicate pinks and ethereal whites were strewn across the avenues and clung to the little houses, and all, for now, was good.