Young Writers Society

Roxan’s dark hair cascaded down her shoulders and light strands were lifted in the cool evening air. Her penetrating blue eyes searched through the dishevelled town. How could the people not have listened? Had they brought it all on themselves? The prophet’s words sent chills up her spine: “. . .The coming of the clouds.”

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Roxan’s childhood played out in her mind’s eye. The greenery and summer flowers bloomed in excellent beauty. Pink dresses and stuffed dolls smiled in innocence. The walls of Beau-Beatra kept the world out of this secluded dreamland. But to Roxane and the other people, that didn’t bother them in the least.

That day the king would be talking to the town and inform them of the happenings of the new year. The tastes of the sticky bun miss. Selvester gave her made her jaws tingle and laid out a smile of milky white teeth. King Leon started talking and heads nodded in appreciation. But Roxan’s world was shattered when Damien (King Leon’s cousin) casually walked behind him, grabbed his head viciously and slit his throat. His underground army poured out from every corner like dirty cockroaches ready for a meal.

From that moment on, King Leon was dead and King Damien would rule. Shocked faces and fearful wails went around like wildfire. It was the beginning of the end and Roxane barely remembered the pink dresses and sticky buns, darkness was filling her mind as the puddle of red burned into her soul.

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Roxan’s footsteps were light and at the same time heavy. The broken down town was like a great animal’s skeleton rotting away in filth. Empty eyes peeped out from dark windows and coughs of the dead was heard here and there , breaking the haunting silence. A bulk of their nation was dead, sickly or enslaved. Only the army and the king prospered. Like a parasite they were sucking the life out of everything Her family was also gone, tears stung her eyes but her stony visage soon covered it up. Only her sickly brother was left. The smoky sky was filled with fear, Roxane could feel it.

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The army was a living and breathing organism on its own. Feeding off of hard worked food and fresh women monthly. Roxan remembered the first time they preached their religion to the masses. Tall, vulture-like men would go on and on about contributing, being someone, that it wasn’t slavery. Like webs they spun deceit into people’s minds and won not only their bodies, but their souls. Roxan never believed anything, it all bounced off like pebbles against a mountain’s hatred.

The walls that were supposed to keep evil out, was entrapping them inside. It wasn’t that they couldn’t get across the wall, everyone was just too scared. A life long culture and rules not to cross the wall would not even be broken by the army or the king- the Organisation. But one day Bernie Bush couldn’t take it anymore, his wild eyes emphasised his soul and in a mad dash he ran, climbed and flew over the wall. Although they never heard from him again, the story held for weeks. He became a legend.

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Walking past old Berta’s place was like setting a dry field on fire with anger. She was the town’s herb lady and her plump cheeks were a strong contrast to her witchlike nose. People always suspected her healing hands to be bewitched. When the Organisation found out about old Berta selling too much feel-good herbs, they accused her of being a witch. Her ear splitting screams made Roxan’s blood turn cold as she was dragged down to the main part of town. Her burnt flesh would never leave Roxan’s mind and the stench of cruelty was well known afterwards. The Organisation contradicted itself and employed real witches who spewed dark magic from hell. They were sent out to root out all of the freedom fighters. Burning, slitting, skinning, boiling, poisoning and more were made public through them. Her mother and father were freedom fighters. . .

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Thoughts about leaving soothed and feared her soul. What about her brother? Snickering, she thought: “It’s funny how people who are living in hell would rather stay there than experience the unknown, man’s greatest fear. Even in hell they have comfort zones.” The prophet thought the same, the prophet. . .

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Nobody knows where he came from, but his curly brown hair framed a pleasant face and peaceful eyes. Standing on top of a small house he came to say his message. It still sent chills up her spine. The wind billowed and tore at his clothes as his steady voice rang clear, “Come hail, come rain, you all will suffer pain. Broken bones and torn souls, forever your nation will lie in stones. Come pain, come fear, some death, the time is near. Come, the coming of the clouds.” He prophesised that the whole town would be destroyed, but the people didn’t listen, they wouldn’t cross the wall. The prophet was tortured and beheaded.

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The bouldering clouds were invading the sky and terror gripped Roxan’s heart. She would not stand down! The raindrops felt icy cold against her flushed skin as she raced to find her brother.

The wall stood like a giant barring the way, but Roxan knew that they had t get out. Her brother’s arms meekly clung to her shoulders as she started the treacherous climb; each step saying farewell to a memory.

Roxan plummeted down the other side and sky and earth became one in a glorious mixture of colours. Cool wind fanned her face and her eyes stretched wide as she took everything in around her. No wonder they hadn’t heard from Bernie. They lifelong teachings were wrong. . .