Smoke. Burning flesh. I thrash from bed. Silk gown grabs at my hips. In the hallway I find my sister, Sahlah. Our hands meet and we bolt for her daughter's room — it blazes. Khalida lies in the doorway, tiny fingers curled in death.
Sahlah struggles toward her daughter, but my hands grip hard, holding my sister close. Her black tresses smolder around a face turned tallow. My slender fingers brush her cheeks, wishing color there. As I did beside our pool when she almost drowned, full lips frosted blue. I wish for more faith. And control. Stay calm — my prayer.
I guide Sahlah down the stairs. Turning the lock I pull on the door; wind whistles through the crack. Open. The kitchen explodes and we are thrown into the yard. The world is black. Tears sting my cracked lips. I hear voices of men, arguing. A cold wind blows from the desert through the palms; it carries the smell of date and a trace of spice. Slowly sight returns as Sahlah helps me up. A thin cut weeps along her jaw. The moon is a sickle hanging over the house.
A man approaches. Uniform starched to bladed creases, he works to police religion. His badge glows like a brand — sacred by proxy. Behind him, men ready buckets of water. More religious police fence them from us, zealously repulsing their attempts to help. Sirens draw near. The man before me averts his eyes, but advances, eclipsing the scene. Feet planted, chest rising skyward, his red and white-checkered gutra whips in the wind. He clutches us, forces us back. "Get your veils!" he commands.
Anger chokes me and I break upon his chest, fists landing, fingers scratching. Another gust of wind feeds the flames. The smell of spice intensifies. A second uniformed man appears, pushes me back through the door. I trip over Sahlah. She screams her daughter's name. Ash stains her cheeks. She weeps, but her cinnamon eyes have no more tears. I see shattered faith in those eyes — my own.
Sahlah starts up the stairs, the banister her guide. I lunge for her leg through the uprights, but miss. Her pastel gown billows as she climbs. A runner of flame races along her arm. I collapse against the banister; its uprights feel such like bars. Breath blisters.
My fingers form fists around an upright. A growl escapes from my chest as I snap it from the banister. Through the breach my vision roams past dunes to savannah. Grass waves in a gentle breeze. In all directions, open. I can breath. A path winds away. Release.
Sahlah bursts into a scream. I raise the flaming brand and stalk outside.
Kai Lashley writes prose, specifically short stories and
'micro-fiction'. After receiving his BA from the University of
Washington in the United States, he moved to Geneva, Switzerland and
began working as a freelance writer and editor for various UN
organizations.
He re-contacted his Dutch family and his roots by moving to the
Netherlands in 2004. Now living in Amsterdam, he works with
wordsinhere, a literary collective; one of his primary roles is as a
fiction editor of Versal, the collective's print publication
(http://versal.wordsinhere.com).