Through the eyes of a child - my story for the March WEP challenge.

There are many children in the world whose lives are far from optimal. Some experience various types of abuse on a daily basis, some are trafficked for sex, some are used as beggars…and the horror goes on. In warzones, children are often stolen from their families and trained as child soldiers, trained to kill. Others remain with their families, but whole families seethe with hatred against the enemy...who don't always understand they're the enemy.

My story is creative fiction - partly true...partly fictional...

The Child

                                                   

The Muslim call to prayer rang across the Baluchi Valley, punctuating the silence with staccato bursts.

The dogs began to bark. The child gentled them with a light tap on each head.

He slid behind a rock on the mountain side. The desert spread below him, a dark blanket. He strained to watch the procession snake along the path.

Hate seethed through every pore of his grimy body. Filthy infidels! His fingers closed around a rock.

The patrol moved close by; he could see each soldier struggle through the cool sand. They were like cockroaches as they wriggled along. How stupid they were in their great big boots. He looked at his bare feet and smirked.

Then his smirk turned to alarm. There was a woman amongst the men. Infidel, he spat.

***

Elvira fought the exhaustion ripping her body apart. The lead soldiers were obviously fitter than she, a newly-arrived recruit. Her knees screamed, her thighs burned, her lungs were on fire.

This place was hell.

She was in another universe, a universe where nothing was as it appeared.

Who was friend?

Who was foe?

Write...Edit...Publish entry for NEW BEGINNINGS...Martyrs...a Paris love story in more ways than one.

Hello all!

Here is my flash fiction piece for the Write...Edit...Publish challenge for January. I'm writing this on my travels. My strongest influence is Paris and its street life. One of my other obsessions is 24-hour news, so I think you might guess where part of the story comes from if like me, you're a news junkie. On a side note, all names in the story come from the Paris Metro Map which is always in my pocket when I'm in Paris.

If you'd like to post either a fiction, non-fiction, photo/graphs, artwork...for the prompt, or for future prompts, you are most welcome. After reading my story, you might like to click on some of the names in my sidebar list to see how others have interpreted NEW BEGINNINGS.

Martyrs

Blanche St-Ouen was once a premiere dancer at the Moulin Rouge cabaret. Now she had lost her job. She was nothing, nothing.

She stumbled down Rue Des Martyrs, ignoring the tears that washed her face. The name of the street suited her well. 

Hearing a familiar croaking voice, she absentmindedly dropped a euro into her favourite homeless person's basket and patted the blond chihuahua in the lady's lap.

Blanche looked up at the blue and white street sign. She'd always  been a martyr to her beauty, now her beauty was fading and her services at the Moulin Rouge were no longer required. All she had to fall back on was her nursing training which she'd never used, having been lured by the bright lights of the stage. 

Marcel's words exploded in her head as she lurched on down the street, away from the artists at the Place Teatre at Montmarte who always wanted to paint her likeness; all she wanted to do was to shut out images of the dance hall that had been her life for the past ten years, but she couldn't shut out Marcel, never could.

"Moulin Rouge is not your whole life, Blanche, it's just an experience along the way. Your life, your calling, the best, is yet to be revealed."

"My life is here; it's all I ever desire, Marcel, no matter what you say."

"Don't you desire me, dancing girl?" He'd held out his arms and she'd willingly embraced him. He had his way of diffusing a situation, and his way was exciting.

*** 

It was a warm Spring night. She sat at her tiny table in the Chat Noir, not far from Moulin Rouge, sipping an aperetif, watching the evening crowd on the street. While she watched, darkness fell and the lights came on, electrifing the Pigalle district in exciting reds and blacks. How pretty it looked, all dressed up for Christmas. But her Christmas would be bleak. 

She'd lost everything that was important to her. What would Marcel say to her now? He'd always been negative about her choices. He couldn't understand her fixation with her dancing career. He'd had a fantastic career himself at the Moulin Rouge, caring for and training the animals used in the show. The snakes were always his favourite. She liked to think it was because she swam in the tanks with them, but she knew it wasn't that; Marcel just loved all living creatures. 

"Snakes remind me of the countries I want to travel to," he'd said. "I want to work, to help those less fortunate than I am, as corny as that sounds. As soon as I have my medical qualification, I'll be gone."

"Oh, Marcel, that is so dangerous. I don't want you in one of those field hospitals in some Godforsaken land. Can't you be happy in Paris? With me? I'm never leaving Paris. It is everything I want."

Turning her back on Marcel, she'd tossed a euro into the homeless woman's basket, reaching down to pat the head of the tiny dog which looked up at her, hopeful-eyed.

"If only you could see yourself, Blanche. Your heart melts for Paris' homeless who are relatively pampered  when compared to those in war zones in Africa and elsewhere...and a spoilt dog that will get sick of getting nothing but pats from you, but your heartache doesn't extend to the real suffering in the world."

"What else can I do to help the refugees in the Sudan, Somalia, the Congo, Syria for Christssake? The whole world has gone mad! You know I donate to World Vision and Medicin sans Frontiers. On a dancer's wage, that's a sacrifice."

"You could come with me to the Sudan to actually work with Medicin sans Frontiers. You're a trained nurse. Why not? You could do so much."

"My life is here in Paris. It always will be. That fierce sun would dry up my skin, suck the life out of me. I'd lose my looks."

"Blanche," he'd said sadly, "beauty isn't just what you see, but what you are inside. Helping others is a thing of beauty."

***

She looked up from her aperitif just in time to see Varenne and Iena walking arm in arm, giggling, heading in the direction of Moulin Rouge. Why did she torture herself sitting here, watching her friends make their way up the street? How she would miss the excitement of the dance. How she would miss the rehearsals, the costumes, the make up, the make believe. But most of all, she would miss Marcel.

She and Marcel had been together for three years, but they'd never shared an apartment. He needed his own space for studying when he wasn't at the theatre, he'd said. As soon as he'd qualified as a doctor, he was gone. 

The voices on the bar television soaked into her consciousness. She swivelled around in her chair and watched refugees trudging along the dusty road in the Sudan, trying to escape the latest atrocities. Their meagre belongings bounced on their bent backs. Tiny children clung to their mothers' bright skirts. Some were crying, some were laughing as they danced down the road.

As she watched, a spokesman for Medicin sans Frontiers came on the television, giving an update on the millions displaced by the latest outbreak, asking for donations for the cause. She leaned closer as the image panned to a close up of Marcel's face. 

"We won't claim that working for Medicin sans Frontiers is without risk," the spokesman said, "and the recent death of Marcel Maubourg proves this. We mourn the death of our gifted young surgeon who is a martyr to our cause, who was kidnapped and killed by insurgents while carrying out operations in our local field hospital. But Marcel would not have wanted his death to dissuade anyone with the desire and skills to help our mission here. These people are desperate. They have nothing, nothing. I beg you, if you have any medical training, consider joining us. We need you."

Blanche wiped her tears away. Her new life, her new beginning, was opening up before her.

She pushed aside her aperitif, placed her tip in the little metal tray, and walked out of the restaurant. It no longer felt like her special place.

Outside on the street, she dropped a euro into the homeless lady's basket and patted the dog which startled her by jumping up and snapping at her face.

Blanche withdrew her hand and laughed...and laughed...and laughed.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

WORD COUNT: 1087 (sorry I'm over, but I'm rushing to schedule this in case Google wrecks my connection as has been happening to some.)

FEEDBACK WELCOME AS THE FINAL VERSION IS TO BE PUBLISHED IN AN ANTHOLOGY 

In these times of global unrest, Médecins Sans Frontières is often the first on the ground to help. It has become one of my chosen charities and I support it in any way I can. I hope you have learnt something from my story... 

Médecins Sans Frontières

Non-profit

Médecins Sans Frontières, or Doctors Without Borders, is a French secular humanitarian-aid non-governmental organization, Nobel Peace Prize laureate, best known for its projects in war-torn regions and developing countries facing endemic diseases. Wikipedia

Founder: Bernard Kouchner

Founded: 1971

Awards: Nobel Peace Prize, Indira Gandhi Prize

The End is Nigh (of week one NaNoWriMo) - how far did I get with my new novel? Well, I did some research...

I've received one or two snide remarks about why I do NaNoWriMo every year, but I have one answer - I love to research! And every November I get all fired up about a story idea, then I dive in, finding out all I can. Well, this is my favourite part of story writing. How about you?

First thing, I struggled home with two bursting library bags of goodies.

Then, I was helping one of my students do a Comedy assignment this week. We were looking for examples of one liners. I found a beauty - 'When we steal someone's idea it's called plagarism. When we steal a lot of ideas it's called research.' Don't you love it?

Next, I spread the books out on the bed...

Unfortunately the research I'm doing for this novel  is depressing beyond words. You might see a woman in a blue burqa on the cover of the book in the foreground. Well, that's often how Afghani women are referred to: 'There go the burqas down the street.' And the war books, the journalist's reports, the soldier's blogs - "killing a hillful"...man, this is so tough!

But I've managed to get over 3,000 words written, way behind the amount expected. My research is changing my original premise. What I've written may be pretty vomitus, but editing can wait. That's what NaNo's all about. Get the words down, worry about that inner editor screaming at you later!

• If you're doing NaNo, how are you going as we approach the end of the first week?
• If you're not doing NaNo, how are your writing or reading projects shaping up? 
• Do you like to research?
• I did a post about being too show-offy with research when I reviewed Jodi Picoult's Sing You Home . Can we show too much just to look clever? Or is our research just to underpin our story, implicit rather than explicit?