The Dress and the Dove

The dress was a shimmering shade of white; it puddled around her feet when she walked, making her far more beautiful than one could possibly imagine.

She was flawless and incredibly stunning, with the heavenly white dress to top it all off.

Living far above, she could but see the reflection of the image she had built in her head, of the world she had come to love so dearly.
This made her oblivious of the small details, the small imperfections that made the roots of her beloved world.

And so, one day, out of curiosity, she stepped out of her heavenly abode and for the first time, set foot into her much cherished world, flapping that brilliant dress behind her.

As she reached the gate, it opened before her, welcoming her with open arms, to prove to her that she had done well…or so she thought.
For once setting foot into the world, the light blue skies turned into a deep shade of grey and the green grass, burst into flames before her unbelieving eyes.

Hearing a loud tear, she found that the right strap of her dress was torn viciously.

And suddenly, she heard a crying scream. As she turned her head abruptly, she found herself – hoping against odds, it was a mere figment of her imagination – hurrying towards the sound.

Upon reaching the source of the sound, she could do nothing but stare in sheer despair.

She stood in a battle field, watching the massacre take place, unable to prevent it from happening.

People killing people, out of materiality, out of greed.
And with every tear shed, every drop of innocent blood spilled, her dress became scarred. Piece by piece, the elegant white dress, turned red – the color of brutality, of inhumanity - , the soft fabrics, of which the dress was made, were mangled beyond recognition.

And as the white dove was shot out of the sky, heartlessly, and without even the smallest hint of hesitation, she fell on the ground.
Holding, what was left of the once flawless, one-of-a-kind dress to cover herself up, she put a hand on her heart, trying her best to put an end to the pain she felt, the disappointment in the inhabitants of her beloved world.
Looking at the dove, now lying on the floor, eyes still and resembling crystals, she lay on the floor beside it.

The world had lost so much, in that moment, for the heart of the earth, was bleeding.

And one is faced with a perplexing question: Will she be left to bleed, or will she be saved miraculously, by the same people who had inflicted the wounds on her?

-Layan Adham Ismail
Self-proclaimed 'writer wannabe', 'drama queen', 'annoying know-it-all', 'avid exaggerator'. The makings of a creative megamind.

Watercolor painting by Agnes Cicile

Previously published in TeenStuff Magazine, Egypt.

Continue

Chains of Glass- Part 1

Sometimes, several times, I think I saw evil in me.

I hadn’t grown up in a bubble; I was raised in an enormous oblong glass box. The extraordinary thing about this glass box was that I could see everything of the world without. But to that world, I was completely invisible. The box was impermeable, it was impossible for me to shine in the radiance that showered around it. The glass simply reflected its bright glares. None of the beams reached within.

But that never really bothered me, I was too busy looking outside. There was too much light inside the box already, and the glass just trapped it within. And almost always, it fluoresced.

Yet, sometimes, many times, I think I saw darkness- outside, inside, and either time- in me.

If I had had a desire, even just a slight yearning, to shatter this glass that interposed, like I wall, between me and this world outside, this glorious existence that I could only see, sometimes smell, almost taste, but never feel- it wouldn’t have been sinful.

It’s not sinful to crave what you don’t have. It’s human. For as alluring as this world was to me, I knew, and I could tell by the lust in their eyes, that this invisible sanctuary of mine was something they could die for, and they did.

In that was my sin.

When I was a child, the bad times drifted past. I later learned there were several, but my memory could hold only a few. Those it did, I accepted. It didn’t matter whether it was losing a parent or moving into a large glass box. I simply accepted, maybe a little too easily.

In our world, outside the glass boxes scattered miscellaneously, there are always bad times. Or in other words, times are always bad. As you grow, you become more sensitive to pain, to sorrow, to despair. There is so much of it to feel in this world. Too much. It’s unbearable.

Wars were raged, are raging and even now, are promised to be raged, from north to south, east to west. Then when they get bored of their enemy, the wars still rage, this time north to west, east to south. Peace is nowhere, not in any country I’ve heard of. Their wars only rattled the serenity within our sanctuary of a glass box. 

(...to be continued...)
- Bushra

Don't want to miss the next part? Subscribe to have it delivered straight to your email.

Continue