Photo credit: Phoenix Wolf-Ray
One by one, the boys are silhouetted against the fire, dancing the ritual, stomping harder to compensate for small numbers. The burnt clove smoke of the women’s pipes weaves around the lone drum beat and the girls’ high chant.
We sing prayers to Sambar, thanking him for the harvest we slaved to save. But it was Sambar who sent our men to war. Secretly, sinfully, I pray to his wife.
Dearest Elsanami, dampen your husband’s angry flames, soothe his brow, sweeten the world.
I imagine she is the moon, watching, weeping–perhaps helpless, as we down here, to do more.
Word count: 100. Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers challenge. Thanks as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting! See the original prompt photo, below.
I almost titled this one “Morbid Moon.” Just a couple days ago, I was saying that I didn’t think my stories were that morbid, but recent events in Las Vegas and politics overall in my country have turned my thoughts decidedly in that direction.
Photo © Ted Strutz