| General Fiction posted May 9, 2014 |
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200 word story
The Discarded
by Spiritual Echo
I'm told her name is Drija, and while the stories vary, depending on the source, all agree on her name and the fact she is a refugee from somewhere.
She hides behind a curtain that frames the doorway of the shack where she lives with two other women. Their ethnicity remains a secret. They keep to themselves, rarely appearing on the dusty aisles between vendor's carts.
Some say she's a gypsy, another calls her a whore. I am a journalist, here in Nigeria to write a story about the mass kidnapping of two hundred girls. My curiosity is aroused.
She reads palms for a few coins. I extend my arm holding American dollars. She opens the curtain, allowing me to enter, hiding the right side of her face.
Something in my palm or my eyes causes her to gasp. She sees something--knows something.
"Write about me--us--the discarded girls," she says then turns her face to show me the handiwork, the scars and the legacy of shame. "We're not worth food."
She is a girl--too old to have value to the kidnappers--a used up whore, no one will claim or want. She is seventeen years old.
Artwork Inspired Writing Prompt writing prompt entry
I'm told her name is Drija, and while the stories vary, depending on the source, all agree on her name and the fact she is a refugee from somewhere.
She hides behind a curtain that frames the doorway of the shack where she lives with two other women. Their ethnicity remains a secret. They keep to themselves, rarely appearing on the dusty aisles between vendor's carts.
Some say she's a gypsy, another calls her a whore. I am a journalist, here in Nigeria to write a story about the mass kidnapping of two hundred girls. My curiosity is aroused.
She reads palms for a few coins. I extend my arm holding American dollars. She opens the curtain, allowing me to enter, hiding the right side of her face.
Something in my palm or my eyes causes her to gasp. She sees something--knows something.
"Write about me--us--the discarded girls," she says then turns her face to show me the handiwork, the scars and the legacy of shame. "We're not worth food."
She is a girl--too old to have value to the kidnappers--a used up whore, no one will claim or want. She is seventeen years old.
She hides behind a curtain that frames the doorway of the shack where she lives with two other women. Their ethnicity remains a secret. They keep to themselves, rarely appearing on the dusty aisles between vendor's carts.
Some say she's a gypsy, another calls her a whore. I am a journalist, here in Nigeria to write a story about the mass kidnapping of two hundred girls. My curiosity is aroused.
She reads palms for a few coins. I extend my arm holding American dollars. She opens the curtain, allowing me to enter, hiding the right side of her face.
Something in my palm or my eyes causes her to gasp. She sees something--knows something.
"Write about me--us--the discarded girls," she says then turns her face to show me the handiwork, the scars and the legacy of shame. "We're not worth food."
She is a girl--too old to have value to the kidnappers--a used up whore, no one will claim or want. She is seventeen years old.
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Writing Prompt Write about the artwork displayed. Please ensure you correctly categorise your entry as poetry, fiction, non-fiction etc. Maximum word count: 200 No other rules - have fun! |
 Recognized |
Artwork by liana miron at FanArtReview.com
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