Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Studio on a waterfall.

 So, I've been doing some writing exercises on another blog and this one was just too long to post on there. So, I'm putting it here. I've used aspects of this before, but I wanted to use it.


The confessional was an oversized glassbox. Pale white skin in a daffodil patterned smock tied at the waist, she was distraught before the camera’s. So young and blindfolded, her gentle hands feeling around her, she knelt before the wooden block. The studio audience watched quietly with baited breaths. Her fellow conspirators huddled whimpering in terror, awaiting doom. Was there a better reality show? The last moments of terrorists and their supporters. Bright lights shone down on them.

“Confess your sins!” Her pastor whispered in her ear. But he was from her past and her future was in Allah. They had taken her coverings. Exposing her bare pristine white legs and golden locks. Under the blindfold, her closed gray eyes wept. Pastor Jenkins continued to speak into her ear, his arm wrapped around her shoulders in a protective and paternal manner. A man dressed in orange watched distantly with face covered, resting on the handle of the axe standing on end on the ground. They could hear her shakey breaths. “Repent! Child just repent and they might let you walk or at the very least, save your soul!” He pleaded in hushed tones. She continued to sob but shook her head. She didn’t have any sins to confess. Obeying Allah was not a sin. She had many things to repent for, but she would not repent for her faith. She feared death, but her faith was strong.

Her friends clutched each other in the corner, praying quietly, just as she prayed silently in her head. One had brown hair matched with a smock patterned in chestnuts with the same tie at the waist. With her bare pinkish beige skin exposed and long soft hair, she was built like a dancer. The other had the same shade of skin and long straight dark hair, wore a smock patterned in dark blue calico. Her lips moved as she prayed but the camera’s only picked up the sound of her weeping.

The studio was built on a platform on a pole-like structure, out from the island near their largest city. It rose up out of the edge of the ocean in a circular form with it’s curtain of waterfall falling all around it. The building provided an insular view to it’s studio’s, while creating a visceral view from outside.

The crowd was getting restless and Pastor Jenkins eyes met the show’s host. He shook his head sadly. He wore black trouser’s, white shirt with a tie and a business jacket. Black and white, much like how he saw the world. But the lines between his people had blurred, never so much more for him as it did now with this young woman from his own flock. He ran a hand through his graying brown hair feeling his frustrations mount. His blue eyes were filled with tears as he couldn’t find an alternative solution to please all parties. The audience wanted blood. He had managed to convince the judge to let her go if she only repented on live television. He had asked God for the words to set her straight. For him to speak into her heart. To show her the light! She didn’t even have to acknowledge Jesus as Lord. She only had to repent. But Abigail was determined and he could see that now. He slipped out the glass door and was replaced by the host.

“Abigail Caroline Ewert. Do you have any last requests?” She asked in a tone that suggested seriousness and almost bordered on empathy. Of course, she knew Abigail had a last request. Like other prisoner’s on the show, they had made these arrangements earlier.

“Piper’s to play Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham.” The audience assumed it was more Islamic sentiments. But it was music from an old bollywood movie of all things. Pipers came down the aisle, as per her request in dramatic form. They lined up before the audience in full view of the glass room. The music without singer’s or dancers or distractions haunted the studio. Everyone fell quiet.

The young girl shook with fear. As the song drew to a close, she seemed to find calm and resolve. She lay her neck on the high wooden block for the executioner’s death blow, her hands braced either side holding the wood. Guards stood at the ready. She was intensely convinced that she was making the right decision. Camera’s zero’d in on her face partially covered by her white blindfold, capturing her strength as her friends sobbed in the corner. They ached to hold her and comfort her. They were more converts. They hadn’t done anything wrong beyond being friends with people who had turned out to be terrorists. How could they have known? But these days, that was enough. So many attacks on sovereign soil. So many of their own people dead. Law maker’s had gnawed and chewed on their rights until they were all negotiable.

The executioner took a weary breath. Tall and brawn, he loomed over her. The host read out her script as per the law. Her face was somber amongst a perky outfit and giddy make-up. She looked as though she should have been presenting a pageant rather than a beheading. But it was all within the law. New laws that were in fact old laws. They would not suffer traitors. Abigail was asked if she had any final words and she declared Allah as her Lord. The axe glinted in the light as it was raised high in the air. The three women whispered prayers to their new found omnipotent power. Confirming their place on the executioner’s block. The host gave the signal and the axe came down with a bang for the final death blow. Blood spurted and the decapitated head rolled away. The pipers filed back out past an entertained audience.

1 comment:

  1. I'm so glad you decided to share this, it's extremely powerful writing. Very engaging and provocative.

    Thank you