On that day, my mother looked down at me with a sad smile and asked me if I wanted to lead the nation back into the glory and the hope that had been drained away from us. I didn’t know what she meant, but I knew that I wanted to. So I said yes and felt a feather fall from my freedom.
This morning I woke up, staring at the thatched roof over me, and imagined all the fibers unweaving. It would collapse down around us, it wouldn’t hurt us at first, but the consequences from it would slowly span out like a ripple dividing the river in two sides. I looked at the serene face of my sleeping husband, kissed his forehead lightly, and walked out into the dewy morning. I left my feet barren and enjoyed the slight cold that prickled up through my legs as I made my way to the weeping willow that already sheds its tears for the sacrifices people make to return the world into a state of peace.
I sat beneath it and contemplated the effects that would spring from small drips of my sweet blood into a silver locket. I pulled blades of grass from the earth, split them down the center, weaved the splits together in a braid, and blew it ...
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... along the river side. Our village is small, simple, and beautiful in a unique form of simplicity. The houses are built in a circular pattern, the young men living in the outer houses and the elder couples living in the center. It’s our security system, it’s our way to protect against the glowing eyes that lurk across the jungle floor with padded paws and curved fangs.
I walk down through the circles, passing by rows of houses, small animals scuttling from child to child, and women walking will large bellies while they wait for the birthing month to start. It is two months away and it crosses across my mind in a fleeting thought, will I have lifted the weight of the sins by the time these babies are born?
Sighing heavily with the weight of forced ambition, I push the door open to our tiny house. I creep through the rooms and disappear beneath the covers to my bed.
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