Preisha Writes

Along the River, the one that ran its fingers across the desert, the one with no name because there was nobody there to give it one, was something peculiar. Never had someone ventured far enough from the city to reach the last pool of water, a murky puddle that had by chance connected itself to the suffering River.

The child lay still on the rocks, far enough from the River that if he looked up he wouldn’t be able to see it. But the River saw, with eyes narrow and thin along the bank, it saw the thin red cloth draped over the shoulders of the child, hair thick with the stench of unwashed sweat.

“What are you here for, Child?”

The River’s voice was raspy. It surprised itself with the sound, the River had not spoken since the days when it was wide and roaring, carrying breezes across the fertile land.

“Wake up, for this is no place for one like you.”

The River spoke louder, the rasp clearing to make way for glassy tones and words very much like the water it carried. Seeing no movement or reply, the River fell silent. One snaky finger stretched over the land, caressing the crevices that spilt the soil.

The finger reached the child, tasted it’s dried tears. The sweet breath the River hoped to have felt was not there, leaving in its absence a stillness.

The water collected and submerged the stillness, erased the salt from the tears. It engulfed the red cloth, hiding the stillness and then memory for nobody to find.

The River continued its lazy flow, the fingers that ran over the desert shortened to allow water to hide the secret, ensuring red robes were never to be in sight again.