The Rainbow children.

In a jubilant mood they dispersed throughout the green meadow. The other kids ran while she chased, they hid, she sought. Until her legs hurt; until her laughter turned into heaves. She bent with her hands on her knees and took deep breaths. Her vision had started to give way, so had her heart. She was afraid, she was five. She had to get back to the others but someone was trying to pull her back. Something was sucking her into a hole.

There were voices and pain where they were pulling her. There was peace in her meadow.

“Oh my God…….beat her up real bad….maintain IV…..arrange blood…….vaginal tears, perineal…..raped by some son-of-a-bitch”

There were four. She felt blood drumming in her ears, the heat was unbearable. It was so cool in the meadow.

They did shameful things to her, she should never tell anyone; she won’t speak. Shrieks of their laughter had rung the meadow and even the birds had joined them.

Someone pricked the back of her hand but it didn’t hurt that bad. Her legs were on fire and what was between them. They had hurt her, the hardest there. She doubted even her mother could rock her to comfort. Pain like nothing she had ever felt before.

“Stay with us dear! …all a bad dream.”

No! It was real. More than her whole existence, more than any horror movie her brother watched where the monster crawled up your face from the neck of your shirt. So real, that the monster was within her and would eat her insides if she stayed. She liked the meadow better.

She felt herself relax. Her body hurt no more, her heart lightened. She scanned the meadow. The kids emerged from their hiding places. They smiled and beckoned her, glad for her and for the choice she had made. They all linked hands and set out to search for the rainbow, at the foot of which lay their robbed childhood, their greatest treasure.

©2013. Habiba Danyal

For Trifecta Week 95

& for all the youthful giggles that were silenced by monsters, anywhere in the world.

I who had killed…

Snow, as white as truth;

lay heaped beneath me.

And fell from the white sky,

getting caught occasionally,

in my lashes and brows.

And pooled in the hollows

of my long awakened eyes.

Eyes that lacked life,

that had witnessed

a shade too grey and black-

black, as black as sin.

And even though,

the whole sky had spilled its white,

to wash my blackened soul,

that peeped through,

those glazed empty holes.

Despite its effort to wash off the stain,

that was I,

on the face of this earth;

I who had killed

and let others kill.

And I who was the rage of wars,

the fury of devil, himself.

I who had spattered blood,

on feeble mud walls

And I, who had let blood dye

A rag doll’s belly, red.

I, who had sieved the walls

of mosques that stood in peace,

with bullets and I who had burned,

churches and temples,

where bells struck as one,

in unison and  perfect harmony.

I, who had hung their youth,

with clothe lines in their yards.

And I, who had urinated,

on their Books and women.

I, who had raped their daughters

and mothers alike.

Blood had clouded my brain,

and curtained my eyes with a veil.

A veil not thick enough,

to bottle my wrath, my lunacy.

And alas, tired of trying

to do away with me, my sins.

Snow covered me with mounds,

and buried me deep, -er.

To hide nature’s flaw,

that was I, in flesh and blood.


©2013. Habiba Danyal


For Write On Edge’s Red Writing Hood Propmt: Forbidden or Taboo and Trifecta’s Week 35 challenge. This post is in sequel to Fate.

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Jason let his mother cradle him while he toyed with her hair. It was so comforting. He was gratified with the way she held him, for now; the bad feeling could wait. He wondered why she was crying though. Was God punishing her for being bad? Had He chosen Mr. McKenzie for punishing her as well?

He wished she would stop crying. He didn’t like the damp feeling. But he dare not say it. It was easier being quiet about everything these days. When you stay quiet, it gets over quickly! That was Rule no.3. Things would not have gone wrong if it were not for him being a noisy, troublesome kid. Daddy wouldn’t have left them. They wouldn’t have come to the new town, the new school and God wouldn’t have sent Mr. McKenzie to punish him.

His mother ran a hand over his hair to smoothen them and planted a kiss on his forehead. He closed his eyes, only to open them back, with a start. It didn’t hurt; in fact he liked the way her lips felt, soft and warm. It wasn’t like closing his eyes for Mr. McKenzie. That was Rule no.2. Close your eyes, Jason!

“Jason! Sweetheart? Won’t you tell Mommy what has been hurting you? Who is it? Look at me, love! Is it someone Mommy knows?”

Jason acted as if he couldn’t hear. He didn’t like that question and Mommy had been asking a lot of it, lately. He traced his finger along her collar-bone as if he were driving a car on a bridge.

“Jason!” Emma shook him to gain his attention. Jason’s hand slipped down her clavicle. Wham! The car had crashed. Daddy’s car! Daddy was there. Right there! He needed help! 

Emma shook Jason harder this time and screamed at him.

“Why don’t you tell me who it was, damn it! Don’t you see that Mommy is trying to help! Tell me who it was, Jason!” 

Emma continued to shake him roughly and repeated the question again and again. Until her scream transformed into plead and finally died as a whimper.

Jason didn’t like it. The sound reminded him of the first time. He jumped up, ran out of Emma’s grasp and hid beneath the table. The sound that had escaped from his mouth, when God had sent Mr. McKenzie to punish him for the first time. In the school’s store-room. Mr. McKenzie told him that it was the only way Daddy could come back. If Jason promised him to stick by the Rules, God would forgive him for being a bad boy. He had learnt Rule no.1 that day. It is forbidden to talk about God’s punishment!

©2012.Habiba Danyal


Emma clutched Jason hard to her chest and rocked to and fro. The fact that Jason preferred keeping it all to himself devastated her. She knew he was too small, too fragile to cope with it alone. Never had she imagined, that the fate of hundreds of children she fought for was written for her son as well.

Did he experience the same filthy feeling that the other kids felt? She didn’t know because Jason wouldn’t say a word. But she was adamant to help him. She wiped her tears, she knew what she had to do.

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This post is in response to Write on Edge’s Red Writing Hood: Active Voice prompt.

©2012. Habiba Danyal