- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- 1-3 posts per week
- Online Availability
- This changes too frequently to give anything reliable.
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Genres
- Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Adventure.
So we've had another terrorist attack lately, this time from the Taliban.
Though in this case I ran across someone who was affected by this personally and he gave permission to share this status on the matter as long his name isn't given away.
So I figured I should share it here, cause it does give perspective to such plights that your usual news reports just don't get across.
Though in this case I ran across someone who was affected by this personally and he gave permission to share this status on the matter as long his name isn't given away.
So I figured I should share it here, cause it does give perspective to such plights that your usual news reports just don't get across.
How do you cope with the fact that many people you grew up with are probably dead? Blown up in a suicide bomb blast. The trepidation is torture, the wait by the telephone pure agony. I grew up right next to the park they showered in blood and ash today. When Facebook activated the emergency 'Safety Check' feature today after the blast in Lahore, Pakistan, I forgot to breathe. My head started to spin. I had to sit down. My extended family is safe, but so many weren't as lucky. Dr. Abdul Rehman was 67, had forty years of experience teaching High-school Chemistry. He was my teacher. He's dead now.
Stuff like this makes you remember. You remember Miss Catherine weeping and telling her English class to pack up and make a orderly line towards the exit. Manhattan is burning, smoke rising over the Hudson, paper falling from the sky. The TVs showing planes hitting those towers again and again and again until it's burned into your memory forever.
You remember your middle school, again in Pakistan. You hear a big boom, and smell sulphur in the air. The deafening screams as crying weeping pre-teens run for the auditorium. A man on a bike loaded with explosives has just rammed into the front gate of your school. The guard, Mr. Muhammad, a single father, dead on impact, his seven children orphans. You sit behind a door crying. It's there where the emergency personal find you and take you to your blood-eyed mother.
You're on a bus, on rout to a major city to meet your grandparents. The bus stops and the driver tells the passengers that we're turning back. Somebody blew up the bridge crossing a couple of kilometers (miles) ahead. The ambulances rush past you as you make for home. You think about the cars and the people within who fell in the raging river, human life snuffed; dreams lost forever. Above else you think it could have been you. If the bus was faster, if you had taken an earlier bus - if - if - if.
I'm feeling melancholic right now. Didn't mean to unload on you guys but Graham Greene says 'writing is a form of therapy, it heals the soul'. That was the intention. To heal.