UMMAH’RICAN SERF
by Richard E. Bowness
A stiff breeze was coming in from the north. The first intimation of an impending change in season accompanied the refreshingly-cool air. In the old calendar it probably would’ve been mid-September, summer’s twilight.
The corners of Robert’s mouth began to moisten as the mercifully-frigid wind triggered a Pavlovian response within his wounded psyche. Memories of the bountiful feasts that used to take place during the glorious days of autumn flooded his temporal lobe, a pleasant sense of nostalgia offering a few seconds of precious, fleeting euphoria. It had been decades since turkey or mashed potatoes had touched his lips, yet the rich flavours of a Thanksgiving dinner now lingered across Robert’s taste buds as if he’d just sat down to watch a professional football game on television.
“The Lions suck,” Robert murmured to himself, smiling perversely as he stopped shovelling and wiped a glaze of sweat from his wrinkled brow. He allowed himself a moment’s rest, a brazen act of insolence he hadn’t dared attempt in months.
“What the zaqqum are you doing old man, get back to work,” one of Robert’s colleagues barked at him without hesitation. The strapping teenager’s vapid expression never altered as he continued to robotically stab at a massive pile of dirt with his archaic tool. “You’ll make trouble for all of us if the raqib sees you slacking off.”
Robert knew full well that his fellow diggers thought he was certifiably insane, regarding him at all times with a palpable disdain. They were all too young to remember the days before the Caliphate, back when they would’ve been able to take a fifteen minute break every hour as per union guidelines. “We should stage a walkout,” Robert joked, fully aware that no one around him had any clue what he was talking about. “Get the big wigs nervous, make ‘em think we’re gonna strike.”
“For the love of Allah - shut your crazy mouth or we’ll all feel the wrath of the raqib,” another digger chimed in. Robert looked back to see the rugged youngster heaving load after load of soil down into the pit with machinelike rapidity. He nodded meekly and turned his attention back to the mound.
“You’re a hard worker, son, I’ll give ya that much. We could’ve used more men like you in the war.” A hint of irony danced across Robert’s words as he resumed his shovelling duties. “Things might’ve turned out different maybe.”
“That was forty years ago, Tooba, let it go.”
“Robert ,” the old man whispered with solemn conviction. “My name is Robert.”
Heaving his shovel back into the mountainous heap of soil he’d been stationed to for weeks, Robert tried to ignore the potent stench of death which now filled the air as the autumn breeze swiftly dissipated and a merciless, sweltering heat returned with a vengeance.
Tossing a modest cluster of dirt down into the pit, Robert suddenly noticed that one of the bodies was still moving, writhing in agony amidst an endless sea of corpses. He called out for the raqib, his seldom-used vocal chords trembling as he leaned forward and pointed down towards the still-breathing Mormon.
Within seconds the raqib’s majestic white stallion was galloping gracefully across the barren landscape, transporting its master with remarkable speed. “What is it, abed?” the mounted sadist demanded as he neared Robert’s section of the link. The raqib’s fierce black eyes darted towards the pit once he realized that Robert’s badly-shaking index finger was pointing downwards.
“Ah, I see,” the olive-skinned monster stated brusquely, an enigmatic smile on his harsh face. “I can’t spare any ammunition right now. Get back to work.” He then swiftly, unexpectedly reached for his whip, hungrily devouring the fear which poured out of Robert as he did so. Laughing maniacally, the raqib dug his spurred boots into his horse and trotted off back towards his tyrannical perch on the end of the line.
Sighing expressively, Robert again resumed his shovelling duties. He grinned ruefully, pushing away an encroaching sense of despair through sheer willpower. Nightfall would come soon. Soon he would escape into a painless realm of slumber. Soon he would be at peace.
- - -
Richard E. Bowness, 29, lives in Atlantic Canada with a bunch of old records and stuff.
by Richard E. Bowness
A stiff breeze was coming in from the north. The first intimation of an impending change in season accompanied the refreshingly-cool air. In the old calendar it probably would’ve been mid-September, summer’s twilight.
The corners of Robert’s mouth began to moisten as the mercifully-frigid wind triggered a Pavlovian response within his wounded psyche. Memories of the bountiful feasts that used to take place during the glorious days of autumn flooded his temporal lobe, a pleasant sense of nostalgia offering a few seconds of precious, fleeting euphoria. It had been decades since turkey or mashed potatoes had touched his lips, yet the rich flavours of a Thanksgiving dinner now lingered across Robert’s taste buds as if he’d just sat down to watch a professional football game on television.
“The Lions suck,” Robert murmured to himself, smiling perversely as he stopped shovelling and wiped a glaze of sweat from his wrinkled brow. He allowed himself a moment’s rest, a brazen act of insolence he hadn’t dared attempt in months.
“What the zaqqum are you doing old man, get back to work,” one of Robert’s colleagues barked at him without hesitation. The strapping teenager’s vapid expression never altered as he continued to robotically stab at a massive pile of dirt with his archaic tool. “You’ll make trouble for all of us if the raqib sees you slacking off.”
Robert knew full well that his fellow diggers thought he was certifiably insane, regarding him at all times with a palpable disdain. They were all too young to remember the days before the Caliphate, back when they would’ve been able to take a fifteen minute break every hour as per union guidelines. “We should stage a walkout,” Robert joked, fully aware that no one around him had any clue what he was talking about. “Get the big wigs nervous, make ‘em think we’re gonna strike.”
“For the love of Allah - shut your crazy mouth or we’ll all feel the wrath of the raqib,” another digger chimed in. Robert looked back to see the rugged youngster heaving load after load of soil down into the pit with machinelike rapidity. He nodded meekly and turned his attention back to the mound.
“You’re a hard worker, son, I’ll give ya that much. We could’ve used more men like you in the war.” A hint of irony danced across Robert’s words as he resumed his shovelling duties. “Things might’ve turned out different maybe.”
“That was forty years ago, Tooba, let it go.”
“Robert ,” the old man whispered with solemn conviction. “My name is Robert.”
Heaving his shovel back into the mountainous heap of soil he’d been stationed to for weeks, Robert tried to ignore the potent stench of death which now filled the air as the autumn breeze swiftly dissipated and a merciless, sweltering heat returned with a vengeance.
Tossing a modest cluster of dirt down into the pit, Robert suddenly noticed that one of the bodies was still moving, writhing in agony amidst an endless sea of corpses. He called out for the raqib, his seldom-used vocal chords trembling as he leaned forward and pointed down towards the still-breathing Mormon.
Within seconds the raqib’s majestic white stallion was galloping gracefully across the barren landscape, transporting its master with remarkable speed. “What is it, abed?” the mounted sadist demanded as he neared Robert’s section of the link. The raqib’s fierce black eyes darted towards the pit once he realized that Robert’s badly-shaking index finger was pointing downwards.
“Ah, I see,” the olive-skinned monster stated brusquely, an enigmatic smile on his harsh face. “I can’t spare any ammunition right now. Get back to work.” He then swiftly, unexpectedly reached for his whip, hungrily devouring the fear which poured out of Robert as he did so. Laughing maniacally, the raqib dug his spurred boots into his horse and trotted off back towards his tyrannical perch on the end of the line.
Sighing expressively, Robert again resumed his shovelling duties. He grinned ruefully, pushing away an encroaching sense of despair through sheer willpower. Nightfall would come soon. Soon he would escape into a painless realm of slumber. Soon he would be at peace.
- - -
Richard E. Bowness, 29, lives in Atlantic Canada with a bunch of old records and stuff.
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