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The Proper Way
Only One Word
The Guest Room
Everything Beyond the Border
A Conversation near the Sea
Screaming in Slow-Motion
Ten Lines
Sounds & Words
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| Screaming in Slow-Motion |
© Sudabeh Mohafez
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The screaming in slow-motion occurs during a family gathering. Thirty, forty people, many of them children. There is good food. And in the midst of it there comes a screaming, forcing its way through it all. A terrible, elongated, pitiful scream. From an unknown throat. It makes its way through the thick brick walls of the house, the vestibule, the hallway, the oven (cold on account of it being summertime), the folding door, and on into the living room, where everyone has gathered to celebrate. And then it comes a second time, a penetrating, harrowing sound that swells into a distress full of mortal terror and despair.
The stopping short occurs in slow-motion. Also the raising of a head. The freezing of a smile upon a pair of lips. The brushing of a hair from a face and the turning on heels. The running toward the front door and the sound of adult steps coming after. Scraps of words padded in cotton. Over a head a hand slowly reaches, pressing the door handle down for ages until it opens. The celebrating swarm turbulently flows out into the midday sun. A child's eyes scan the street. The street bends in front of the house, and continues on up the hill. In the same way that one sometimes must get off one's bicycle to push it the rest of the way because the hill is so steep, this child's gaze now must be pushed up the hill.
At the top sits a camel as if on a throne. Down on its knees. Men have bent back its long neck. Two men are pushing its cheek to one side. The other two men are pushing the big animal, held by many ropes, down to the ground. The camel is screaming. It knows that it is dying. The camel is completely alone.
Everyone watches as one of the men, a huge knife in his hand, practically a sable, with practiced and utmost precision, rhythmically and exerting strength, begins severing the long neck of the camel that sits as if on a throne at the top of the hill, in the sun, from the rest of its body until the artery has been opened.
The men catch the blood in a large, dented silvery-white tin pan. The blood splashes over the rim. The camel is still screaming. Women and men have taken to the streets, they watch, they converse, they are bored, they crack jokes, they scold their children who are playing tag, and they hold babies on their arms. They scratch their balls and the area right beneath their breasts. They spit out of the corners of their mouths and light cigarettes. They shift their weight from one heel to the other, they swat at a fly.
Later, a smirking voice comes sailing through the room. Its owner leans backward in his chair and then props his arms up on the table, to the left and to the right of his plate. He looks down at his child and leads a steaming piece of lamb speared on the end of a fork to the child's mouth.
"Eat, dear," the voice says sweetly. "Eat the yummy camel meat." Followed by a gurgling of amusement, a throaty laughter coming from deep within.
The overcoming with horror occurs in slow-motion. The lowering of a head. The tightening of fingers upon the wooden armrest and the closing of a pair of eyes and a mouth. The sound of a voice like cotton from behind. A huge hand reaches over this one head and takes hold of the chin, turning it for ages. Everyone watches as the father, a huge fork in hand, practically a rake, with practiced and utmost expertise, rhythmically and exerting strength, shoves the meat down the child's throat. The group takes the child's difficulty in breathing, nausea and terror and turns it into a wave of screaming laughter, slapping their thighs. Women and men sitting at tables and standing in the room. They watch, they converse, they are bored, they crack jokes, they scold the dog in the garden whining after a bone, and they hold babies on their arms. They scratch their balls and the area right beneath their breasts. They eat dessert and light cigarettes. They shift their weight from one heel to the other, they swat at a fly.
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From: Wüstenhimmel, Sternenland (Desert Sky, Land of Stars), Arche Press 2004
This excerpt first appeared in: Federwelt - Zeitschrift für Autoren (Quill World - A Journal for Authors) |
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