The Village
In the spring lull before the summer storms, our sleepy little village died. The golden fields reflected the cold black grimace frozen on every face. The end came at a traditionally happy time when the crops were growing with vines heavy with fruit. This is when the skies filled with bright metal lights and the whine of engines burnt the air.
I had went to the village to fetch water for my father who was plowing the field that ran adjacent to our land. It was a warm day with a freshening breeze that promised a shower in the evening. As I walked languidly down the dusty path I remembered my mother's touch with a smile.
Whenever I or my sister were troubled she would smile sweetly and take both of our small child's hands into her field worn ones and calm us. The warmth of a mother's touch is all healing and all powerful. At least it was for me at seven years old.
I heard it before I saw it. A high-pitched whine that I could not place. I ran into the square and looked up just as the sky exploded with activity. Metallic lights and bright flashes blinded me. I couldn't make out any shapes, just a glimmer of movement.
The flashes faded as the craft slowed to hover over the land. So many appeared that they seemed to fill the horizon. I was in awe, still unafraid of the strange sight up in the sky. Fear would not be long in dawning as the dark intentions of the visitors became apparent.
My elder sister ran toward me screaming and pointing into the sky. She was fourteen and excitable, not a good trait. My father had always prided himself on his composure and had taught me to do the same. I thought it funny that I was the calmer of the two of us at this strange time.
I tersely told Elke to calm down and took hold of both of her hands for effect and looked straight into your eyes. It worked, as I saw the trapped rabbit look go out of her eyes to be replaced with curiosity. Our momentary control was shattered soon after as we watched helpless as our mother was burned alive.
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