this is pompous. it's filled with pretentiousness, it tries to be something that it's not. it's sick, and it's easy to read. it's full of contradictions. enjoy.
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as miss sarajevo came walking down. children were gathered around, some in clothes, some in tatters, some in rags...it didn't matter much, as the children were clinging on to her jeans, designer jeans, probably made by the finest in italy; she was smiling, hiding her disgust, trying to put on her best...she was behind this, and it reeked. the stench of poverty, the war-torn, crumbled buildings, the shrapnel on the street. she was one of the cognoscenti, or so she believed. she would have given anything to be off this street, jetting around in her lap of luxury, whisked away by the fabled man in a silver mercedes benz, ploughing his way through the people to go to his damsel in distress. the children were still crowded around her. she was drawing a sizeable crowd, and armed guards and enforcement officers had to cordon off the area in order for her to have some peace. as the children still continued to follow her as if she were the pied piper, the men came with their batons...at first, just swinging to warn...and then, the batons impacted off the children. some held back, while others continued holding on to her, their beacon of all that was holy and beautiful. blood flowed, teeth fell, but they still held on as if their lives depended on it. her jeans were not stained; her eyes turned away from the carnage. her heels clicked along the pavement, the charred pavement, and she walked a bit faster, almost to that of a quick trot and gallop, but still maintained her poise and composure.
divinity in motion? a queen of hearts? who could say...the children gathered around her wouldn't have known. as far as they were concerned, she was fresh, worthy of envy and admiration. they followed her, up to the barricades, where the men and batons were plenty; too many to be ambitious of. the crowd of children slowly dispersed, fearful of being pelted...fearful of the gas guns being held, fearful of the armour, the helmets, the shields, the uniforms, the threat...the force. they were scared, being children, and they slowly and quietly held their own and began to walk away.
all of a sudden, a shriek: a child was being hit repeatedly, blood forcing its way out of her mouth, as one of the enforcers swore and cursed at her. vulgarities of a donkey, a dog and her mother were heard, and he continued beating her down, a visible rip seen in his left pant-leg, above the point in which his black army boots would begin. she was dressed in an oversized purplish-grey t-shirt, stained from the outside, as well as a pair of faded trousers. barefoot. he pounded and pounded, and flung the baton away. he took off his blue gloves, still possessed by the red that had suddenly overtaken him. he slapped her, again and again. she cried out, not in pain, but at the other children to help, to overcome him and to beat him down. no one dared to move. no one stopped the man. the officers still stood in their smart line, guns held, shields raised. against the children. the children watched, murmuring to themselves. no one lifted a finger. out of all of them, no one lifted a finger. the girl started to cry out louder, but by now it was all futile. he dragged her by her feet, and continued the vulgarities. and in a moment of pure weakness, he took her pants down, and violated her with his fingers. she squirmed in pain, blood gushing from where it hurt, tears flowing down. and still no one was helping. he slapped her around a few times, hands still feeling, touching the warmth that he needed and wanted so badly, and then he pulled out his hand and walked away, happy to have his pleasure indulged.
from the window, miss sarajevo saw it all. she stroked her hair, tucked her left side neatly behind her ear, and glanced at the notes strewn around the table. itineray, schedules, memos. her neatly pressed italian jeans were feeling tight...perhaps she had gained weight? she took a quick glance at the reflection in the mirror...she did look a tad bit fuller. nothing a jog wouldn't do. looking back at the notes, she continued to note down the day's events. charity show. power plant visit. the usual full. more of the same, and same of the more, but that was the way she liked it. the repetition, the visits, all made her to be the queen that they wanted her to be. she was the queen, she was sarajevo. she was the heart and soul of the people, and she needed to be at her best because her people needed to be at their best.
she scribbled a personal note to herself about lunch, and proceeded to get on with the day.
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as miss sarajevo came walking down. children were gathered around, some in clothes, some in tatters, some in rags...it didn't matter much, as the children were clinging on to her jeans, designer jeans, probably made by the finest in italy; she was smiling, hiding her disgust, trying to put on her best...she was behind this, and it reeked. the stench of poverty, the war-torn, crumbled buildings, the shrapnel on the street. she was one of the cognoscenti, or so she believed. she would have given anything to be off this street, jetting around in her lap of luxury, whisked away by the fabled man in a silver mercedes benz, ploughing his way through the people to go to his damsel in distress. the children were still crowded around her. she was drawing a sizeable crowd, and armed guards and enforcement officers had to cordon off the area in order for her to have some peace. as the children still continued to follow her as if she were the pied piper, the men came with their batons...at first, just swinging to warn...and then, the batons impacted off the children. some held back, while others continued holding on to her, their beacon of all that was holy and beautiful. blood flowed, teeth fell, but they still held on as if their lives depended on it. her jeans were not stained; her eyes turned away from the carnage. her heels clicked along the pavement, the charred pavement, and she walked a bit faster, almost to that of a quick trot and gallop, but still maintained her poise and composure.
divinity in motion? a queen of hearts? who could say...the children gathered around her wouldn't have known. as far as they were concerned, she was fresh, worthy of envy and admiration. they followed her, up to the barricades, where the men and batons were plenty; too many to be ambitious of. the crowd of children slowly dispersed, fearful of being pelted...fearful of the gas guns being held, fearful of the armour, the helmets, the shields, the uniforms, the threat...the force. they were scared, being children, and they slowly and quietly held their own and began to walk away.
all of a sudden, a shriek: a child was being hit repeatedly, blood forcing its way out of her mouth, as one of the enforcers swore and cursed at her. vulgarities of a donkey, a dog and her mother were heard, and he continued beating her down, a visible rip seen in his left pant-leg, above the point in which his black army boots would begin. she was dressed in an oversized purplish-grey t-shirt, stained from the outside, as well as a pair of faded trousers. barefoot. he pounded and pounded, and flung the baton away. he took off his blue gloves, still possessed by the red that had suddenly overtaken him. he slapped her, again and again. she cried out, not in pain, but at the other children to help, to overcome him and to beat him down. no one dared to move. no one stopped the man. the officers still stood in their smart line, guns held, shields raised. against the children. the children watched, murmuring to themselves. no one lifted a finger. out of all of them, no one lifted a finger. the girl started to cry out louder, but by now it was all futile. he dragged her by her feet, and continued the vulgarities. and in a moment of pure weakness, he took her pants down, and violated her with his fingers. she squirmed in pain, blood gushing from where it hurt, tears flowing down. and still no one was helping. he slapped her around a few times, hands still feeling, touching the warmth that he needed and wanted so badly, and then he pulled out his hand and walked away, happy to have his pleasure indulged.
from the window, miss sarajevo saw it all. she stroked her hair, tucked her left side neatly behind her ear, and glanced at the notes strewn around the table. itineray, schedules, memos. her neatly pressed italian jeans were feeling tight...perhaps she had gained weight? she took a quick glance at the reflection in the mirror...she did look a tad bit fuller. nothing a jog wouldn't do. looking back at the notes, she continued to note down the day's events. charity show. power plant visit. the usual full. more of the same, and same of the more, but that was the way she liked it. the repetition, the visits, all made her to be the queen that they wanted her to be. she was the queen, she was sarajevo. she was the heart and soul of the people, and she needed to be at her best because her people needed to be at their best.
she scribbled a personal note to herself about lunch, and proceeded to get on with the day.
posted by funkyhippopotamus at
10:03:00 pm
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