Competition Frenzied

[Challenge: to write from two perspectives.]

Total Ethnic Insight Perspective

‘Once we kill all the ferengi pig, we go back and screw our wife,’ said the general. The men cheered. I cheered too, yet my comprehension lay always a step behind the chaps, what with the translation issews.

We marched eleven hours, bivouacked upon a wadi top. Through my bi-focals I watched the enemy – a horrid suicide bomber, prepare his supper. Aside of him the black flag of evil fluttered amidst sand particles, and behind him waited his lorry bomb destined for the orphanage of Al-ali –al Kutz.

‘There are children in that orphanage,’ said the general. He belched, the scent of rancid sheep carried on the soft Arabian gust wind sand breeze, whatever. I was very excited because in the morning I would shoot my gun.

‘Bang, bang, bang, bang…bang, bang, bang a bang bang’ went my gun, an AK47.5 manufactured in Ho-Chi-Minh City.

‘Ura , Ali-Akhbar,’ said the general and we rushed towards the lorry, the corpse of the bomber spread in flies. I loomed over this evil man, picked a fly from his eye-lid, chewed the wing in front of my soldiers.

‘Very tasty,’ I said in all good humour.

Simple folk – think I am wild, mercenary, a wild willo the wisp sent by God to pursue justice. I carry the tag, am not proud.

‘Look at crazy English, he eat eyeball, what a dick-head,’ said Afti, former taxi-driver, low-life, but here bonded to me like a brother through summer months, at least.

We, the sisters of Solati Oasis await the hordes from beyond mountain ridge range. Once we were numerous, our men had many lorries, but now all the lorries have gone. We have no lorries and we have no lorry drivers.

‘Where have all the lorries gone?’ we sing – our song in circles of sand, sad spinsters spitting stones of pomegranate, our one luxury, and numerous since the fellows left, their pockets stuffed with dates. Again, I lead the girls in our other ethnic song:

‘Where goes the man with sticky pocket?’ I sing, heart-breaking lilt, lullaby.

‘Heroes, our men of sticky pockets..’ the girls reply, and well at the well we draw water, only donkeys for company, our boring children scamper among us:, women dressed in veils purchased wholesale, our economy shall overcome our enemy…umm.