mother, mine
the boys gathered against the poor child, eleven of age, weak in his knees, with a heart whose flutter was audible even to a passerby. “your mother,” they shrieked as they pummeled him into the dusty earth of the street. four against one, the odds of annihilation. yet, upon hearing the signifier for his mother, he was struck with a madness that ripped the fabric of his perception, and with that the context that set refrains on his physical abilities was rendered moot — he raised the call of Hayder, roared unto the heavens, and through an ephemeral, alchemized riposte, his nemeses were evaporated, billowing away as if a wind hounded by the very sorrow of the child, the burning sun filtered by clouds made just for him.
