here´s a short story i wrote while on a 14 hour overnight bus ride on which i could intermitently see thunderstorms off in the distance between rising and falling rock ledges in the median:
I know not where in the hell They´re taking us but this story is not about where we have been; nor is it about revenge.
They pull a curtain of stone and brush and shrubbery across our line of vision. It´s not supposed to concern us; we´re not supposed to see what They´re hiding. The impenetrable boundary grows even higer now. Surely its peak has reached 100 feet. I don´t even want to think about what life´s like for the minions They´ve got building this Blockade, just as fast as we´re travelling -- like the Jews in Egypt, racing against time to finish before Pharoah´s death, working just hard enough to avoid the Whip while trying to decide if the Whip is, in fact, the greater of the two evils -- probably not even getting a dollar a day.
We speed up. So do the others. A truck full of Mexicans passes us, but no, it´s not full; they always have room for one more, just like in the movies.
The minions can´t or won´t keep up with us now -- like the curtain rings in a hospital room that support the divider that keeps you from seeing the excruciating treatment they´re administering to your roomate but you can hear the god awful screams seeping through the barrier´s filthy pores, convincing you that the cure is surely worse than the disease; and the curtain becomes too heavy with guilt for the tiny, scarred rings to hold any longer and it drops -- and we can now see the end of the wall rapidly approcaching.
As we speed past, we look past the weathered and anguished faces of tiny minions to see the Mightiest thunder clouds smite one ungratefully innocent villiage after another like a firing squad going to work on a slew of excaped convicts who were caught again -- and they´re enjoying it, the firing squad, and they´re taking their time. And the convicts forget all about why they were here in the first place and they forget all about repenting so that they can fret salty Beads of sweat about their more immediate Fate: the one that the firing squad is enjoying.
But not more than an instant after we all caught a glimpse of all the horror, the wall speeds past us. The pharoah must be ill and God forbid he lack a place to rest his troubled head for all of eternity. No, not on Their watch. The minions, they all ask eachother why God has forsaken them and they all give eachother blank stares, looking for anything to fill the gaping void in their sullen subconscience, and not one of them knows the answer.
But They already forgot that we once caught up to them -- just as fast as we will forget just what it was that we saw, and keep on fretting salty Beads of Sweat, going to wherever the hell it is that They are taking us.