Drones

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Short story.

The gray sky, like a paint, spread throughout up above. Drones could be easily spotted upon a gray sky, Ishmael thought.
 
'That poor boy,' thought old Mrs. Leonne; seeing Ishmael through the front window. He was outside, by a young tree, standing. 'Just standing there,' thought Mrs. Leonne. For his mother--- but she wouldn't even wish to follow such thought. But how long had it been? Four, five years? since the ghostly drones unleashed a mortal breath upon the air. For his mother--- but she would not lead herself to think about it. Yet his father, died, too, in the war; she could not help but consider. Oh, what a pity that she pitied him so. It wrung her breast so tight. 'Mika,' she called out, and the boy turned his head. She saw him start; he was running.
 
'Auntie,' thought Ishmael. He had to go to her; he had to always be there when he would hear Auntie call his name. For she took care of me; he thought; she was there for me. He came running to the front door.
 
'How nice to see you out,' old Mrs. Leonne wanted to say, but she couldn't. She wished she hadn't called his name. Oh, what a coward she was; she knew. It was just that... But here he is. She must say something; she thought. 'Your birthday,' she said, 'in a week. Fourteen, if I'm not mistaken?' Ishmael nodded; he did not say anything. 'Oh, how sad he looks!' she thought; how sullen, a touch of grief, fear and a painfully ponderous wondering had permeated his face, his demeanor. The drones had done this to him; she thought, and she had seen many children whose childhood was lived looking out for drones, to be fearful of the blue sky. The blue sky! Oh, what a detestable affair; she thought, to raise children under a blue sky. But here was Mika in front of her. 'I'm just an old woman who doesn't know what to do,' she wanted to tell him. She felt so heavy, so weighed down, and she would rather scream than cry in front of her nephew, in front of the world. Yet she was but an old woman who didn't know what to do. All seemed so vain; she felt, that no matter what one does--- they were but vain attempts--- all actions.  'Anything you want,' she struggled to say, though she knew the vanity of her statement. A pause.
 
'I wish it to be gray on my birthday,' Ishmael said, 'for there would be no lie in the clouds on the blue sky.'


Submitted: October 01, 2014

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