Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Risqué by Dr.Ayesha Mughees (books for 5 year olds to read themselves txt) 📖
- Author: Dr.Ayesha Mughees
Book online «Risqué by Dr.Ayesha Mughees (books for 5 year olds to read themselves txt) 📖». Author Dr.Ayesha Mughees
I could see myself in her. I never wanted her to go through what I did. Or anyone to find me in her innocent looks for they will desert her, rape her or establish intimate relationships with her as she grows.With a heavy heart I weaned my child off breast milk and wrapped her in blanket to make it down to the garbage can. There, one could see a contaminated lake, an isthmus connecting the garbage to the sewerage nearby. I weeped loudly as I placed my heart, my soul by the garbage can.As I walked away, I could see houseflies surrounding my little girl, dogs and crows preparing themselves to eat her flesh. In a high pitch, I sobbed, which echoed in the dark narrow streets of Liam Albert. As I tread down the footpaths of Liam,West Hiarch I met police officers who waved at me. I asked one of them where they were going, he replied, "Someone dumped an infant by the garbage can, we're going to burry her." From across a distance I could see my baby in a tiny little coffin. The sad incident casted a pall on the proceedings.
"Where are you going?" he uttered. I replied, "To burry this incident."
"Where?" he questioned. "Inside me," I cried.
With this,I turned around and gave myself to him. He stood dumbstruck in an awe and confused as he stared at my shabby self and muddy hands in the air.In anguish, he showed his softer self lifting his brow as he camouflaged. Since he was bound to arrest me I let the handcuffs swing around my wrists as I sat inside the police car. As we drove down the countryside, one of the officers started playing with my hair, the other licked me and stroke my back being sexually suggestive. As I pushed one away he ripped my clothes in anger and the other bit my neck. I was now being harassed in between my last journey,my jail-journey, with love-bites all over. In jail, male police officers would visit often and would torture if I broke my harassment news to other women. I would shiver in anxiety before every male police-prostitute and mourn secretly. I guess, after knowing many men in life I now knew my true self.I was no Rebecca Arnold.I was a woman,a used and abused crybaby who buried her baby who cried.
Note: Rebecca Arnold was a rape victim, found guilty in a case of child assault.She was barred for the rest of her life where she contracted a fatal disease and passed away on February 21st, 1857.
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Publication Date: 08-06-2018
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