by Mark William Darus.
Part One. A start on a Mothers fight.
A small daughter of our Tiny Blue Marble lovingly looks up at its mother. Mother and daughter, eyes locked in complete serenity, the childs peaceful voice asks, "mummy, can I have another dwink of water?"
The dirtied haired mother looks down at her child, startled, somewhat frightened. Mothers face muscles tighten fast. Her mind is shooting like a freight train without functioning brakes, scrambling, tortured, hurting. She looks around their flat and its barren, crumbling walls, broken screen windows allowing flies to soar in. She thinks quickly, as fast as she can, milliseconds elapsing. Thinking: I can do this for her! I just have to cut 10 volts of electricity over the next ten days. Yeah! I can do this. Her face loosened to more calm continence.
"Excuse me a moment, my darling," She turned her back to a daughters loving eyes looking toward her.
The child, sleepy after a great day of adventure. Memories of breakfast with mum giving her cereal and fatty bacon. Getting dressed. Mother pointing out bird songs from the forest, they sounded so sweet to me, as we walked to Kinder School. Running freely about the neighborhood with friends after school before seeing Mum after she returns from work for hugs and gentle kisses to me.
This child and her friends held many things in common. Filthy hair and faces hugely pimpled far beyond their years. All of them under the age of 9, living not in some third world country. They were new kids in America.
Reaching the kitchen, the mother looks at her Nestlaide 2100 Water Carrying Device, service number N2100WCD07261962, and slowly lowers a decades old Dixie Cup to its nipple. Looking at its display, she presses the 2oz send button to fill it.
A raspy, electrically crackling female voice speaks from the unit: "Tha-ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ-TEE-nk your for choosing Nestle!" As warm as a Siberian Winter in February.
Precious cup filled, the mother walks tenderly to the closet that is her childs bedroom . Never wanting to spill the tiniest of drops from its vastly over used frame, she moves ever so cautiously with purpose. Her mind meanders to better times, simpler times, when all she had to do was put her nipple to her babies mouth to sustain it. She blows that off and concentrates on the task at hand.
Taking the battered Dixie Cup, gently lowering it to her childs tender pink lips, mating rim to mouth, its small quantity runs.
As its aqua volume ceases, the childs mouth is opened wide, like that of a baby bird expecting more worm food. Mother taps her slender finger on the cups rim repeatedly til every drop to reach her childs tongue.
Mother thinks, how did we come to this?
>Author Intrusion< Considering these things in history: When I was a high school student, I knew many grocery store workers that made over 10 dollars an hour. Granted, the Reagan administration killed them at around the same time as the Air Traffic Controllers Union. Interesting point in history. Capitalism is a plague across our globe. It is also a failed system, and if it were not so, why did the American people have to bail out the, errr, our own, banks? Come on! How fucked up is that? Yeah, let's each and every one of us give our tax dollars for these pricks to raise our interest rates.
This is merely part one of a mother trying to keep her daughter alive in a world we WILL see sooner than we think.
My film: Water.