Given I’m the judge this week, this doesn’t count. But I felt like writing something anyway. So, I did.
We stand near the edge of the cliff, between it, and the ancient tree. One of the oldest left on this world. And we remember.
There was a time the world spoke of us, called us warriors, called us men. Real men. Not the pretend men of the West. Nor the religious zealots of to many religions to name. But that was forty centuries ago. Now, we are but a memory. A story the world tells its children. We hear their words in our sleep, in our dreams. We know the confusion of today all too well.
“Genghis Khan was a violent, brutal leader,” they say, as they mistake him for our leader, and mistake us as the warriors of his empire. They do not know. “Toxic masculinity,” the topic they speak of. They do not know.
We learned from the wolf. Walk with pride, and with strength, unafraid to make mistakes, unafraid to learn from then. The wolf taught us to hunt, and to care for our family, your pack.
We were nomads, in a hard, uncaring land. A land no one wanted, save for us. We slept under the sea of stars each night. Endured the snow, and ice, to reach what little warmth spring brought.
We mourn, as we hide from the world the West has made, where there are only boys, pretending to be men, as they take what they want, rape, and pillage, destroying everything, everywhere.
Like the spoiled, little children they are.
I wrote this for week 2×09 of Cara Michaels‘s #MenageMonday flash fiction challenge. You can read about #MenageMonday here. Please, go read all the short tales from this week. The tales are always little works of art, crafted with words, meant to be shared, and enjoyed. And many of them are amazing. (Mine doesn’t count. I’m the judge this week).