Buried Stories

My hometown is like a wellspring of tales. Not happy ending stories like being celebrated by famous writers in your city, but a pile of unpublished frequent tragic stories, even though I’ve devoted my entire life to write them. Will you teach me to write?  I was really provoked to write, even if only for a few pieces.  “In the raging war and prolonged riot, shouldn’t you be fighting on the battlefield?” you ask me in wonder.

My shoulders are tired of carrying weapons. I was horrified to see blood spilled everywhere. Don’t suspect me please! I want to write not to gain admiration like the obsession that every author in your city wants to achieve. I just want to tell the readers about my mother’s screams when a group of masked men with long guns broke down our door at midnight. Dragging my father’s frail body is like herding a cow to a slaughterhouse. Their ferocity is more violent than the invader army’s way arrested the rebels. That night was the last time I saw my father’s face. My mother, me, and Lailatuna were speechless and took a deep breath after the truck carrying my father and the masked men disappeared into the dark. In unspeakable scary, we are sure that he won’t return home. Even if my father were to come home, it would only return as a name, without a body.