What Pegman Saw – Uprising

“What Pegman saw” is a weekly challenge based on Google Streetview. Using the location provided, you must write a piece of flash fiction of no more than 150 words. You can read the rules here. You can find today’s location on this page,  from where you can also get the Inlinkz code. This week’s prompt is the Shwedagon Pagoda in Myanmar.

WPS - Uprising 191116

Image by ct tran from Pixabay

Uprising

The soldiers’ guns were loaded, and they had orders to shoot to kill. They patrolled the streets; we slipped through the night from shadow to shadow, through gardens and parks, behind hedges and shrubs, taking turns to carry our old, frail leader pick-a-back.

From the People’s Park we could see the stupa shimmering spectral gold.

“Quickly,” said our guide, ushering us into the tunnel that took us into the pagoda, “It will soon be dawn.”

As the sun’s fire rose blazing above the horizon, our leader struck the Tharrawaddy Min bell.

“My people – all my people – shall be free!”

The great bell sang, awakening resonances from the Maha Gandha bell. Across the city, thousands of bells were rung, spreading the word of resistance. A flame of sound raced over the countryside from end to end.

Aung San Suu Kyi slumped, her work at last complete.

Friday Fictioneers – Escape

NaNoWriMo is over for this year, and I’m delighted to have succeeded in writing 50,000 words of a novel in the month. I’m now trying to continue at the same pace until the first draft is finished.

However, this week the siren voice of Friday Fictioneers has lured me into the shoals of flash fiction, especially as Rochelle has picked such an evocative photoprompt from Dawn. Thank you to both of you!

Friday Fictioneers - Escape 181206

PHOTO PROMPT © Dawn M. Miller

Escape

If Saaburah had looked back, she would have seen a smudge of smoke on the horizon where her house had once stood, but she didn’t look back.

If she had listened to her memories, she would have heard gunfire, screams, and the roar of fire as her family and friends were slaughtered, but she didn’t listen to her memories.

With her baby swaddled against her breast, she had walked towards the border, at first alone, then with a few others, then with a multitude.

Filthy, exhausted, frightened, they streamed across the railway bridge into Bangladesh, homeless, stateless.

Alive.