Guest guest Posted May 5, 2005 Report Share Posted May 5, 2005 In a message dated 5/5/05 5:31:29 PM, Pedsie2 writes: > In Juan's country the bullet was the ballot. In such a > > country, an evening stroll could turn into an unsought > > adventure. He was twenty then, and spent many hours > > roaming the streets- seeking diversions, conversations, > > pretty girls. To Walk burned the inexhaustible energy > > and the restlessness of youth. > > The hot evening made the air stagnant. Juan headed for > > the bay. There, even on the hottest day, a little breeze > > stirred from the sea, and along the wide boulevard girding > > the shore, flocks of girls sauntered. And there, ice-cream > > vendors pushed colorful carts with tiny, merry bells. > > As he turned a corner, he saw the wide plaza next to the > > Presidential Palace.The sun had dipped behind the building, > > but its glare still gave the sky a sultry blush. Idlers sat > > on benches, or stood, among flowers and trees > > talking in small groups. > > From behind the Palace the sound of a shot came loud and > > dry, but people ignored the noise. Then another and another > > rang. Idlers stopped talking and looked around. Shots began > > crackling like a storm of firecrackers. For anyone still > > believing the bad muffler theory, the dry convulsive > > coughing of machine guns killed such hope. > > People ran, hid behind trees, took cover under benches, but > > Juan, gripped by an overwhelming curiosity stood looking > > toward the Palace. Flashes of light, followed by smoke puffs > > drifted from some second floor windows. From where Juan stood > > he didn't see the attackers. Yet, flying pieces of stones and > > dust erupted from the palace's walls as the the rebels fired > > back. > > His ennui vanished with the first shot. An intense alertness > > descended on him. Every detail of the scene unfolding jumped > > at him with blinding vividness. He felt no fear, the thought > > that he could be struck by a bullet seemed ridiculous. > > The smell of gunpowder intoxicated him, the sound of battle, > > like a symphony in which each instrument had its role- the > > crackling of pistols, the drum rolls of rifles, and the > > constant rattling of machine guns struck him like an ode to > > death. A bullet zipped above his head showering him with > > leaves, another whacked the tree trunk next to his ear. The > > sheer force, the awesome lethality of the impact sent a > > surge of joy through his brain. What's wrong with me? He > > asked. > > For the first time, it hit him, that it wasn't really Juan > > who was acting this way. Someone else, someone who couldn't > > care less about Juan's safety was at play here. > > A young girl, still in a school uniform, crawled from under > > a bench and ran across the plaza. She didn't get far. Felled > > by a bullet, she didn't move. Only her school necktie stirred > > a little in the breeze which now blew from the sea. A woman > > ran to her and fell, also. She began to crawl toward the girl. > > Juan walked toward the girl without rushing, with the flare > > and bravado of a young man on his way to ask a girl for a > > dance. He picked her up. The girl's body was limp, her closed > > eyes didn't flutter, her peaceful face, pale. Her warm blood > > soaked his shirt. He gently placed her on the grass behind a > > bench. He returned for the woman and she screamed as he lifted > > her. He could see she had been shot through the right knee, a > > piece of bone, startlingly white, protruded from a deep gash. > > " Is my daughter all right? " she asked. > > Juan tried to answer, but he couldn't talk. He realized that > > whoever acted through him now, didn't know how. He tried > > again, but couldn't. This should have alarmed him, somehow it > > didn't. Everything appeared as it should be, just as in dreams > > even the most bizarre events seemed normal. > > After he lowered the woman next to her daughter, the firing > > stopped. The silence struck Juan as odd, almost ominous. He > > waited for the firing to resume, but it didn't. People stood, > > ran away, others gathered around the wounded. Juan felt a hand > > on his shoulder, " You are a very brave young man. " said the man. > > A woman kissed him on the cheek. " You are a hero. " > > Juan didn't want to hear such nonsense. He didn't want to be > > among them. He walked away fast, headed for the shore. Juan > > longed to be alone with the presence. As he sat on a bench > > facing the sea, the presence was vanishing, and the more he > > tried to focus on it, the faster it faded. > > Now, the wailing of ambulances and patrol cars filled the > > evening. A military vehicle went by, its loudspeaker ordering > > people to go home. Juan realized his blood soaked shirt could > > get him arrested. He took it off and dropped it in the water. > > The shirt floated, coloring the water pink, then a retreating > > wave whisked it away. > > Juan didn't tell anyone about his experience. He felt strange > > for days. Things looked odd, beautiful, but alien. To be, Juan, > > also, seemed a little odd. Then, in a few days all of it faded, > > became a memory. But Juan still didn't tell anyone, until a > > year later, when sitting next to a girl, the incense she > > burned in her living room, and the flicker of candles brought > > it all back. Juan told her, and she smiled, kissed him, stood up, > > went to a bookcase, and brought a small book to him. > > " For you. It'll explain everything! " She handed him the book > > with a smile. > > He took the book and looked at the title, it read: " The > > Bhagavad-Gita. " > > > > > > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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