Trent.S+Carry+on+my+wayward+son

As the sun set over a barren landscape, a solitary figure’s silhouette broke the horizon. An outcast of his family, for what was considered noble. He looked away as dust was blow across him by the metallic bird drifting over him and into the sunset. He loathed them, cursed them, shouted abuse to the sky. They were not right; they were not justified in murdering innocent people just because they didn’t support their foolish cause. He turned his back and continued his bitter march as bitter as the copper taste in his mouth. Al-Qaeda, the arch nemesis of modern society and Manoj Shyamalan did not agree with them, they were the inferior ones of society. Because he did not submit, because he did not bow before them, he was exiled. He had his family taken, and was detached from the one place that felt like home to him. He was lucky that he wasn’t shot on the spot, being an elder shielded him from execution. This thought wasn’t playing on his mind so much. He needed to find and place to take shelter from the storm brewing in the distance, in the opposite direction the helicopter flew. They left him with nothing; they may as well have shot me right there and then, he thought to himself. A rocky range in the distance looked promising and Monoj quickened his pace towards it. He had lived in the desert all his life so for him, he was in his element. He knew there would be an alcove to shield him from the storm. He felt so alone, in a world that felt like home. The outsiders of society, Al-Qaeda had been spreading like a plague, forcing people into their circle and thus becoming more infectious by the day. Monoj had gone from insider to outside in a few short breaths. “You must all submit, or you will die. We are the power of this world and to go against it, is treason. Any who wish to go against the universes wishes please take a step back now”, voiced the translator as he paced up and down the scattered crowd gathered before him. Hardened, scared men watched from above with the latest in terrorist technology. Al-Qaeda, they were like a festering wound on the earth slowly consuming it. Monoj stood among the others as a silence rang out. A few stood back, most shuffled a few steps forward after the voice subsided. “Anyone else?” the translator said. Monoj didn’t agree, he thought that if he wanted his view to be seen he must speak out and so he too stepped back. One of the armed men stepped forth; he spoke in strange harsh tones for a few seconds and then nodded to the translator. “You have shown us were your allegiance lies. Now you must die as a result of your betrayal.” He turned and nodded to the armed men who began making their way to the crowd. Women screamed and fell to their knees begging for mercy. We should have know, we should have gotten away, why didn’t the sentries warn them? They were as good as dead for all we known, thought Monoj to himself. A few more of the armed men stepped forth. All wore something to cover their face, and all were heavily armed. They began to brutally move the crowd who hadn’t moved aside into a neighbouring street. As other men stepped forth and began clubbing those who had taken a stand or had made the wrong choice, but was there a choice that wouldn’t eventually result in death? Women screamed and fought to get away as they were dragged into houses men voiced their outrage and fought against the men advancing on them. Shots were fired and the tiny village in south Arabia turned into utter chaos. People broke out into panic as those who stepped back were clubbed to the ground with the buts of guns. Monoj watched in horror as his home and the people he had lived with all his life, were being brutalised. He turned just in time to see the butt of a rifle slam into his face. He awoke slowly, the blurred sound of helicopter wings thudded dully against his conscience. His vision cleared to see the translator of the attack crouched over him. “You are lucky old man, he do have morals. Being an elder you are excused from execution, you should consider yourself lucky; you fared better than the rest.” He grinned with malice behind his smile as the helicopter touched softly on a dune. The wings powered down as Monoj was wrested to his feet, had the bonds cut around his hands and pushed out the door. He landed face first in the sand and with dried blood and sand caked on his face he stared back through the door. “Good luck”, mouthed the translator with that ever present smirk. He nodded to the pilot as the door closed and the helicopter lifted off. So this is how it felt, he thought to himself as he stumbled toward the hills as sand began to gently wipe up about him. He had always thought himself part of something, but in the bigger picture he was nothing, and neither was anyone else. His thoughts began to trail off, he was growing delusional, and the wound on his forehead was weeping into his eyes. He was suddenly famished, his legs felt weak and he wanted to lie down. He knew this was the end, to die in a desert atop a dune with a storm brooding about him. He collapsed and his mouth was filled with sand, he lolled onto back and breathed the sand from his mouth. He knew he wouldn’t rise again. The most violent storm he had seen for some time descended on the desert. He ducked into the mouth of his cave atop the rocky hills; he dreaded to think what would come of someone caught in a storm like that.