Not Even Honorable Mention

Well, today was somewhat of a letdown. The Writers Weekly results came out and my story did not even get an honorable mention. For that matter, it didn’t even get a dishonorable mention. For your pleasure, I’m including my story> Apparently, it is not worth reading, but who knows? Oh, well, there’s another contest in the spring. Hope springs eternal and all that jazz.

The prompt was:

The feet of her pajamas offered no protection as she trudged through the deep drifts. She had been crying throughout her ordeal and, when she lowered her head for protection from the wind, she almost missed a light piercing through the trees. As she instinctively turned in that direction, she heard a train whistle...

Namesake Be Damned

Hajar doubled over, gasping for breath. The desert had begun to take its toll, but at least the wind had died down. Walking was easier when you didn't have to protect your face from biting bits of desert.

She was miserable. She'd worn her footie pajamas to protect her feet from the powdery sand, but she'd made a big mistake. The sand had invaded her pajamas and abraded her soles and the skin between her toes. Every step now was akin to walking on hot coals. No matter how hard it was to walk in the sand with them, she longed for her abandoned sandals.

She rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her robe. Her mother would not approve, but she set her jaw and determined not to think of her mother right now. She had committed a far worse sin than sloppy personal hygiene.

She was certain she'd been well prepared to escape. She'd thought about little else for months. She would do anything to avoid having to marry that despicable Jabar. How could her father expect her to let that creepy old man touch her? Her mother's expression hinted disapproval, but she would never stand up to her husband. Women and their opinions were not valued in her world.

When she was convinced she could not dissuade her father, she decided to do what Hajar, the wife of Ibrahim and mother of Ishmael, had done. She would run away. However, she would arrange things better than her namesake. The original Hajar had nearly died in the desert, until God showed her a well and convinced her to return to Ibrahim. She would not consider turning back. even if God himself suggested it.

The trek across the desert had been harder and taken longer than expected. So many times she had struggled to the crest of a towering sand dune only to have the sand give way, plunging her back down.

In order to find her way across the desert at night, she had studied astronomy. She figured she could also conceal herself more easily during daytime hours. Besides, traveling during the heat of the day was impossible. She had left home at midnight during a full moon, hoping its light would allow her to avoid any pitfalls. A few hours passed before she realized the moon's brightness obscured some of the dimmer stars. Although she had expected to reach Zaid yesterday, unrelenting sand stretched as far as she could see. She must have miscalculated.

She sighed and stood up straight. She reached for her water bottle, but found only a swallow left. She had one more in her pack, but after that... She forced away the haunting memory of the bleached and pitted bones she had stumbled over the night before. She licked the last drop of water from the mouth of the bottle and started walking, the next massive sand hill looking just like the ones behind her.

She refused to contemplate what would happen if she were caught. She trembled and forced away the unwelcome thought. When her father had discovered the Women Have Rights pamphlet she found in a restaurant ladies room, he used his belt on her bare back and bottom. The scars were still visible. She wondered if the filthy lout Jabar would relish the sight or be disgusted enough to leave her alone.

Her father had taken away her pamphlet, but not before she had memorized it. She thanked God every day that her mother had taught her to read. More than half of the female population in her country could not. The pamphlet spoke truth: "Ignorance and a lack of education have been the tools of tyrants for centuries."

She trudged up the sand dune expecting to see another, but off in the distance, even as the day was beginning to dawn, she could hear the whistle of a train and see the buildings of a city. She'd never been to Zaid, but was sure this must be it. She would rest until nightfall. Making her way around the city would be easier under cover of darkness. She smoothed ointment on her sore feet, curled up in the shadow of the sand-colored piece of canvas and slept.

Feeling refreshed and ready to go, Hajar crept into the city, avoiding the few people walking around. She found the desired street and the building housing the W.H.R.O. She decided to approach it from the alley. As she passed a window in the back, she heard voices:

"Can you believe these do-gooders thought they could carry on right under our noses?"

"No. Do you think that Hajar girl will ever show up?"

"Nah, she's probably lost and dying in the desert."

Hajar's heart dropped. She leaned against the wall, stunned. All her efforts had been for nothing. What would she do? She had no tears or hope left. As she began to collapse, a voice whispered, "Are you looking for the Women Have Rights Organization?"

Hajar jumped at the sound, using her hand to stifle her impulse to scream. The burka-covered lady reached out her hand, the smile in her voice comforting. "I don't think we could ever carry on right under their noses, do you?"

Until next time…