Short stories

Colour

For most of my childhood I was surrounded by the same people, the same things: young women setting up floral tents, burning incense, wizened, leathery-skinned old crones puffing marijuana. The tinkle of music and laughter and the murmur of voices as the adults paraded their wares to potential buyers, while my friends and I played amongst the trees. That's what I remember. Not the "danger", or "unsavoury and fraudulent nature" that government officials spoke of. Our way of life was outlawed and our dwellings were confiscated. My mother was seen to be an unsuitable carer for me, so I was sent away to a children's home where I was forced to do everything separately from the other children due to any "racial diseases" I was thought to be carrying. I was not allowed to speak my native language and I was not allowed to contact my family. As I stand here now, wearing my grey suit, standing in my grey living room with a view of the grey city skyline, a wave of sadness washes over me. Life used to have so much colour.

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We did a thing and I ended up writing this 🖖