Abandoned and Rescued

Photo Credit: C.E. Ayr

Retired officer Patrick Miller was sweeping his yard when he thought he heard what sounded like a baby crying.  He stopped and listened.  It was a baby crying and the sound was coming from the green dumpster.  Dropping the broom, he rushed over and threw open the top to peer inside.  The naked infant was inside of a garbage bag.

Patrick called for his wife who ran out to see what the commotion was.  She was shocked to see him inside of the dumpster. “What on earth are you doing in there?” she exclaimed.

“There’s a baby in here.  Bring a blanket to wrap him in.  Then, call 911.”

She raced into the house, got the blanket and when he handed the child to her, she wrapped him snugly.  When he climbed out of the dumpster, she handed the child to him then rushed off to phone 911.

As they waited for the police to get there, she, being a nurse, examined the infant.   “He’s suffering from hypothermia but once he gets to the hospital, he should be fine.  Poor little thing.  Who would abandon a baby?”

“You’d be surprised,” Patrick said.  “It happens more often than you think.”

199 Words

This story was inspired by a true story of a baby who was found in a dumpster with his umbilical cord still attached.  His mother had left him there and it turned that the man who found him was his biological father.  He didn’t even know that his girlfriend was pregnant.

This was written for Sunday Photo Fiction hosted by Susan Spaulding. For more details visit Here.  To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.

Sources:  CTV News

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The Burnses

Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding

 

Chuck and Millie Burns were enjoying another day at the beach.   The weather was overcast but it didn’t dampen their mood.  The cool breeze and the smell of the sea air felt really good.

An hour later, they pulled up in the driveway and were getting out of the car when several squad cars showed up. Startled, they looked around wondering what was going on.  “Chuck and Millie Burns, you are under arrest for torture and child endangerment”  Handcuffs were slapped on them and they were led away, faces red and heads hanging.  They were bundled into a squad car and driven away.

It turns out that the police were alerted when the couple’s 15 year old daughter escaped the house where she and her nine siblings were locked up and starved.  Neighbors were shocked.  “They seemed like such a nice couple,” one woman said.  “Their children didn’t say much or play with the other kids but we just thought they were shy.  It goes to show you that you really don’t know people.”

The Burnses are currently being held in custody on six counts of torture and eight counts of child endangerment.

192 Words

I read of the couple who had 13 children because they felt it was God’s calling but those poor children were subjected to torture, endangerment, neglect and starvation.  They gave the impression that they were a devout Christian couple who had all of those children because it was “God’s calling”.  I’m pretty sure that torture, confinement, endangerment and starvation weren’t His calling.

This was written for Sunday Photo Fiction hosted by Susan Spaulding. For more details visit Here.  To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.

Source:  Mirror

Riya’s Rescue Plan

Photo Credit: Fandango

It was a lazy Saturday for Riya.  When she finally got up to take a shower it was midday.  She was in such a good and relaxed mood that she didn’t get upset when the soap slipped out of her hand and fell on the ground.

After a hearty breakfast, she sat down in front of her laptop, switched it on.  She opened her sister, Vidya’s email.  Her face fell.  It was bad news.

Villagers in the Gadchiroli district of Maharashtra state warned Christians that every week a church will be closed.  Their uncle’s home was among the dozens of homes which have been attacked since June.  Believers were told that unless they renounced their faith, water supply would be cut off and food subsidies stopped.  Their cousin, Vihaan was badly beaten by locals demanding that he abandon his faith.  Others received death threats.  The police have done nothing to protect them.

Heartbroken, Riya wondered what she could do to help.  Then the thought occurred to her to sponsor them.  She called Vidya and told her what she was planning.  Vidya was onboard.  They decided to meet later that day to figure things out.

194 Words

This story was inspired by true events in India where there are plans for weekly church closures.  Christians have had their homes attacked, received threats of death or expulsion if they do not renounce their faith.

This post was written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction hosted by Susan Spaulding. For more details visit Here.  To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.

Source:  VOM Canada

 

Megan

He stood gazing out at the lake in front of the cabin.  “I’m glad we came for the weekend,” he said.

“Me too,” she agreed.  “Too bad Megan can’t be here.”

He turned around and his face went ashen when he saw the revolver in her hand.  “Joanne, what are you doing with that?”

She saw the fear on his face.  “This is how Megan felt every time you molested her—powerless.

“She told you that?”

“No.  It’s in her diary.  How could you, Steve?  She’s your daughter.”

“Step-daughter.”

“And that makes it okay?”

“No.”

“Admit your guilt.”

“I didn’t mean to do it but I couldn’t help myself.”

“Did you get that?”

Steve looked bewildered.  “What’s going on?”

Just then two police officers showed up.  He was read his rights and taken away.

Joanne handed the revolver which wasn’t loaded to the officer.

“You need to come to the station.”

“After I see my daughter.”

Megan was awake.  Her wrists were bandaged.  “Tic tac toe, Mom?”

“Sure, Honey.  I’ll play for you.”

 

174 Words

This was written as part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.  For more information visit Here.  If you want to read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.

The Handkerchief/Crossing #write photo

Photo by Sue Vincent

Two years had passed since her sister died here.  She found her in the river, among the rocks under the bridge, barely alive.  Her words still haunted her.  As she held her in her arms, Rosemary gasped, “Dangerous…he…pushed…me…”

“Who’s dangerous?  Who pushed you? Rosemary?  Rosemary?”  There was no answer.  Only silence.  Her beloved sister was dead.  A stranger passing by found them and went to summon the police.  She was questioned and then released.  She told them what her sister had told her and they assured her that they would investigate but so far they hadn’t turned up any leads.

As Agatha sat there in the grass, the breeze gently stirring the fiery red curls which framed her oval face, she wondered who could have murdered Rosemary.  She was such a sweet person with a very amiable disposition.  She had always been very kind and loving toward her even though there was a considerable age difference between them.

After their parents died, unmarried Rosemary, devoted all of her attention on raising her younger sister, making sure that she continued to enjoy the finer things in life.  When it was time for Agatha’s coming out, Rosemary took her dinner parties, charity events and balls which Agatha liked best because she got to wear beautiful gowns, dance and meet possible suitors.  It was at one of these balls where she met Franklin.

Franklin was tall, stately and very handsome, the sort of man, a girl could only dream of or read about in romance novels.  He was charming, engaging and very intelligent.  He captivated her heart the very first time they met.  She had eyes for no other man at the ball although Rosemary advised her not to slight the others who had asked her to dance.  To please her, Agatha danced with them but on their way home in the afterwards, she made it very clear to her sister that Franklin had won her affections.  Rosemary agreed to invite Franklin to tea and after that he became Agatha’s suitor.  Months later, he asked for permission to marry her and they became engaged.

It was last summer on her twentieth birthday that they got married.  After they returned from their honeymoon in Venice, Rosemary announced that she was going to move out.  Agatha protested but her sister was adamant.  “You have Franklin to take care of you now,” she said.  “I won’t be far away, my Darling,” she promised.  “You can come and visit me as often as you like.”

“Only if you promise me that you will visit me as often as you like.”

Rosemary smiled.  “I promise.”

She moved out a couple of weeks later and Agatha watched her carriage drive away.  The house was not going to be the same without her.  Behind her, Franklin entered the room.  She felt his arms encircle her waist and she leaned against him.  “You have me now,” she heard him say and she closed her eyes.  Yes, she had the man she loved who could help her to get over the sadness she felt at seeing her beloved sister go.

They saw each other as often as was possible.  And at first Rosemary seemed well but gradually, she noticed a change in her.  And one afternoon, when she went home, she learned from Prescott that her sister had called for her.  In her note she had asked her to meet her at the river where they used to go sometimes.  When she got there, she found her sister laying there, a crumpled heap.  Minutes later, she died in her arms.

Rosemary was gone forever and not even Franklin could ease the heartache she felt.  Tears rolled down her freckled cheeks and brushing them away, she vowed, Rosemary, I will find out who took you away from me and he shall pay dearly. She got up and hustled to the waiting carriage, her skirt with its bustle sweeping the overgrown grass.

“Are you all right, Missus?” Fritt asked as he opened the door.

“I’m quite all right, Fritt.  Please take me home,” she said without glancing at him and she raising her skirt, she climbed into the carriage.

Franklin was at home when she arrived.  “What’s the matter?” he asked, looking alarmed when he saw that she had been crying.  He put his arms around her and hugged her.

“I went to the river,” she told him when they drew apart.

“You shouldn’t go there, Darling,” he said.  “You know how much it upsets you.”

She nodded.  “I know but I had to go.  Oh, Franklin, I miss her terribly, terribly.  She wasn’t just my sister, she was my best friend.”  Fresh tears fell.

“I know.  It was a tragic loss for both of us.  Here, dry your tears.”  He handed her a handkerchief.

She took it and was about to dry her eyes when she noticed something at the bottom right corner.  It was a gold R.  This is Rosemary’s handkerchief.  What was he doing with it?

Before she could ask him, Prescott the butler came into the room to announce that Mr. Willoughby the solicitor was waiting for him in the study.  “Thank you, Prescott.  Tell him that I will be with him shortly.”

After Prescott left, Franklin turned to her.  “You look about ready to collapse. It must be the heat.  Come, rest for a while.”  Putting his arms around her shoulders, he led her over to the sofa and after making sure she was comfortable, he went over to the decanter and poured her a glass of Brandy, his back turned to her.  “Here, drink this,” he suggested.  “It will help you to feel better.  I wish I could stay but I have business to attend to.”  He reached down and kissed her on the forehead before leaving the room.

Alone, she stood there for a few minutes and then went over to the sofa.  She sat down, her mind muddled as she fingered the initial on the handkerchief.  Why did Franklin have it?  There had to be a perfectly good explanation.  As soon as he was done with Mr. Willoughby, she would ask him.  What business did he have with the solicitor?  She sipped the Brandy.  It tasted bitter as did everything she had been eating and drinking lately.

 

This was written in response to the Thursday Photo Prompt at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.  For more details click here.

Source:  Kate Tattersall;

The Mistake/Beginnings #writephoto

Photo by Sue Vincent

He was in the foyer removing his hat and gloves when Flora walked.  He put them on the table.

“Here are the pen and paper you asked for, Sir,” she said handing them to him.  She was dressed in her coat and hat.

“Thank you, Flora,” he said, taking them from her.  “Are you going out?”

“Yes, Sir.  It’s my evening off.”

“Oh, yes.  Any plans for the evening?”

“Yes, Sir.  I’m going to the pictures with my friend.  I’m meeting her there.  Afterwards, we will have supper at her Mom’s place.”

“It sounds like you have a pleasant evening ahead.  Do you mind waiting until I write this note and then deliver it to Miss Bennett for me?”

“Not at all, Sir.”

He smiled and then turned away to write his the note.   “Do you have money for a cab?” he asked.

When she didn’t answer, he raised his eyes to the mirror and saw her staring at his hand.  He glanced down and realized that he was holding the pen in his left hand.  Deftly, he switched it to the right and wrote the note.  He folded the sheet of paper, took his seal out of the drawer and pressed it on the paper.  When he turned to face her, a smile masked the anger that seethed in him.  He had picked the pen up with his left hand.  Philip was a right hander.  Flora, being a left hander herself, noticed the mistake.

He held the note out to her.  She hesitated for a moment and then took it, her eyes avoiding his.  “Goodnight, Flora.”

“Goodnight, Sir,” she said and quickly walked to the door and let herself out.

He stood there for a few minutes, his mind whirling.  What was he going to do?  Then an expression of unnatural calmness came over his face and taking up his hat and gloves, he left the house.

Flora hurried quickly down the cobbled streets, jumping at every unexpected sound she heard.  In her mind the words of the newspaper played over and over.  “Based on the angle of the stab wounds, our killer is left handed.”

Master Philip was right handed, she was sure of it and yet, tonight, she saw him take up the pen in his left hand.  I must go to the police and report this, she thought.  Instead of heading in the direction of the residence, she continued straight ahead.

It was becoming cold and she drew her coat closer about her.  Her footsteps rang loudly on the street as she walked as fast as she could through the alleyways, wishing she had taken a cab with the pocket money she had.  She didn’t like walking about the streets in the night.   There were all sorts of characters lurking about.  And she kept thinking that someone was following her.  She thought she heard footsteps behind her but every time she turned around, there wasn’t anyone there.  You’re imagining things, she chided herself.  You’ll feel safe once you’re in Scotland Yard and talking to the kindly Chief Inspector.

With a start, she realized that she had made a wrong turn and was at a dead-end.  She turned to head back to where she had come from when a dark figure suddenly appeared and was walking toward her.  Panicking, she looked around her but there was no escape.  She would have to go past him.   Perhaps he was lost too.  Perhaps he was a harmless derelict.  She went towards him, heart pounding in fear and apprehension.  I can’t let fear prevent me from going to the police and telling them what I know. I will just walk past him as if he isn’t there.

As she drew closer, she saw that he was no derelict but a gentleman who looked out of place.  There was something familiar about him.  And then she realized who it was.   She tried to run but it was too late.  He had her cornered like a trapped animal.  She saw the tie in his hands and the maniacal look in his eyes.   “Master Raymond,” she gasped and she fought him wildly but it was no use.  Everything went black.

It was near dawn when he finally got back to the estate.  Instead of going directly to the house, he walked unsteadily up the hill overlooking the grounds and leaned heavily against the tree, his breath harsh and unsteady.  His raven dark hair was tousled, his clothes slightly disheveled, beads of perspiration formed on his wide brow and his face was deadly white.  Images Flora’s face as he pulled the tie tighter and tighter around her throat flashed across his mind.  It was the same look of terror he had seen on Estelle’s face when she realized that she was going to die.

Flora had fought him like a wildcat to the end, clawing at him.  He put his hand against the side of his neck where she had scratched him.  There was blood on his fingers.  He would have to clean the scratches as best as he could and hide them.  He felt in his pocket for the note which he had the presence of mind to remove from her purse.  He was going to burn it.  What he wrote in it, he could say to Constance in person.  And the tie.  He would have to dispose of it.

He hadn’t wanted to do Flora in.  She was a pretty little thing and he had even entertained the idea of getting involved with her but decided that it would be foolhardy to do so.  If she hadn’t noticed his mistake and been on her way to Scotland Yard, she would still be alive.  He had to be very careful.  No one could ever find out that he was Raymond.  They had to believe that he was Philip, the heir of Cherry Grove Estate.

As he moved away from the tree, the sun made its slow ascent in the sky.  Another day.  Another beginning.

Later that morning, they found Flora’s body.  As the Chief Inspector examined her, he thought, she looks familiar.  Her purse lay discarded at her feet.  Money was still in it.  This was no robbery.  And there was bruising around her neck.  This poor girl whoever she was had been strangled.  He raised her right hand and saw what looked like blood and skin under her fingernails.  She had fought her attacker and whoever he was, he had scratches, possibly on his face, neck or hand.  All they had to do was find out who this girl was and then they would find her killer.

 

This sequel to The Attic is in a response to the Thursday Photo Prompt – Beginnings found at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.

Oppressed Because She is a Woman

Then I returned and considered all the oppression that is done under the sun: And look! The tears of the oppressed, But they have no comforter—
On the side of their oppressors there is power, But they have no comforter – Ecclesiastes 4:1

It saddens me that in some countries, it is dangerous or even deadly to be a woman.  Sex trafficking, bride burnings, infanticide, gender related crimes, poverty and oppression are the realities that girls and women face in Asia.

Women should be able to live in a society where their rights are protected  and are not oppressed because of their gender.  Gender discrimination is something that all women may encounter at some point in her life but in Asia, women are perpetual victims of violence, abuse and oppression.

Imagine that you are a mother and one Sunday evening you find your daughter lying naked on the front step of the house she shares with her husband and children.  There is no one there to help her and no one wants to come to her so you are the only one she can call for help although you live quite a distance away.   Imagine how you would feel when you see your daughter with burns on more than 80 percent of her body, crying in agony. She survives for three days, long enough to tell the police that she was doused in kerosene by her mother-in-law and set on fire by her husband–the father of her children.  Then she dies…

This is what happened to Laxmi, a woman in Bangladore.  She was a victim of bride burning which is a crime that accounts for the death of at least one woman every hour in India.  More than 8000 women die in this horrendous way.  This type of crime is also called, “dowry death”.

A dowry death is the death of a young woman in South Asian countries, primarily India, who is murdered or driven to suicide by her husband. This results from the husband continually attempting to extract more dowry from the bride or her family. Bride burning is just one form of dowry death. Others include acid throwing and Eve teasing.  Because dowry typically depends on class or socioeconomic status, women are often subjected to the dowry pressures of their future husband or his relatives.

Laxmi was only 28 years old when she died.  Hers was not an arranged marriage.  It was a love marriage and she came from higher caste than her husband, Majunath.  He became increasingly drunk and was unable to find regular work because most of the money Laxmi earned was spent on liquor.  Pressured by her in-laws to provide, Laxmi turned to her mother for financial support.  Laxmi was harassed and accused of adultery by her in-laws and beaten by her husband.  It turned out that it was her mother-in-law who compelled her son to set his wife on fire.  Majunath ended up dying because he suffered from burns when Laxmi hugged him in a desperate attempt to put the flames out.  So, their two children became orphans.   An arrest warrant was issued for Laxmi’s mother-in-law but she has disappeared.

Trafficking of minor girls – the second-most prevalent trafficking crime – surged 14 times over the last decade and increased 65% in 2014, according to new data released by the National Crime Records Bureau.

Girls and women are the main targets of immoral trafficking in India, making up 76% of human trafficking cases nationwide over a decade, reveal NCRB data.

Other cases registered under human trafficking over the last decade include selling girls for prostitution, importing girls from a foreign country and buying girls for prostitution.

Sexual exploitation of women and children for commercial purposes takes place in various forms including brothel-based prostitution, sex-tourism, and pornography.

As many as 8,099 people were reported to be trafficked across India in 2014.

In the article, Silent Slaves:  Stories of Human Trafficking in India, I read about a 15 year old girl who was in a New Delhi hospital.  She was frail, her face and head were bandaged.  A bruised black and blue eye and swollen lips were visible.  She had burn marks and scabs on her neck and down her whole body and one of her ears was disfigured.  She had a wound on her skull which was rotting and filled with maggots.  This caused a stench. She was in this horrific condition because of her employer who beat her everyday with a broom and a stool.  Many times the woman would put a hot pan on the girl’s body and burn her skin.  The skin on her skull started to peel because she was repeatedly burned in that same spot.

How could one human being treat another like this?  Sadly, this teen’s case is not an isolated one.  Thousands of girls like her are trafficked every year from remote villages to large cities and sold as domestic workers. Many of them are abused or sexually exploited.

Extreme poverty, lack of education and employment, and poor implementation of the government’s minimum wage system in rural India make girls more vulnerable to being trafficked. The 2013 Global Slavery Index, published by the Australia-based Walk Free Foundation, an organization that works to end modern slavery, found that almost half of the 30 million “modern slaves” in the world are from India.

The article describes how domestic worker placement agencies operate and how they are flourishing at the expense of minor and illiterate girls. Read more.

Due to the fact that girls are seen as an economic burden and boys a source of income, girl babies have been aborted and murdered – female infanticide or Gendercide – in their millions in India. The Lancet estimates that 500,000 female fetuses are aborted in India every year. As a result according to the BBC, “an estimated 25-50 million women in India are ‘missing’, if you compare the proportion of women in the population with other countries.” Staggeringly, Unicef believes 10 million girls, were killed by their parents in the last thirty years.

Killing babies because they are girls really hits close to home.  As a woman, I can’t imagine my parents ending my life because I was born a girl instead of a boy.  I always remember my mother telling me that she had a dream of how I would look before I was born.  My father used to take me kite flying. My parents loved my two sisters and me.  I know fathers who have only daughters and no sons but they are ecstatic.  They adore their girls.  This is not the case for the girls in India, however.  Some are aborted or killed after they are born, others are neglected or abandoned.

In India a girl is an expensive burden because when she marries, her family is expected to pay a sum of money to the groom’s family regardless of whether or not they can afford it.  It’s an expense they don’t want to deal with.  So, when a girl is born, there is no joy.  There is no celebration, only disappointment and anxiety.  In some cases, there is rage–rage of the husband toward the wife and the baby girl.  The wife is blamed for the gender of the baby and the girl, if she survives, is constantly reminded that she is a mistake–she should have been a boy.

Bride burnings, sex trafficking and girl infanticide are just some of the hardships that women and girls face in Asia.  The documentary film, “Veil of Tears” takes you on a harrowing journey into their lives.  Their stories may make us squirm but instead of shutting them out, we ought to raise awareness and do what we can to help.  Let us be the voice of hope for the oppressed.

Find out more information at this link:  http://veiloftearsmovie.com/take-action/ 

And the LORD shall help them, and deliver them: he shall deliver them from the wicked, and save them, because they trust in him – Psalm 37:40

Sources:  Gospel for Asia; The Sidney Morning Herald; Wikipedia; Scroll In; Women’s Media Center; Counterpunch