The Devil's Dervish
The Devil's Dervish
05/09/2020
05/09/2020
(NYC Midnight Challenge submission)
---
“Again,” the devil crooned, heat-tempered breath pregnant with maniacal lust. Ataturk turned to his officers, coolly noting green uniforms damp with blood and victory. None of them dared distract the general from his sore, tortuous impulse.
The dervish’s face bore a smoke-filmed sheen. Rivulets of pain carved silent paths to the dirt beneath his broken feet. His sikke lay crooked. His tattered tenure trembled. This would be his last dance.
Back suddenly straight, the dervish crossed his arms in one final, defiant, Godly maneuver. Ataturk froze in momentary defeat. And the dancer became a gyrating whirl of sun and light.