Evacuation

On the island of Yeonpyeong, Myong Ok gathered together the last of her mini vegetable dolls...the radish head girl with the purple turban and put it into her already full school backpack.  Her mother was hurrying her out the front door, handing her a scarf and loading a suitcase into the small car that would take them to the boat and to her grandmother's house in Incheon. The mornings were still cold and Myong Ok pulled her coat close to her neck.  When she asked her mother when they would be coming back home, her mother looked for an answer in her shoes and then shook her head to indicate she did not know.  The little girl had left her home like this years ago when North Korea made threats, but she had been younger at that time and did not remember it well.  Her scarf was whipped by the early cold spring wind across her face and she stumbled on a crack in the road as she reached for the door to the car.

Today was Elizabeth's eighteenth birthday.  Her stepfather was stringing balloons across the front porch for her party that afternoon when he shouted something that made Elizabeth turn.  She ran to the door and her eyes followed his to black shiny river that was coming down the street toward their yard.  She could smell something like old rubber tires and it burned the back of her throat.  While she watched the black river cover her sidewalk she heard her father calling 911 and trying to describe the scene of rushing oil.  By mid-afternoon they were packing their suitcases as were all of their neighbors, calling relatives and friends to cancel the party and moving to a Holiday Inn near the Mayflower Quik Mart.  Dinner was sandwiches and soda from the Quick Mart and dessert was her birthday cake which they had packed for the trip.  It was shared by relatives and friends that had come to commiserate.  Elizabeth asked when they would be heading back home and her father shrugged his shoulders in dismay.

Walking slowly and carefully with his cane, Babur padlocks the front door and then the metal gate and slowly drops the keys along with the key to the paddock for his three cows into a neighbor's hand.  He is leaving his mountain home at this early hour before the sunrise to escape frightening airstrikes from U.S. drones which they called benghai or "buzzing flies" targeting militants near his home in the remote mountains of Afghanistan.  Babur turned to the American journalist who was asking him questions and said that you cannot see them but the buzzing sound goes on and on and then the bombing sounds begin.  When the journalist asked when he would return home again, he sighed and shook his head.

Strong winds were whipping hair all around Alicia's head as she threw another garbage bag of clothes into the back of the pick-up truck.  She held a cell phone tight to one ear trying to keep her voice as calm as possible while she described to her husband the awfulness of the fire that had eaten the McDonald's house at the end of the street.  There were sirens screaming in the background competing with the noise of the helicopter overhead and men in fire gear yelling at her and her neighbors to get going.  Fire engines blocked half of the end of the street.  Smoke filled the air making her cough at the end of each sentence.  She turned and her son held up his baseball mitt and ball for her.  She had screamed at him twice to get into the cab of the truck, and this time she swooped him into one hand as she struggled with her phone in the other.  She asked her husband how long it would take to recover their losses if the fire got as far as their house, but there was no answer because her phone went dead.

(All of these are fictionalized accounts of actual news I read this week.)