Writing about other races and nationalities can be difficult, but I think every writer can do it. The reason I think this is simply due to the fact that as a writer, we are constantly talking about things we normally don't. Why? Because we're interested in those topics, those people, those things, and we want to learn.

If you put the time and energy into researching other races or nationalities, it shouldn't be considered racist or offensive. Base your writing on facts and not stereotypes, write what you want!

If a Caucasian writer has an African-American antagonist, it doesn't automatically mean they're racist. It could be a matter of adding diversity to the book, or maybe being curious about what it is like living in someone else's shoes.

At the end of the day, if the writing is done tastefully and respectfully, people should understand it isn't coming from a negative space. When ever change has been made in history, the majority and the minority have to work together.

Writing is about uniting people, and to do that, we have to write outside our comfort zone.

Yes, a writer of any background can write characters of other races and nationalities but be aware of the issues in doing so. If male writers write female characters, then they should be aware of their male bias (same goes for women writing male characters) and stereotypes of women, just write them as humans with complex motives and flaws. The point of literature is to explore other humans beings and have empathy for them, so writers of whatever background should write characters of different backgrounds to their best understanding of people of different backgrounds.

Greta's Journal

Keep Out!

8th Day, 3008

We aren't allowed to talk anymore, she said we brought it upon ourselves, this punishment. Vile words and accusations, violence ensued, people were killed, tragedy. The Matron then decreed,"Cover your mouths or your tongues will be cut from your head."

She could speak, hers was the Only Voice, the Voice of Reason, the Voice of Rule, the Voice that seeped into our psyche every night "abide, behave, remain...."

I remember the bloody day like it was yesterday, but truly it has been twenty. It was all the cause of the man and the woman trying to break free, the words, the loudness, the treason. What is a man if not a tool? The Matron always said. But the woman who fell and caused a massacre was a fool. I knew her, she was my own blood relative, and now to bear the shame, our household wore face masks stained in the blood of the dead as a symbol of our failure.

And we all lived in silence. No voices, no music, not even the birds chirped anymore, the few species that survived the Great Explosion. The Matron has a daily Walk, so we are all required to be in front of our homes 2 hours before sundown, us with our stained masks that reek of death and the clan next door with their pristine white, lilac scented, cloud soft, dainty mouth covers. They always look at us, signing "Good Tidings," with their long graceful fingers. Mother merely nods, we aren't allowed to sign to others for one hundred more days. I don't care to sign, I want to scream.

9th Day, 3008

I don't know why I've taken up this habit. The sound of the lead scratching against coarse paper makes me irritable. At least in the privacy of my cold, bare room I can take off the mask and look in the mirror. What do I see? A pale face, tired, confused, angry. Dry lips and drier throat, all the words just dried up. Then I look away. Because they used to say, "You look so much like your sister."

16th Day, 3008

What possessed her to do it? "Love," she said, possibly the last word I ever heard her say. She was in love with the man, and that was not allowed. Why? No one has ever loved a man, a man was merely a cow, to be milked, to use his seed to create others like us in the Great Dome, where the white coats toiled to ensure there were no more defects. After the Great Explosion, the world was almost empty and The Matron always said,

"It is our duty to make the land thrive again, alive again, the Mothers Before started to rebuild and we now, must continue, this is the way."

20th Day, 3008

I have been busy. We are clearing out all of her things. The few belongings she left behind. I found a letter from him, written in blood on a scrap of dingy cloth. "Tomorrow, set me free." I knew it was a bad idea when she got her white coat.

21st Day, 3008

I had another night dream, she was running towards me, I was running towards her, neither of us slowed our pace, yet the distance between us remained so vast, I thought that we would crash into each other, that we would fall unto green grass, and laugh at the sky, but we didn't. Couldn't. There was only running, her to me, me to her. My twin.

35th Day, 3008

When it happened it was a beautiful day. Clear sky, a festival in the square. There was so much noise. I heard singing, I heard laughing, I heard girl children squealing as they held hands and spun in a big circle, child's play. There was joy.

Then the Big Horn sounded, and the doors of the Dome burst open in flames, and she was in the front and he was two steps behind, his brothers closely following. There were screams as they drew closer to the square, women scattered, the Matron's guards with their long braids and matte black guns swooped down. "Freeze!" yelled some. I remember her face and her wide, scared, gray eyes, I remember her reaching for his hand and him grabbing on to hers. I remember the angry faces of the other men, and his face as he watched them lunge into the crowd grabbing women and shoving them down. "No! NO!" his voice was a lion's roar, but it fell on deaf ears. "Brothers! NO! We are free! Let them go!" The sound of guns firing, I saw the first drop of blood burst through broken skin, it was hers. Her blood, her chest, the bullet found its mark. "TRAITOR!" yelled the masses. So much noise. Her white coat turned red, and she was still breathing when i reached her side, chaos around me. He was dead already, bullet to the head. "Why? WHY?" I cried as tears drenched my face and blurred my vision. She looked at me, my mirror, my opposite. "Love."

40th Day, 3008

Today, without a doubt,I will scream in the Matron's face.

*****

#challengeoftheweekCXVII #silence #amateur #fiction #prose #writer #words #story #fiction #theme #writing

Blood

pours

from between

her Plush lips.

The silver lines

that criss-cross her teeth,

that possess the voice box

in her throat...

sew her lips

sew her lips

sew them shut

with the barbed wire

lock.

She hums.

It’s all she can do...she hums

and it’s still silent

because they cut out her tongue....

uninvited guests

that pull off her hair,

her clothes,

and she doesn’t scream

because her lips

have been

sewn shut.

Collapsed in the middle of the carraige, screaming in pain, drawing the alarmed attention of even the most apathetic Piccadilly line commuters, that's how she started her week. Even whilst she was drowning in pain one thought managed to surface in mer mind: this must be how I die.

That was when a pair of wings tore through the skin of her back.