Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Children of Olive

But as they passed, Amal looked at their faces.

They didn't have faces.

Their heads were wrapped in a digital distortion. A glitch. Like a censored video, but in real life. It was a blocky, pixelated blur where facial features should be.

"Don't look," Yasmin hissed. "If you look at the glitch, it infects you."

The patrol stopped. One of the soldiers turned its pixelated head toward Amal.

The blur shifted. Colors swirled —gray, black, static.

Amal felt a sudden wave of nausea. The static wasn't just visual; it was auditory. A high-pitched screeching inside her ears.

ID... CHECK... The voice came from the static, broken and synthesized.

Amal held her breath. She clutched the Key.

The Key pulsed. A counter-frequency. Hummm.

The soldier paused. It tilted its head. Then, it turned away.

The patrol continued down the alley. The static faded.

"What were they?" Amal whispered, shaking.

"The Censored," Yasmin said. "They are the ones who enforce the curfew of the mind. They scrub memories."

They moved on, faster now.

Amal felt it in her own body. A phantom itch in her left hand —the hand holding the key.

They reached the edge of the Jewish Quarter. The transition was abrupt. One minute, the street was narrow, chaotic, and smelled of za'atar. The next, it was wide, paved with smooth white stone, and smelled of... nothing.

It was sterile. The buildings were reconstructed, perfect replicas of history, but they lacked the grime of life.

"The Seam," Amal said.

They walked toward the Western Wall plaza.

There, the phantom pain became a scream.

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