People spend their whole lives in the pursuit of it, yet it had not been so difficult for her.

Her family were concerned about the influence he was having on her life, they claimed that it was an unhealthy obsession and no good would come of it. She’d sought solace from him and he had duly comforted her.
He’d come to her at night, the first time. Her entire body had been consumed with an almost supernatural desire. Pulsing electrical beats had run down the length of her back in quick succession. The rise and fall of her breasts with each breath sparked the night air with nervous anticipation. The bed sheet had clung to her wet skin; enveloping her like a shroud. Her flaxen hair had fallen across her pillow in damp, tangled clumps, like a dishevelled crown.
His presence coursed through her body, like the ebb and flow of the tide. Sometimes this wave would engulf her completely. She could talk to him all night. Sometimes he wouldn’t reply but she knew he was listening, and he understood. He understood her in a way that no other man could comprehend. He touched her in ways she had never imagined.
She would give her life for his.

***
A small crowd had gathered.
She slowly and methodically undid the buttons on her coat. She let it fall from her; it slid down her arms and lay in a clumsy heap at her ankles. She’d worn a large shapeless cardigan that she’d considered suitable for the occasion. She picked thoughtfully at the large, bland buttons, enjoying the smooth texture of the plastic against her skin. The cardigan fell, crumpled, alongside her coat.
Her vest and the explosives strapped to it were now visible. A low murmur ran through those gathered.

She felt exhilarated as she unwound her headscarf. The cold stung her neck and face.

With a sweeping movement, she shook her long hair free. Her loose blonde curls bounced lazily against her shoulders. She swept an errant strand out of her line of vision with a cold, goose-pimpled hand. Her fingers were almost blue.
She took slow, measured breaths. His hand brushed up and down the length of her spine, comforting her.
She felt inside the collar of her shirt and pulled out her pendant. She kissed the pained, outstretched body of her Lord and with one frozen hand grasped it tightly. She could feel the pointed edges dig deep into her palm, leaving 4 intimate indentations in her delicate flesh. In the other she held the detonator.
So, she thought, a coy smile playing on her cold, pursed lips, this is true love.

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I entered a short story competition at my University, with the intent of creating a story that would rattle a few cages. It obviously did as I never heard back from the competition organisers. Either because they were offended, or probably because it's a bit crap, who knows.

We have a certain image in our mind of the type of person that becomes involved in terrorist activity. Our media bombards us constantly with these stereotypes, especially after September 11th and this so-called 'War on Terror'. This is not always so. As I would like to emphasise in my (extremely) short story.

updated Dec 28 '09 by kfrou1