Greetings, everyone
This is my entry to #WeekendFreewrite organized by 
What Was Left
The dog was whining at the door, obviously distressed, but she couldn't see anything in the darkness.
Of all nights she had to be left alone on this one. Just when the blackouts were back and the cloudy sky kidnapped the moon leaving her and her dog in pitch blackness. Bobby was an old but still energetic mongrel that depending on the light of the day and the state of its fur could pass as different breeds. The old lady had learned to recognize all his looks and noises, growls, barks, and whining. The one he was doing tonight was new and frightening.
It reminded her of those spiritualist sessions where the medium was possessed by a spirit and started to speak with an otherworldly voice. She never gave credit to any of those brujos, who for her were nothing but con artists. What she was feeling now, though, was the closest she had been to being scared.
[end of five minutes]
In 1988 Colombia had earned $1.7 billion from coffee exports, just over the estimated $1.5 billion in cocaine sales. That feat had only been possible by strategic alliances between local authorities, farmers, and drug dealers. Turning a blind eye to the progressive invasions of farms and uncultivated lands, which were the farmers’ reserve to rotate crops when the active farming land started to wear out, was the only guarantee these people had to keep their coffee farms; that until the cartel decided that they needed those lands too for other purposes.
[end of five minutes]
They did not need to ask for permission and, as you can imagine, they did not need to compensate the farmers either. The old lady had already been given the heads-up but she was proud and stubborn. Her husband had been killed despite his efforts to collaborate with the cartel and her sons had been killed by the paramilitaries for allegedly being collaborators.
They had learned to live life in a limbo, as simple pawns in a much complex game they could not and did not want to understand. To compensate for the unpredictability of life and death the workers in these plantations lived each day as their last. The celebration of the Virgin Mary had sent them all off to party in the town. It had always been the case that these festivities served as truce among warring factions who, despite their ferocity and lack of scruples, showed some inexplicable devotion and even fear to some religious images.
An empty cup fell and broke against the cement floor as the old lady tried to find her way back to her room. Bobby followed her reluctantly whining his way back inside. Easy boy, she told him as she felt in the dark for the dog’s head. She found her way to her bed, sat down, and placed her rifle softly on it. For a second she thought the rifle was unusually heavier because the bed sank as if more than 100lb had been gently put to rest next to her. It was not the dog. He was still between her legs, now quiet but trembling.
[end of five minutes]
Is that you, Juan? She asked to the darkness. The dog whimpered as if he had actually understood the question and was meant to respond. We lost that war, didn’t we? She asked next. The dog’s voice came up again, this time echoing the room. She thought she heard noises outside, murmurs and hushes. She lay down in bed and felt the pressure and energy of another body lying down next to her. Together to the end. She said. A plaintive whine came from the floor, followed by a deep sigh. The old lady was there no more to see the armed men break into her house and take what was left of her family’s history.