Sample post title

                                                                        C MMX TommyBooks.com

                                      White Slave Market

                                                                    Sample

  I'm in Marrakesh, Morocco and it's hot.

   I'm standing on the flat sun-drenched rooftop of a nondescript three-story stucco building that has occupied this same spot in the Medina, or “old city”, for centuries. The front of this building faces a very large and bustling outdoor market that has been feeding and entertaining man for over 800 years.

   The building's rear butts up to the beginning of the souks, a vast and very old commercial business district. In the souks you will find thousands of one and two story buildings and store fronts crowded together and lining narrow streets; some no more than footpaths that meander forever through a maze of similar streets and structures. Most streets are too narrow for modern vehicles so merchants within the souks rely on the oldest mode of transportation known to man, the donkey and the push cart. It's been said that within the souks time has stopped. Here a person can disappear, simply vanish, in the blink of an eye.

   My name's Molly and I'm visiting this ancient city to compete in the 45th Annual Mediterranean High School Scholastic Competition which finished earlier this afternoon. I'm blowing off a little tension and stress by conducting an impromptu video interview with my twin brother, Tommy, and two of our friends. I had opened my JVC HD video camera, which is always with me, because Mustafa, a local teenager and friend had taken us up to the roof of this building, which has been in his family for 14 generations. A building that has, for centuries, witnessed the dynamics of Moroccan life.

   I couldn't pass up the shot from the rooftop. Especially if I could tie in the old with the new. The three of us...me, my brother Tommy and my girlfriend Sheila...had just competed against the best science and technology minds of our generation...in this ancient and fabled city.

   Mustafa is a local futbol prodigy whose amazing talent had earned him the moniker “Magic” and a four year  scholarship to my brother's world famous high school futbol team in Rome, Italy. A huge step for a Moroccan boy raised in the souks. When he had learned that Tommy was going to be competing in this scholastic competition in his hometown Mustafa had finagled a ride home for the weekend so he could play proud host and tour guide for his teammate and close friend.

   The three of them, Mustafa, Tommy and Shiela, are leaning against an iron railing that runs along the top of a three foot brick wall that borders the perimeter of the roof. I'm filming their reactions and answers to my off-the-wall questions ...all the while scanning the vibrant market below. I'm always looking for my next shot.

   Mustafa is talking. “I have 140 family members who follow me on Twitter. I can reach another 2000 people throughout Morocco who have been following my futbol career including almost 500 people who live down there in the souks behind you.”

   Mustafa points to the souks behind me before continuing his explanation about how old Morocco is easily and eagerly assimilating modern technology.

   But I'm not really listening. My camera's drifting to Mustafa's left. Something has caught my attention down in the market below.

   “Mustafa. Look down there. Near that stall selling oranges and dates. You see those two blond girls? They're part of that German team Sheila and I just competed against. Right Sheila?”

   Mustafa and Tommy both turn and look in the direction I indicated. Blonds? Where?

   Sheila also turns and scans but can't find them because of all the activity in the market.

   I continue speaking but with a touch of apprehension in my voice. “Look at them. They're staggering and giggling. Look at how they're hanging on to each other. Do you think they're drunk? Maybe stoned on hash? Look. I think they're following those two Moroccan boys. Aren't they? Mustafa do you see them?”

   My finger works the zoom for tight close-up head shots. I've got a really bad feeling about what I'm seeing and want to catch as much as possible.

    “Oh...oh.” say Mustafa. “Those are the Bandar brothers. They're trouble. They're in the white slave trade here in  Marrakesh. If those girls are with the brothers they're in...”

   “What!” Tommy yells, “Come on. Let's go.” He turns to bolt for the stairs but only gets a step before Mustafa snags his arm and swings him back around.

   “Dude. Look. They're gone already. You'll never find them running down there.”

   Tommy looks and all he sees is a swirling mass of humanity that had quickly closed around the area where the group had been. He's momentarily stunned.

   But I'm not.. “Mustafa you gotta get a tweet out to your people. Immediately. Tell them to be on the lookout for that group.”

   “I'm on it.” says Mustafa as he starts working his phone.

   “Tommy. Call dad and let him know what's happening and see what he says.” Kidnapping is one of our greatest fears. Our dad is the US Ambassador to Italy and a close friend of the US President. Both Tommy and I are primary ransom targets and we've been repeatedly briefed about kidnappings and how to avoid them.

   Tommy flips open his phone, hits speed dial while continuing to scan the market-place hoping for a glimpse of the group.

   I'm shaking with anger when I blurt out, “I really hate men who think they can own women.”

   Two heartbeats later I'm back to planning as as I hand my camera to the fourth member of our quartet. “Sheila. Help me pull a still image out of the footage that I just shot. I want to transfer that image to Mustafa so he can send it.”