Years had passed since the war, but guerrillas still controlled the city. I snuck through the ruins, hid in long shadows cast by a shy moon.
I heard rubble shift behind me, a gun muzzle pressed at my back.
“Stop,” he said. A child’s voice. Tearful. “Tell me a story.”
The closest Guy has ever been to a war zone was working in a bar on a Saturday night. This is his eleventh 50-word story.
The soldiers made him pull the trigger, bury a bullet in his mother’s forehead, watch his village burn.
Some day, he thought, I’ll kiss a girl and see skyscrapers.
His knees collided with now-sacred ground. He gagged on the ashes of his soul.
Through smoky tears, he prayed. Some day.
Salena Casha’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Stymie Magazine, Bete Noire, The Quotable, Silver Blade and others. Follow her on twitter @salaylay_c.