The first line of this, I thought of while I was walking. I’m currently watching “half of the sky” and I feel like it’s only appropriate I do a story start wile writing this. And I was also inspired by “Beasts of No Nation.”
The egg in her mouth felt so nice, so warm. It took up so much space, and her jaw was aching by holding her mouth open just so that she wouldn’t break it. Face down in the water with her arms and legs splayed, the sun tickled the back of her neck. Her tongue played on the bottom shell of the egg. Ears above the water, she could hear past the wings of mosquitos and the flies buzzing around the rotting cow. The bullets fell hours ago, but she could hear their warmth escaping from the empty shells.
When the rebels came, the flies buzzed higher in the tree. Waiting, waiting to land on the bodies of her dead son and father and cousins and the body of her mother that had been stabbed with bidets from the place where she had come from. The sound of the trucks clanking - she heard it past the calls of the chickens and the quietness of the clouds over their plot. Her fingers dug into the dung pile and she wedged her body into the hot heart of the middle. There were no sounds. Not the screams of her little sister as the child soldier dug his gun into her belly. Or the bursts of her neighbor’s house. Machine gun bullets dancing, dancing, dancing.
She kicked out of the pile, when all felt quiet. She was wrong. A soldier, she saw him, pissing next to the house of the fisherman who used to trade with her family. She ducked behind the mound and saw the caravan of men and children, guns slung on their backs. Their eyes red, some wearing shoes, some not. She could hear the patter of their voice and the back and forth of their feet. At her feet, a blue egg, and with the houses burning, and blood from the animals running off into the mud.
Crawling towards the fisherman’s wife, she pulled the soaked, ripped shirt off her body, and threw it over her head, and covered her body. The soldier, pulling up his pants. The sizzle of his cigarette and exhale of his breathe. A beat. A sizzle. And in the breath she pushed the egg into her mouth, and slid into the water, next to the dead body of the boy who once carried her books. As he exhaled, she inhaled, and waited for the silence.