100-Word Fiction: ‘Darja [4]’

Get the fucking stretcher –––– here now! Get it here! Blood is pouring from –––– left of the child’s leg. Med-tent is 200 metres and watch the air – the shrapnel – it is so full. A glance, quickly, buildings at street end are rubble. Patches of street have turned red. Six bodies – rough count – in the road. Where is it? Run! Run! Yes, yes, on her brow, there, there. Go. Breathing –––– breathing –––– breathing –––– breathing –––– Doctors, doctors, off, off the stretcher, now go! Another explosion, nearer explosion and run run for the second. Is she? Is she live? Okay! Your name is? Darja, Darja.

100-Word Fiction: ‘Oksana [1]’

Watches the joggers run past the flats as she towels her hair dry. Hums along to the radio and eats toast, drinks orange juice. Waits at the bus stop where all the men cough into the cold wet street. Stares at the passing shops, swaying as the bus jerks. Walks up past the park and hangs her coat in the back of the café and begins work. In her mind, her cousin – blankets across her shoulders, running through the streets and tugging little Darja along and squeezing into the minibus, fleeing from the tanks rumbling on the horizon. It hurts.