100-Word Fiction: ‘At risk of repeating’

Times change so slowly.

They would shiver if they thought about it. In February, when the squares are full and the bridges heave with sighs, they want freedom, no less.

Have you visited there on holiday? asks a colleague.

Yes.

They know they deserve a break. Is this just their week in the sun? How long before we know?

Autumn is too long. It is immediate change they want. Crowds touching the city of the dead, North Africa. A distant call to prayer. Soldiers in tanks shake hands with locals waiting, waiting. They call it ‘unrest’. The unrest of years.

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100-Word Fiction: ‘The Villagers’

They were out into the heat and dust again. There was no road to speak of, not even really a track, just a formless and infinite middle distance of barren land that stretched onwards and onwards, with no horizon visible in the haze of the afternoon sun.

All the villagers were standing outside their mud huts. They always made eye contact but that gaze gave nothing away. There was no reason for them to hide any more and so they just remained. The villagers gave the soldiers their names, but who they were, no one knew. No one knew anything.