Birds and Stones

Two

War teaches her to throw stones at birds the next day.

It is the colour of clouds on an angry day and it feels heavy in her hand.

She asks Her Why. And in Her eyes War says Don't question me child so she obeys.

Around them houses are rubble and the wind smiles and watches. She sees no one but she somehow feels a presence other than War's. People milling about in their homes, sitting on the floor and cutting apart bread into pea-sized balls.

Her stomach growls. That's why, War says. Because you are hungry. Hit birds with stones and you get a nice pigeon stew.

She nods. Okay. That makes sense. And she throws.

And, pitifully, the stone stops soaring like a rainbow and changes its mind and then drops onto the asphalt, buried in a mountainous load of brick, dust, poopy diapers and arms.

She throws more stones one after the other and not a single one comes close. She thinks they ought to get onto a roof. She thinks a staircase from heaven should break open the sky and rest right at her eight and a half toes.

She turns to War and she says It is not working. Too far and too small.

War's talons slink into her forearm almost completely. She is surprised but not in pain.

Foolish, War hisses. That's what you are. Foolish.

She cocks her head to the side and wonders why. War gazes not at her when She says it. Maybe She doesn't mean her. She said Foolish, not Foolish child.

Her throat dry and her stomach empty, she cries into the bowl of her hands.