by Dakota Canon

The soldiers think they own us. Their guns give them authority and arrogance. Last night they shot Mr. Abdul in the forehead for organizing a gathering. Father said his eyes rolled back but did not close. One bullet came through my wall and burrowed in the mattress.

I took it to the field later, still warm in my pocket, to show the others. Mr. Abdul lay in the rubble, his eyes ghostly white, a bloody line down his cheek. The surly soldier threw a cigarette stub as I passed. Above, dark birds circled the sky, shrieking. We have vultures now.

Dakota Canon’s novel, The Unmaking of Eden, won the 2018 Hastings Litfest Crime Novel Contest and was long-listed in the 2018 Yeovil Literary Prize. She’s received mention in the Manchester Fiction Prize, the Writer’s Digest Annual Short Story Contest and the Brilliant Flash Fiction competition and has recent pieces, either published or forthcoming, in Moon City Review, Literary Orphans, and Cold Creek Review among others. 

Follow her on Twitter @DakotaCanon
or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/dakota.canon.author.