short story, what do you think ?

pontovic

"See them bullet holes over there ? " He beckons. "Thats a good thing because they're all over the place. The person who shoot is a child who knows nothing about guns". I stare wide-eyed at the holes in the wall. This place is full of pockmarks, as the few remaining people shuffle by going about their daily business as if they arent there. The local violence has taken a deadly toll here, although it is hard to see evidence of this apart from the holes that litter the walls.

My guide is Yexhmesh, a local cab driver who pulls heavily on a markhoka cigarette like it's his last one. We have been driving from the airport for 45 minutes now, and not one sign of an army checkpoint. "During communism everything is ok, and now there is war in just 2 months. Since then, I cannot feed my family". It seems he is very keen to tell me about his home and everything that has been going on. A blazing sun pierces the window and he puts down his visor and holds his hand to his eye and frowns like it is something unwelcome. I bask in the glorious day, as I breathe in the fresh air. "Yes it is nice now, but do not leave home at night, that's when they start to shoot". He is referring to something that has become all too familiar here recently.

Ethnic tensions have fuelled the fire of war, where there was once a calm stability in this peaceful state. After the collapse of the socialist government and secessioin of most of the country into newly formed independent states, things have really started to fall apart. A collapse in the old authoritarian ways has resulted in the focus on something completely new and deadly.

As we take a turn down into a small one-way street, I notice the smell of burning wood and plastic. It is an awful smell that can only serve my imagination as to where it is coming from. As we turn another street, the smoke becomes darker and more acrid. It stings my eyes and my throat. As I look ahead in a quick clearing, I see the upper floors of what appears to be an apartment building completely engulfed in smoke.

People around me look bewildered and shaken beyond belief. There appears to be very little anyone can do for them. I exit the car with my badge and camera and begin taking pictures, feeling gutted and helpless at the scale of the devastation around me. "Be crareful, " my guide say's to me. "This has happened one hour ago, they can hit in the day also".

With that, he slams my door shut and speeds off down the street away from view.

I try to get to the hotel where I'm meant to be staying. Its a difficult thing to do without falling over the smashed glass and concrete on the ground. As I stroll through the town's small commercial boulevard, I notice alot of the shops still have their clothes left on the racks surprisingly enough. Theres no time here even for looting. The whole place looks like it has gone through a nuclear holocaust, like the Chernobyl incident a few years back. I only hope that it is not left like this forever. There is a very small number of people on the roads, who are mostly women out searching for firewood and scraps of food. Anything they can get their hands on. As I walk down the street, I have to be careful to avoid looking too conspicuous. I have heard that members of the press and photographers are relatively safe from gunfire, but in this place, I won't be taking my chances. I know these young soldiers can be trigger happy. They would shoot you just to steal your watch. They don't have much more prospect beyond that.

I look ahead and see the Hotel I'm meant to be staying in. It is adorned with a huge red neon sign on the roof, quite simply saying 'hutel pozdak'. This is where all the journalists stay. As I walk on, I hear an old woman calling out in her native language. I can't seem to understand what she is saying. She looks at me and roars out again. Is she trying to warn me about something ? I look at her, staring at her from her apartment window. There is a massive pockmark right next to her window, and a massive hole where the window should be for her next door neighbours. I dread to think what may have happened to the inhabitants of this building. I remind myself at this stage that I am lucky to be alive and well, and that my family haven't seen such devastation yet. I pray the war doesn't reach us.

As I look up at this apartment, morbidly fascinated by the redecoration adorned on it by machine gun and artillery fire, I feed the sparp jab of a barrel in the side of my chest. My natural reaction is to turn around to see what is going on. A rather sheepish looking young boy, who could be no more than 16 is standing there with a rifle almost his size pointed at me. I quickly raise my hands. He stutters "Slikke, prosim, ma komradixhe, Slikke prosim". I know that by the tone of his voice he is almost as scared as I am, maybe even more scared. His friend appears suddenly from behind some rubble. They mutter to each other something in their own dialiect, which is something I cannot even begin to understand. They speak so fast. The younger man who has just appeared points to the camera I have hanging around me neck. I slowly begin to take it off from around my neck to hand it to him, but he insists I keep it. "Niyet, Niyet!" he exclaims. "Slikke" erupts the older one. "Puta parlexhu Ingleskiy ? , Puta parlexhu Ingleskiy, Vijn Britanija ? Australija ?, Photograph, Photograph". I can read from their voices and their stance that they are not aggresive. All they want is for a photo to be taken, or at least I hope that's what they want.


I slowly raise my camera to them, as they smile and shout "Da, Da, Slikke" in raised voices that seem full of excitement and encouragement towards me. I take a picture and roll up my film to take another. The younger lad puts his arm around the older lads shoulder. They both smile and stare wide-eyed into the camera. They proudly hold up their guns into the air. Just as I'm about to take my second shot, a faint crack rings out in the distance and echoes even louder. The older of the two stares at me with a look of shock on his face, and collapses, a senseless heap on the gound. Before I know it, the younger man starts shouting "Snajper, Snajper" and runs for cover behing a burning tram. I never see him again. For the rest of the day that is the first and last crack I will hear.

I make a run for it as fast as I can. I really don't want to take any chances. I find cover in a gutted 'Tabac' just a few yards down the road. I stay there for the next 5 hours waiting for the sun to set.

TerrorFirmer

Excellent stuff. Is it an extract presented as a short story, or simply a short story on its own?

Either way, nice writing.