Still early, Amina left the guest house.
She checked the address on her smartphone and quickly found the loathsome address, where she once had lived.
The cobblestones where cold to her touch but she imagined them warm as they once had been when her mother had cried:
“Run Amina, run… ”
The men had been drunk but with their spiteful eyes set on her beautiful mother.
It taken them seven hours of beatings and rapes before she had died.
“Majka… “, Amina mumbled walking back to her own little daughter still sleeping back at their room,
She was ready to go home.
I finally found the time to write a story. Something in the image reminded of Bosnia and the atrocities committed there during the Bosnian war.
Friday Fictioneers is a community where we sharpen our skills in writing under the gentle guidance of Rochelle. How much of a story can you pack in hundred words.
March 9, 2019