Flash fiction from the Wounded Soul of Iraq.
Translated from the Arabic by Essam M. Al-Jassim.
It was a seemingly interminable, bitterly cold and starless night. The incessant bellow of heavy artillery and mortar barrages around the trench drowned out the usual sounds of the night.
Alone in my damned pit, and wrapped in a greatcoat, I fashioned my army boots into a makeshift pillow. Lying on the bare earth, I wrestled with hunger, cold, darkness, and drowsiness.
Gradually, sleep overpowered me. The lights and clamor of city life engulfed me. I stood in a vast atrium, flanked by glossy department stores and cafés. The air was fragrant with the aroma of coffee, caramel, and perfume. Women floated by in high-heeled shoes, preening themselves and shimmering.
As I looked around in awe, a slender, delicate beauty in a flowing dress glided toward me. Her soft hands reached out to caress my face before drifting out to tug at my hair. I winced in pain and kept silent, but the woman pulled harder and harder until the pain became unbearable.
Jerking upright, I unleashed a guttural scream, somehow trembling and terrified.
Once again, I found myself inside that foul hole. The pack of hungry rats that had been enjoying the saltiness of my hair scurried away into the darkness.