Fallen Stars

• Alicia Malden-Bullard, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2011

Fallen Stars

I like to watch the stars; they remind me of little dreams, floating collectively in the sea of night.
I also like to go walking out on the plains, where the heat caresses my skin and the sweat runs like a river.
There’s a breeze whispering out there tonight, dancing with the grains of sand that sting my bare feet.
Jahja runs in front of me, her laughter spreading wide before dropping into an eerie silence.
She’s too young to understand the war; too young to comprehend the red sand, the ‘sleeping’ people piled in the streets. If she knew what the world was really like, I don’t think she’d want to grow up. I know I wouldn’t.
Mum told us to be careful when we left home tonight; she said to watch out for the ‘fallen stars’, waiting to burn out one last time.
I watch Jahja’s long black hair sail along behind her. In the moonlight, she looks like some sort of spirit, her brown eyes sparkling, her skin washed white.
The war changed a lot of things; it stole our security blanket and removed the wool from our eyes, the stupid belief that we were safe, even out here in the desert.
I don’t want Jahja to discover a world that discriminates against race, gender and religion; it should be her paradise, her playground. But war is the bully stealing the swings and pushing you down the slide. It’s the kid who sets you on a seesaw and flings you high; you enjoy the flight but the sudden thud when you hit the ground breaks you into a million pieces. I always try to see the good in everything; too bad that there is nothing good to see.
Jahja stops in front of me and turns around, grasping my hand.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she breathes.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” I mutter.
Jahja shrugs before spinning back around, tugging me with her.
“What game can we play tonight?” she asks.
“I don’t want to play.”
“Why not? Games are fun. We could be princesses or Vikings or spacemen…”
“None of those things are real!” I exclaim. “Don’t you get sick and tired of pretending? People are dying. Does that mean nothing to you?”
Of course it doesn’t; her four year brain can’t process any of it.
Dropping my hand, Jahja skips ahead.
And then there’s an explosion. And a scream, that I think comes from my own mouth.
My ears are ringing and I blink, trying to see objects through the dust and dim moonlight.
“The fallen stars!” I cry, calling to Jahja.
I see a little leg poking out from under a bush. Crawling forward, I reach out and grasp Jahja’s ankle, desperately trying to pull her to safety. The explosion of the land mine would have terrified her. I need to get her home.
The leg comes with me but Jahja doesn’t.
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