The Little Misse

The color of dirt on his feet varied between dark brown to light green covering spots of his wheat skin. Alone, he was shouting and running between the rubbles barefoot. The skin of his small feet, supposed to be prime and soft, are hard and cracked. There is an asymmetry between his feet and his body, they seem to belong to different ages, combined they make a figure seems put together by different Gods. His shorts was a black teared rug, hardly fixed on his waist, matched with shabby Barcelona team T-Shirt. The size of his head is somehow the same size of the slightly inflated stained white ball he is playing with. His black grassy hair move along with his moves, ironic smile shines a tired face and glowing rosy cheeks. Black wide eyes shaded by long eyelashes. He is missing a tooth, and there is a patch of mud on his right side of his face. Visibly thin. In the middle of the street, there were two rusty iron cans placed parallel to each other separated by a randomly thought to be suitable distance making a touch line. As he runs the ball, he comments like a sport TV anchor: here comes the magnificent Messi, Ronaldo is trying to take the ball and launch a charge…

Ali has lost his older brother during the shelling on their school, like other kids in this Syrian neighborhood. He started to perform the moves his brother taught him, bouncing the ball on his head, hitting it with his ankle backward. No one is going out to play anymore, half of the children fled to safer areas, and who stayed here are not allowed to be out. At that day Ali saw a ball in a good shape to play with laying beside a couple of fallen buildings. He sneaked out to be with his ball.

Ali decided that he had a penalty kick. He started to warm up, jump twice or thrice in his place, moves his arms in circles. He places the ball in front of the goal, goes back few steps, shakes his legs, stands by, then runs. Booom, the moment the ball rushes inside the goal, Ali screams: Goooaaaallll, yes and he scores, the great Messi did it again. His hands high up and wide apart running all around the place to hug the air, to hug the world, to hug the land, to hug the sun. His eyes were closed as he dashed through the squire, he jumps on a small pile of rocks from a destroyed building and screamed. Looks to the right, then to the left, only echos answered his joy. Stood in his place few minutes as if he became lost in time and space, then regain his focus. He went down and walked toward the ball. He decided to keep it with him. As he passes the goal’s touch line, he kicks one of the rusty cans. The cluster bomb explodes.

About Hummingbird

Feels strange when I talk about myself. It is just me.
This entry was posted in Literature, Syria and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s