Jackals

We would call what you're doing "lying on your stomach", but really your weight is on your ribcage and your stomach is barely tickled by the grass. We watch as you laugh deliriously at the memory of when you pushed your childhood crush into a river and then jumped in, terrified, to rescue her from drowning. You would call what's happening to you "dying", we prefer to say you're passing away.

Each time we walk by, we stop to give you water and to chase the jackals away, but already they've chewed off your blood-soaked hair. They will cough it up later and we'll find it caught in a tangle by the river, a course, black ball interspersed with nails and stones and other indigestible curiosities that the jackals take up in their fervent gnawing.

You would tell us that you came from the war, but we know that from your uniform. You would tell us that you were sorry for doing what you did to our families, but we wouldn't understand your language. When you stop laughing we'll cover you in stones so that the jackals won't drag you to their caves.

Liddy Thack

Sketch by Walter Mensch