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come undone, and he spits the words out so viciously that the blood in his mouth goes airborne and then lands on his face, his eyes, blinding him: I've done it! I've done it now! he shouts and he cannot hear his words because at that same instant the bomber flashes overhead, a single red light on its underbelly winking at him, teasing him, Come and get me, like another childhood game in the woods, the jet's whining roar rattling his chest, and the explosion from the bomb comes before the sound of it, the world above him enveloped in black fog. He holds his breath but he can smell the granite, the earth, the building materials reduced to their original states, and then the sound of it rolls over him, crushing him flat. ***  |
The town is gone, wiped clean by cataclysm. Bodies are strewn in the main square, a quilt-like edifice of limbs, tattered clothes, blackened blood and skin. Save for the dust and ash drifting with the wind, there is no movement. She cannot smell the stench, perhaps because it has only been a day since it happened, or perhaps her own senses have been affected as a form of penance. A true gift in comparison. She stumbles through the charred streets, wrapped in her traditional gown, a sleeve flopping uselessly where her right arm used to be, the immaculately braided designs of dragons and flowers an affront. Humming old folk tunes to herself, scratching at an unseen wound on her pale cheek, she walks and walks, slow like shadows, one foot dragged before the other, tracing the path of an invisible tightrope. Those who have remained to care for the dying and bury the dead  |
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