As the planes droned overhead the people looked up, their faces upturned like daisies, drinking in the sunlight. But the expressions on their faces were of pure terror, and screams filled the streets.
“They’re here!”
“They’ve come! The planes are flying!”
Some people turned and ran, trying to get away, but there was no way to run from the aircraft. There was no time. Everything was too late. Others dived into the arms of their loved ones, holding their sisters and fathers and sons and granddaughters tightly, whispering platitudes to them, reassuring them they they are loved and always will be. The streets were loud with liquid fear, spilling down the streets, the sound of screams and tears and approaching death.
One by one, the crouching planes released their fatal cargo. The bombs turned in the air, flying end over end. The pilots watched from the heavens, like god, as the map of the city was torn apart by craters. They smiled, turned the planes around and flew home, satisfied with a job well done.
On the ground, there was silence. No dogs howled or people screamed. No cars drove or buses squealed. The noise of humanity had been silenced.
Rubble filled the streets. Buildings lay topped, lampposts dented, shards of broken glass lying on concrete.
And the people – the brothers and mothers, the daughters and grandsons – lay mixed in with the rubble, their bodies broken like a dolls that a child no longer cares for.


One thought on “Aircraft

  1. Anne Schilde says:

    Really like that last line!

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