The first rocket exploded right above my bedroom window. There was a blinding flash and a shrill, piercing scream as it soared over the abandoned church next door and past the rusty red fire escape. It screeched and hissed and burst into a shower of sparks that rained down on earth like fiery teardrops and shook the bones of the house and made the walls shiver. I pressed my nose against the glass, feeling its cool, clammy surface on my skin, straining my neck towards the night sky to catch a glimpse of the shimmering lights and the roaring thunder. Another rocket screams out, and then two more. Hellfire shatters the stillness, tears it apart, rips it in half, illuminates the neighborhood with flames, leaves smoky mist in its wake. The world of darkness briefly ignites, shadows stretch across lamp-lit streets for an instant before fading back into oblivion, then reignite once more and make the air shiver with shrieks. The seconds turn into minutes, into hours, into days. The night never ends, and the screams never cease.
And then it’s over and the razor-sharp sting of gunpowder and sulfur is left lingering in the air and the city reclaims its domain under a blanket of silence. And I look past the concrete and the rubble and see Prometheus carrying fire, sprinting in the streets barefoot with dreads fluttering like flags, flying through the ghetto on winged steps with wailing sirens not far behind.
And then the sounds and smells of the city float back into the summer air like dandelions kisses drifting softly on a breeze, filling my room with the sound of car alarms ringing like delayed harbingers forseeing the past, the cry of babies bawling for a return to rest, the howl of dogs barking at invisible invaders. The sky is full, and the air is alive. Somewhere in the distance, laughter can be heard.
Sole Magazine