Photo by Gabriel Lamza on Unsplash
by Ruth Brandt
Some of them cry. Some of them rant and wail. Some of them gulp for help and call for their mothers. Some of them slump, arms too weary to support even their hands. Some of them watch a parade of blood march towards flaming metal, or gaze at the confusing flutter of lights and rubble, silent. And while some of them clutch onto God, or grab someone else’s god, or wonder what it would be like to have a god at a moment like this, I shatter my placard into a baton.
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Ruth Brandt’s stories have been widely published and nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Write Well and Best Small Fictions Awards. She lives in Surrey, England.
