Local Flavor

This had been our country, our city.

We lived our days in fear. When the sun set, we moved and gathered into bunkers, ten feet below the surface. Darkness was our blanket. Power was one of our luxuries. Many did not even have emergency power supplies. We stood still in silent. Nobody talked. Children were anxious, many of them started their sob of despair. It was as if we were entering a bad dream.

The nightmare started when the wail of air-strike sirens broke the night’s calm. One hundred and forty decibel of horror marked our night lives. Fighter jets roared above the city, launching their missiles. One explosion to another explosions blasted the surface. The earth above and below us trembled. Women and children were crying. Men tried to comfort them, though they were not sure if they would pass the night. That was our night, our restless night.

Another night had just passed. We resurfaced from the bunkers to see the rubble of our city, the ruin of our buildings. They bombed our schools. Their missiles struck our hospitals. They targeted our houses. We did not have time to feel sorrow. We focused ourselves treated all wounded, giving them hope. A slight hope of liberty.

Welcome to our city.


This post was published as response to Daily Prompt challenge. Today’s theme was Local Flavor


Author: aryadn

blogger, microblogger, professional mining engineer, metallurgist by education, interested in mobile-street photography.

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