Flash

There is a flash— A light so bright that the city loses all color, and the shadows of buildings swell to the size of giants.

You wake to heavy bones, buried under dust and broken glass. Your body aches as you move, steadying against nearby debris as you limp.

The world is a blur of grays, whites and reds, swirling like flames against raging winds. Distant voices echo in a terrible chorus, mixing with the sounds of sirens growing closer.

From the corner of your eye, you see lights—lights wobbling like stray fireflies in the fog, searching for something.

You trudge past a little girl clawing through the wreckage with trembling fingers. She digs through a pile of rubble, crying to a half-buried arm.

Your chest heaves and your eyes burn. You collapse, choking on your breath, and bury your face in the ground.

• 44 Douglas Long

A woman wades through the fog and spots you. She shouts behind her, and the rest of the rescue team rushes over to help her. They waste no time hoisting your crumbled form onto a stretcher and carry you to the ambulance.

Seeing the concern and relief wash across their faces, you force your wavering lungs to croak out the only thing you could think to say:

“Thank you.”

These Fish Bite • 45