Seaside

She knows she’ll die there. As soon as she hears the rotors of the planes and smells the gas in the air, she knows they will die there. Near the ocean and the waves, lapping at their feet, the  squishy sand between their toes as they dance to whatever God rules the sea. 

The planes weren’t supposed to be that far out, but she can see them, she can hear them, their loud entrance overtaking her daughters’ singing voices to the sea as they play in the sand and squeal at the chill of the December ocean. 

The approaching planes disturb the wildlife and the skies, spitting out black trails of smoke, making the clear sea air smell of death and destruction. 

She screams and so do her daughters.

No sound comes out as the sea and sky turn orange and black. 

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