We queue beneath the sheltered path, trying to avoid the rain. A child in front of me holds her ration basket with both hands. The line moves forward. A person is dismissed. The girl is summoned. She hands me her basket.
“Tell me child, what colors the rain?”
In a voice clear as love she says, “yesterday’s bomb.”
The child, shot once, falls to the ground as I approach.
“Why is the rain grey today?”
The leader nods, dismissing me. As I return to the barracks, the rain blisters my face. Only then do I mourn my daughter.
This was written for The 100 Word Challenge. The word was telling.