In the Telling Time

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?”

“Volcanic activity.”

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 forĀ The 100 Word Challenge. The word was telling.

2 thoughts on “In the Telling Time

  1. There’s always something devastating about children – their honesty and their refusal to lie when it counts the most. And the poor, poor mother – or father? Tragic, but touching.

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