Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

Smoke

First, I heard the sirens, breaking the silence of a fall afternoon. They screamed with their usual urgency, in a race against time to get to some unknown tragedy. The wailing wormed into my head, going again and again, even when they had stopped.

Next, I saw the smoke. The black mass billowed and bubbled upwards like a veil. It shifted with the wind and created another cloud in the sky, albeit so much more morbid than all the rest. The great plumes of shadows marked the sorrow as X marks the spot.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it, knowing that as it burned, more tears were shed. Each new rush of blackness in the mass of grey and white was another thing up in flames; a building, a body, who was to know?

I watched in dismay as the smoke rose higher and higher into the air, still from that unknown source. I am, of course, saddened by the tragedy. But deep inside, all I could think was: Thank God that wasn’t me.

We’ll be seeing on the news soon, I’m sure. Car fires, apartments up in flames, so-and-so dead or hurt, who knows. Curiosity always wins. But still, I cannot help but say to myself, “Thank God.”

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