Friday Picture Show Week 30

Nine Eleven

They stand around the makeshift memorial atFourteenth Street. No one is allowed further downtown than that. The sky is black, murky. Everything smells like ash.

Everyone around him is terrified.

He stares into the flickering flame of the candles that sit among bouquets of flowers, and pictures of lost faces.

The flowers in his hand are for his wife. If only he hadn’t fought with her that morning. If only she’d been running a few minutes late. If only-

“There are no more survivors,” the radio blares. “Everyone’s gone.”

He rises mechanically and drops the bouquet in the trash.

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