Brook Blackwell

Not a Second More

The land had become so accustomed to the songs of war that the deafening waltz of screams became something of a lullaby to sleep-laden children. The screams tripped over the ever-widening cracks in the roads, lapping at walls and houses and trees, flooding in through chimneys and fissures and any windows dare left cracked. The distant hum and steady heartbeat of incomprehensible fires too powerful to quell vibrated through towns and lands not too far off, an unwavering and promised nightlight for children scared of what the darkness held.