Going Downtown. There was a fire in the area, somewhere, last night. It involved at least some plastic. Toss that into a mix with some low-flying planes, and a fun night ensues.

I didn't look until I felt the flame.
The steel turns red, the framework starts to go.
Jacks clasp Jills' hands and step onto the sky.
The noise was not like anything you know.
Stand still, he said, and watch a building die.
There's no one you can help above this floor.
We've got to hold our breath. We've got to climb.
Don't give me that; I did this once before.
The firemen look up, and know the time.
These labored, took their wages, and are dead.
The cracker-crumbs of fascia sieve the light.
The air's deciduous of letterhead.
How dark, how brilliant, things will be tonight.
Once more, we'll all remember where we were.

110 Stories, John M. Ford.

Posted by: Fred Kiesche at 10:59 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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