Aurora 2025 with cover

Kay Shae

Untitled

Heavy smoke fills the air, sticking thick to her throat like foul honey. The faint shapes of houses and buildings litter her destroyed city. The houses around her are crumbling to pieces. Timber and stone fall to the ground with an expected thud, but she can hear nothing. Everything is deathly quiet except a sharp ringing in her ears; the buildings make no noise as rubble falls, crashing to the ground, leaving clouds of dust and gravel in its wake. I will not die here. She tries to pull herself out of the ruins of her familiar home. The stones that once were a comfort are now gravel, grabbing me, tearing at her skin. Almost trying to tell her that she cannot leave this place to make this mound of broken wood and stone be her grave. The home I love is not safe. She tries to shove the thoughts out of her mind as she pushes against what was once the beautiful wooden door to her family home; its ornate wooden pattern, with exquisite metal inlays that glistened in the sun, warming anyone who stopped by. Now a shell of its former self. Cracked, splintered wood litters the doorway, the once shining metal now dull, warped, twisted, and sharp. They were snagging at her clothes, biting into her skin as she fought to get out. She felt the trickle of blood sliding down her arm, catching on the bits of stone still stuck to her body. It feels thick as it mixes with the dust clinging to her. The sharp bite as the metal slides deeper into her arm, as the rubble of her home relents to let her leave. The neighborhood, once filled with lights and laughter, is now decimated. The thick smoke was terrible in the house and is now worse in the open. Dust clouds and smoke billow out as

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