Hiroshima

The pilot carried the bomb to the target; those were his orders. Below him, empty waters stretched into grass, cities, lives. He listened. They wanted him to do this. He pressed buttons. He pressed all the buttons. Too many of them, always.

The pilot pulled up. He dropped the package.

The papers called it Hiroshima; he called it work. He went home that night. Kissed his wife, hugged his children. Went to bed, lying, dreamless. He'd forgotten how to dream.

So he slept, and wondered if the dead remember their killers.

He didn’t think they did.

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Before I say anything else, let me just mention that this piece is not meant to comment on anything that's been going on in the past week. I just have a bad sense of timing, is all. The story is about the horrors of war and violence. Please don't read it as a commentary on current events, because it really isn't. I obviously condemn all forms of hatred and discrimination in this world. Right now we need love more than anything else. 

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this post. I love writing flash fiction every now and then, to stretch my creative muscles and see how much I can fit into how little. Thanks for reading, and let me know your thoughts in the comments below!