Reflections in the glass in front, not five metres away showed the extent of the explosions behind me as the enemy forged down the High street. Where could I run?
How could I get home alive. If my home still existed.
The sounds were deafening, a kaleidoscope of colour filled the skies all around me, and then all went quiet as if someone hit the mute button.
The reflection now told me all I needed to know; only colour left in the glass, but then added shafts of brightness from above drew me upwards; it was beautuful. I was home.
This an 100 word challenge linked to a picture for Friday Fictioneers. for Rochelle.