The narrative was interrupted. The sequences out of order. Someone took the beginning out, flipped the middle, abandoned the end. Film images reformatted. The voice line continued, louder and louder, hitting the ceiling, bouncing around the room. Someone opened the door. Put the broom against the wall. If the beginning were restored, it would make more sense. Trees lining the sidewalks, empty storefronts, troops moving rapidly. Windows shattered, burning tires. The middle is upside-down, there is no response to the cacophonous ringing that dominates the space. No end in sight. More shattered windows, doors off their frames. Trail of incendiary powder along the sidewalks. Tanks sway when hit by drones. Walking away from the end, cinders tucked under arms, howling in unison. As if a name made a difference. Or a place. Someone put the end first and everyone settled down in the atomized metal, the blackened crust of a distant life.
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Andrea Moorhead
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