Flames enveloped the backseat, its leather framing wasting away in the heat.
A coffee cup, stiff and cold, soon lost its chill as the fire engulfed what structure it once had.
Metal, the malleable kind, lost its shape as its insides acted as a furnace, insulating unprecedented warmth.
The seemingly safe seatbelts were now little more than ash.
And finally, a family, strewn in panic across each other, reduced to the same form taken before birth, nothingness.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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