Writing Prompt No. 115
A small red flag hangs limp.
The wind has dropped and any cloud has long since disappeared. The sky is clean and clear. A halo of sunlight rings the top of the tent as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. A bird flies leading an arrowhead of friends to their nesting place beyond in the trees and rocks of the mountain.
Billy rubs his nose. The sun has been hot today. The skin on the bridge of his nose is warm under his fingers. Lydia pulls at his sleeve and gestures into the sky. A flock of seagulls are flying in the opposite direction to where they usually roost. The birds are tangled together and making a cacophony of distressed sound. The hairs on the back of Bill’s neck prickle and a spike of adrenaline floods his body. They’re safe here but still witness to the devastation.
The confusion of the seagulls sends a ripple of conversation through the crowd. Where next? Who will save them? Must they save themselves?
Lydia grips Billy’s hand and pulls him closer to her side. They have each other but they must find their son. Someone told them they’d seen him here.
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