The roar pulled them from their homes. Wrapped in bathrobes, or comforters. Half-drunk coffees held loose, creases criss-crossing their just removed from pillow faces.
“Awful bright for October,” someone said, their voice, a shiver, moved through the crowd like roofer up a ladder’s rungs.
They shuffled, closing ranks, tightly, towards the light source which grew as fast as a match catches until the darkness run and hid. Bright as noon, the people stood there, most with one hand shielding their eyes, the other reaching, grasping, clawing, hoping to hold someone they loved, because they suddenly realized this was the end.
(That’s 30 stories for 30 days in September. Boom.)