Morphean

We were walking, my father and I, down the great plane between the buildings of the sun and the moon. Between the constellations and all the holy places. Where the magicians weave their magic and consult the sky for wisdom.

All around us was activity. The bees with their bustling and busyness. Constructing and arming, building and creating, going through the motions of life. The places of learing were side by side with the chaotic preparations for warfare.

We were at leisure, father and I, and free to talk and discuss at length the higher things. Intellect and discussion, such is the way we were. As we walked we talked about war. The current war and it in comparison with other wars. Discussing war with my father, discussing the merits of war and warfare. Far off it was and we were comfortable and confident in the security of the holy, learned city.

They will use it, said I with the certainty of youth, be it deliberate or accident they will use it.

They.

To this he made no real answer and the conversation progressed. Other things attracted our attention. The folly of war, in concept and in practice. The latter caught my eye as the warrior boys played siege against the walls of the ball courts. One game played in the home of another.

The war games lent tension to the air. A feeling of expectancy in a place considered safe. We walk on. From the right, beyond the boys, comes an eerie mechanical wailing. As we watch as backwards missile a falls from the sky. It lands awkwardly in a take-off position with a thundering boom that echoes from building to building across the plane.

My father says something then cries 'get down'.

But there's no point really. That missile was loaded. There is a blinding flash of light and a mushroom cloud.

And just enough time to know we're dead.