FELICIA HEILGENDORFF

Staring out through the tinted glass of the window, he focused on the cranes below. He frowned. How many weeks had they been there now? It must have been months. The ruins of the building opposite were only slowly being removed and there were still shards of glass on the pavement.

The bomb had exploded on a sunny Sunday morning. He had not even been at the office, but others who lived there had told him about it. Since it had been a Sunday, luckily no one had been killed or even injured. One of his friends had seen a gruff, but determined-looking man walk straight into the building. Curious that a man would work on a Sunday, he had stopped for a second. Seconds later, the building blew up in front of his eyes.

He shuddered and turned away from the window. They weren’t safe here anymore, he had said that to his wife the night before, but she had laughed it off. Nobody was more safe than those living in New York.

Just as he walked back to his desk, he heard footsteps in the corridor. Odd, he thought, most people had left for lunch just minutes ago. Tilting his head to the side, he listened for a few seconds.

All of a sudden there was a blast and he was slammed backwards into the wall losing his consciousness. The building slowly crumbled to dust, mirroring the ruins of the once grand office building across the street.

© 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction, 24th January 2016