“Sleep at all?” Tess queried, as Becki swung herself into a chair, clutching a thick black coffee in one hand, and the group’s newspaper in the other.
“Nah. You?”
Nobody had; the tremors from the Qiryat Shmona hits had rippled beneath them incessantly.
“No fire after cake tonight guys, Hadas reckons they could see it from the border.”
“But-”
“I know. At least they’ve not closed the moar-don though. And I’ll open the pub a bit earlier.”
A few of them nodded. Nobody had the heart to complain.
“May I?” Jorge, biting into a hard-boiled egg, reached for the paper.
“Go ahead.”
Becki’s eyes fixed on the dense black letters as he unfolded the pages. “33 Dead” the ink announced, “in latest hits”, and below that, in angry lettering “Troops Retrieve Comrades After Surprise Attack.”
The pair exchanged looks. Some of their friends had crossed the border in uniform.
It went on. “Lebanese Make Death Threats Towards Minister”, “Tel Aviv Swamped As People Flee”. Page two discussed the economic effect upon kibbutzim of the north, forced by fire or fear to shift south, abandoning their crops and livelihood.
There was talk here, too, of the risk being too great. Several families were staying in the city with their friends, and the roads were empty of the usual camaraderie.
Becki’s stomach clenched, forcing acid coffee to her throat as Jorge turned to page three. His face greyed as they scanned the Fallen Soldiers page for familiar grins. The print was bad, hardly a tribute to those it remembered, and they had to look hard at each face, just to be sure. Becki’s eyes flicked across the final faces, trembling in horrified relief.
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This is the first, shortest, of 6 random war-experience things that my flatmate prompted last night. The others, when I have the emotional stamina to complete them, may appear.
I don't recommend vivid emotion flashbacks.
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