What They Make Us

The last city.

The only way out.

“Please,” the man begged. “Help. There are kids.”

She stood there, headache a mile wide, marveling how far she’d come. I’m not a bomb, anymore, she thinks. I won’t make a crater unless I mean to.

“Please,” he wept, pressing a hand against the barrier she held.

“I am helping,” she said, watching the last of him fall away into dust.

I’m not a bomb, she thinks, smiling sadly.

“But I’m still a weapon.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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