Alana The house shakes for what must be the hundredth time today. My mother is huddled in the corner, grasping a radio with white knuckles. My entire family has crowded into one room. My parents still cry out our names with every explosion. We console them with pale faces, wondering who went down with the last raid. My sister is reading to the baby. Her hands shake as she turns the pages of the book. Behind her eyes is a dark pool of sadness, for she knew so many victims so intimately. The radio comes to life, startling us all. "The temple has been bombed." My mother's face turns with grief. I am silent. So many places are in ruins I have stopped crying with every broadcast. My sister listens intently to the crackling radio. "The town of Bal Shabar has been leveled. There will be no survivors." I crumple into a ball on the floor. My body is racked with sobs. The ghost of my mother is rocking back and forth in the corner. My father wrings his hands as he recites a prayer. My grandmother is gone.
Maria I let the hot tears run slowly down my face. They drip onto the book, blurring the print. The baby is crying, for I am no longer reading. I run to the front room. My parents don't know even see me. I yank a photo album off the shelf, praying that I am not seen. What a world, where a girl must be scared in her own home of bombs, day and night. I rush back to my parents room. Alana is still on the floor. My heart goes to her . No eight year old should have to go through this. Her face tells the story of a million deaths. No child should have that look behind their eyes. Oh God, please save us.