Missileroot
We are doing cartwheels in the craters left by the impacts of the missiles fired at the behest of the best and brightest of a nation that is famous for its industry and the cheese that its beleaguered dairy farmers eke out at ever slimmer margins. In the twilit morning we will eat our own cheese: a lower quality cheese of course—less fat, more air bubbles—but a cheese we enjoy all the more for our honest circumstances. Because honesty can offset a material deficit. We are enriched by our desperation. We are full for our hunger. We are suffused with gratitude even for the missiles which have taken so many and so much of ours.
A short story by Cole Frank.