Snap
an excerpt

The day is logged in my diary as Jerusalem, 1998.

The rebels-‘freedom fighters’-terrorists loaded up the bomb with a mix of nails and other rusty artifacts; I remember the bombers face. She nervously licked her scarlet lips and fumbled with her jacket. I admired her waist length hair. Lustrous black curls licked her posterior, and I imagined many a man pursuing this beauty, at least until they zipped up their trousers. Her hand went under as I exited the café with a copy of the New Yorker. Malcolm waved at me for the glass to shatter and eddy through the hot air. I huddled against the concrete wall. The pretty woman fragmented; strips of her flesh decorated the pavement, clinging to walls, and few bystanders. Malcolm would not have known what hit him; each muscle, tendon and ligament fragmented. Ancient dust filled the air, blurring my vision.

I wriggled my fingers, saw my two feet but an intense fiery river streaked through my head like a fanatic at a Manchester United match; I shivered, confused in the ruckus that unraveled.