Written by Michael Skolnik
Bullets. Bullets. More Bullets. And even more bullets. One shot. Two shot. Three shot. More shot. Screams of agony. Cries of babies. Yells of children. the dark night.
Out of breathe. We grab those around us. We run to red lights of exit signs amid the darkness. We lay prone on the floor. We pretend to be dead hoping someday we will breathe again. We jump on top of those we love hoping that if one more bullet comes our way, it hits us and not them. hoping. Truly hope that the bullet hits me. a strange thought. A thought that we never thought we would have thought