NAGASAKI • by Karen Peacock

…and it should have been Kokura, but it was overcast, though it was cloudy here, too, but not cloudy enough, so by the time I returned home from business, it was all gone, everything, and like so many others, I had to ease into loss: the library books that would never be returned, the trees grandfather planted, daughters and a wife, and then I seemed to even lose myself while studying dark imprints on remaining walls where the blast captured the city going about its morning: a dog with a stick, a girl and woman holding hands, and then a man so like myself that I touched my face to be certain I still lived.

But that was long ago. Let me take your coat. I’ll make us some tea.


Most of Karen Peacock’s published work have been newspaper and magazine features, but she especially loves writing flash fiction and poetry. For the last five years, she has been a member of Words in Progress, a writers group in Frederick, Maryland. She has also taught fiction and poetry workshops at Aromatic and TAG/The Artists Gallery. She’s eager to share her writing with a larger audience.


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