Broken Things

Broken Things

By: Joshua Jones

“The moon’s beautiful, Alice.”

I’ve named her after my daughter, dead by now, I hope.

“A comet!”

A missile flares through the dust and smoke.

“And listen: a party down the hall.”

Their howling is growing closer.

“You look lovely today, honey.”

The girl is so withered it looks as though the life-support machines are feeding on her.

I take her little hand, and for once I don’t lie.

“I’ll be right here, Alice.”