Fukushima, by Mel Horne

Desolate streets. The clocks are frozen at 3:14 p.m. That was when the cold waters rushed into town without warning – without a sound. Waves swept away our neighbors’ houses, rushed into the halls where the children were still at school- just as they were waiting to be picked up by their parents. The silence reigns after the wail of sirens. A sadness lingers with the uprooted trees and untended shrines. Here, there’s a feeling of a father’s despair as he rummages through the ruins in search of a mother and son who have long disappeared — taken by the sea.

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