Abattoir

Abattoir She sat with her back to the wall cuddling a red rag doll, her eyes gazing into some safe place. Her right arm lay disembodied some ten feet away. Her mother, beautiful, olive skinned had been drinking coffee, Java I think, now she lay stripped by the blast to her lacy mauve French knickers like some pornographic marionette with hinged arms and legs. Remarkably the coffee sat untouched, still steaming and oddly inviting. The silence screamed obscenities as incongruous lances of sunlight from the collapsed roof spangled off the settling dust and lit the crimson offal strewn floor. A man created but God inspired abattoir.