Mt. Pinatubo

Three o’clock in the afternoon: the sun should have been scorching the asphalts and the shingles on roofs, but spurts of red electric spark ran across the sky. Blackness smothered any hint of light. Molten earth spewed out from the gates of hell. The ground rumbled and shook. Ash engulfed the rice fields. Those who were caught and trapped in its path were mummified like those at Pompeii. Rocks, mud rained from heaven, thudded against concrete walls. Palm and coconut trees were unearthed from their roots as if a gardener was yanking out weeds. Villagers ran blindly to a nearby church while their skins roasted and peeled from their muscles and bones. The ones, who were able to reach the Cross, suffocated—their lungs seared from sulfuric acid. An avalanche of dirt buried them six feet deep. I was on the opposite side of the island. The wind howled as it blew East.