When Mortars Come Knocking

A silky gold sunlight flooded the room through several wide windows overlooking the back garden. Among the dust that floated peacefully on the rays of light were notes of lavender and honey, just barely hiding the scent of stale furniture. At first glance the setting looked quite pleasing. The lush garden crept all the way to the edge of the house so that the blooming flowers peeked in through the windows at the small living room. The furniture was of a fashionably old style and the doily and copper coffee set in the middle of the table were tasteful, though somewhat kitschy. Several paintings were scattered on the walls along with a golden saint patron portrait, the effect being that the room looked quite rich and cozy. However, once the eyes adjusted one began to notice the chipped wooden table and scratched sofa legs, the cheap frayed fabric which made up the furniture, and the white door frame which, while not dirty, looked translucent and sickly as any shabby painting job looks. 

 Ivana was standing by the windows, anxiously glancing at the sky. The bombing had started in the city, and though her house was far in the suburbs she felt sure she could hear the screaming jets flying somewhere overhead. Her parents had said that they would be safe in the country. That no one would drop a bomb on their house. Now Ivana knew they had just been in denial. She loved her house, she had grown up here, but she knew she would have to leave, and the sooner the better.

Her eyes flicked from the sky down to the edge of a gathering of trees just on the edge of their land. She had seen some movement. Her heart pounded in her throat as she waited for the figures to emerge from the shadows. A few seconds later most of her fear washed away in a burning cold sweat as she recognized her father and grandfather escorting their neighbors through the field. They didn't have a very large cellar so they would be spending the night with her family in theirs. Just to be safe.