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Description
Pillars of Fire

You are lying in your bed. It’s three am. The world around you explodes in a torrent of fiery chaos. You do not move.
The rough linen sheet sticks to your bare legs in the heady heat of the London summer. A fly buzzes somewhere near your left ear, but you do not have the strength to swat it. Your arms feel heavy, as if filled with wet sand. Your legs are tight and cramped, angled underneath you from your few hours of fitful slumber. Your whole body aches with a dull, low throb; every muscle is fatigued beyond the point of movement.
Your mind drifted back to the morning two days ago. It was your virgin voyage, being the newest member of the RAF. You were fresh from the training facility, ready for action after months of maneuvers and drills. You were the best in your class, with quick reflexes and the ability to think on your toes.
The first German air raid came around 9 am three days ago; the sirens sounded across the barracks, signaling all to their planes. The yellow-nosed Messerschmits prowled across the Thames, the bomber planes close behind them. You rose to the air in your Hawker Hurricane, the roar of the engine filling your ears like a familiar tune. You glided as one with your unit before breaking off to infiltrate the attack. You dove to the right, circling around to attack the bombers from behind. You released a barrage of bullets, but aimed slightly too high and missed the enemy concentration. Spotting your plane, one of the German’s split away from the group and steered in your direction. You veered to the left, dodging the burst of fire from his yellow nose. He pursued you, hot on your tail, hounding you with streams of deadly lightning. You deftly avoided every one, your mind still sharp from the months of air training, not clouded by the pains of war as the others were. Growing weary of the chase, you pulled sharply upwards and circled around behind him, releasing your hellfire on the back of his plane.
And for a moment, time seemed to slow. You watched in awe as your stream of bullets hit the tail end of the German plane. It exploded in a brilliant, swirling mass of fire. The scent of embers attacked you nose, tinged with a hint of steely gasoline. The shrapnel was catapulted in all directions, little flaming masses streaking across the morning sky like comets. The crumbling pieces of metal descended almost gracefully, still disintegrating as they tumbled towards the earth. The smoke mushroomed upwards, blanketing the section of atmosphere with black ash. You watched in sick fascination, unable to tear your eyes away from the destruction you had just caused.
As time regained its normal speed, you looked behind you to see the wounded and tattered German unit retreating back across the river. You knew not to grow to hopeful, that they would be back in a matter of hours to rain another torrent of fire over London. Your returned your plane to the bunker with a heavy heart. Thus has been your life for the past three days: little food, no sleep, the same air battle reiterating endlessly.
Your commanding officer is pounding at the door of your barracks, calling all to their stations. But still you cannot move. The weight of the past few days hangs over, preventing you from springing to action like your fellow pilots scrambling around you. You realize the futility of resistance to the enemy; it seems nothing can stop them. There is no end to this hellish night you have been thrust into.
You will remain where you lay, motionless but for the steady blinking of your eyes and the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. Your plane will remain in the bunker and your boots will remain on the floor by your bed. But your mind will be in the skies, soaring gracefully through the pillars of fire.