There was something beautiful in the mushroom cloud. Even while I knew that thousands of people were being boiled alive, the children too, I couldn’t help but see something wonderful. I knew, too, the world was over; the world I had known all my life, here was its death, but it was beautiful.
Afterwards, when the rains first came, and we all knew they would bring the poison, I remember sitting beneath a little tin roof—what a strange smell was there in that rain—watching the trees’ leaves curl up and die like autumn. A beautiful time of year.
Tale Told 