For Sunday Photo Fiction‘s 200 word challenge
The squadron of jet fighters came over the horizon and God looked down at his creation and frowned.
He seemed to have tunnel vision today. All he could see were clouds of debris, flying body parts, blood-stained walls, streets, and fields, and rivers flowing red. All he could hear was the rat-a-tat-tat of, of machine guns, of automatic pistols; all this over the boom-boom-boom of tank fire and long-range rocket launchers. If he listened more carefully he could detect the crack of snipers’ rifles, and the occasional bomb blast as martyrs drew their last breaths. All he could smell was blood. Blood and fear. Blood and hate. Blood and more blood.
He sighed. And to make it worse, he thought, is that all of this, every death, all these deaths of man, woman and child, every killing of man, woman and child, all of this, is in my name.
When, he asked himself, when would they ever learn?