Illinois, Rockford.
Steel beams like broken spines pierce the blood-red sky, concrete fragments solidify into black teardrops among the embers.
The Rebels tread over the overturned asphalt pavement, dandelion fluff emerging from the cracks, swallowing shell casings.
Half of a child's graffiti remains on the century-old cement wall of the textile factory inside the city, the sun drawn in chalk pierced by bullet holes, the edges of sunflower petals curling with charred folds.
The bronze pendulum of the clock tower is suspended at 3:17, a spider weaves a silver web over the cracked face of the Virgin Mary.
The crowd carries the bodies, softly calling out to acquaintances, but when no one responds—
Eyes fill with sorrow, lips tremble gently.
Endured for nearly four months!
The entire city has already been battered to ruins.
Bramo Ramsfield, unkempt and smoking a cigarette, sat on a fallen piece of debris, a rifle slung over his back, his entire demeanor completely changed.
