Pompeii

Another day, another coin, you sigh to yourself in relief, carefully unloading your terracotta pots. Your hands still ached from the detail you, the head artisan, had put into them: Small swimming dolphins among swiftly sailing ships, molded waves in between the two; A race between three muscular men; even a small child toying with her straw dolls along with her sister. The last pot, though, was the enormous mountain that lay in Pompeii’s’ midst: A towering blue figure, with clouds surrounding the tip and eagles swooping low to the horizon. The pot still shimmered faintly with paint as you set them on your trading table among a few bracelets and rings, hoping for customers. Half an hour passes and the blistering heat has sent you sitting to the cool dirt, blanket over your head. A customer walks up, looking interested and puzzled. You hop up and ask if there is anything you can do for him. He offers fifteen gold coins for a red-beaded necklace he intends to buy for his daughter’s wedding, lifts it carefully, and walks away swiftly, without another word. You wonder why he walked so swiftly, without so as a ‘thank you’… and remembered with a twinge of worry what the city’s priest had said: “Due to a clashing in the sky between Mars and Pluto, it shall result in a catastrophic darkness. I suggest all who have lives flee; and those foolish enough to stay, stay inside your homes.” …Of course, the priest had never trained all his life; he had only bribed our high officials to let him into the position. Yet a prick of regret at not staying home today, although other people were out and about also, kept you alert and awake despite the muggy heat. A few customers later, there was little merchandise left; only the mountain pot and some jewelry. Smiling at your reflection in your collected coins, you gather your blanket to begin packing. First the sign; then two bracelets, the three rings-1

A booming noise filled the air.2

You sense something horrible out of the corner of your eye and rapidly turn your head. From the beautiful mountain you had so carefully painted came black and red pillars of smoke. Small rocks pling to Earth with the force of hail. At first it seems like a cursed tree, a plume of blackness and branches spreading rapidly, but it continues. Your heart flutters as you see the blackness spreading through the once blue, all-too-still sky. Your mind screams “Run!” but your legs stay planted as sulfurous gases fill the air, and from midday it becomes darkest night. All you can do now is run; but you only get so far. Eventually the ashes send you to the once-cool dirt, and the last thing you hear is your most prized pot, plummeting and smashing with the sound of a thousand screams.3