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The Fallen Angel of Palermo - by Ashton Howard

Emiliano

As I lay my head on the end of the wooden bed frame, I take in the air of the new morning breeze, the scent of the flowers of the window sill gravitate towards me. I lay in bliss for a moment. The only sound heard is the children playing outside, and the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves. The birds suddenly fly away, the laughter stops, screaming ensues, the sound of the breeze is clouded by the cry of scores of engines. The house slightly shakes, the cups topple over. I ran to the door. Only to see the oncoming horde of man and machine, the synchronization of the marching was astounding, the deep rumble of the tanks engines brings everyone outside to watch the occupation of our small town. It seems endless. However, they are all heading to the same place, Palermo.