We are definitely going with what you might see (or imagine) on this prompt! Many thanks, Rochelle! Connect with Friday Fictioneers here.

Graduation Year

We’d lost so much this year: Spring Break, Prom, Graduation.

When Dan said, “Let’s be part of the protest.” None of us refused. How could we?

Maybe we were there as much for the thrill as out of respect for our peers of color, but when we heard someone play “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” on trumpet, its echo throbbing through the humid night, we felt.

Jillian grabbed my hand, flames singed my fingers.

A beautiful soprano voice began singing: “Imagine.”

Then there was the unthinkable: smell of gasoline. Fire. Shouts. Gunfire? Shroud. Blackness.

I plead for Jillian, but she’s gone.

end