Reds and oranges light up the black sky, screaming “Fire!” silently into the night. They shine brighter than the Georgia stars above, those flames dancing in their florescent glory, knowing all eyes of the bystanders are solely on them.

The flames seemed gleeful, engulfing the remains of a building, loved as a home to children who needed it. A nun, the caretaker of children who resided there, shields her eyes and begins to sob deeply, losing herself to the horror of the evil dancers. Tears race down the rich, dark color of her skin. The fire started small, only burning a small cross brought outside, waiting to be found in the morning. But a massive explosion and soon the flames swooped into the house, knocking on bedroom doors.

Horns and sirens blare, intimidating the neon dancers, who, in return, jump up into a massive firework. Cackles of laughter are heard through sobs and screams. A group of children, all ethnicities, all races, huddle together, hands grasped, tears falling onto burnt grass, dotted with glowing embers.

Water dismisses the flames and begins to disperse the crowd while two small, dark skinned children are placed in screaming ambulances; muffled laughs are disguised in darkness. The remaining children cry out for their two friends, so badly injured. The crying nun walks up, kisses the injured softly, letting them go. She walks into the yard of the building where she and the orphaned children she so lovingly cared for slept just a mere hour ago. Their church, their school, their home, all in one building, became, in such a short time, ashes.

She knows somewhere white hooded ghosts are running and laughing, having accomplished their task. She knows as a black, Catholic nun living in a world still prejudiced that she may be cast into the streets of this town, still in this age unable to accept her. She encloses her hand around the wooden cross around her neck and looks to the sky, where ghastly grey ashes rise up, seemingly taunting her. She closes her eyes and asks when the prejudice, when all the judging, when all the cruelties will rest. The children slowly begin to walk toward her, heads bowed, tears spilling out of their eyes. They all grab hands, white hands and black hands intertwine, as they watch in disgust the remains of a burning cross, praying for a better tomorrow.