There were nine of them crammed in the shelter. Her mother, her aunt, her elder brother and sister and four cousins.
Somewhere in the distance was a string of dull thuds. A trickle of loose soil fell from the roof.
A few moments later the explosions were much louder, the ground vibrating.
Her aunt started to mutter. ‘Our Father who art in heaven ...’
Now they could hear the whistle of the bombs, the explosions growing nearer and violent.
How many were in stick? Ten?
Her brother was counting: ‘six, seven, eight, nine ...’
‘... hallowed be thy name ...’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.