J.F. Penn

but Morgan moved again, ducking and rolling across the carpet to a better position.
She fired again.
The second shot found its mark in the man’s forehead, and he crashed to the floor.
Morgan stood and walked over to the fallen body of her assailant, her heart pounding with the adrenalin of battle. She flicked on the lights, holding her gun on him, just in case. Blood spattered her books and the mandala print. Brain matter dripped down the bookcase onto the carpet

hide in. She had run through

as the sacred flames consumed the corpses, releasing them from the suffering of repeated

Rain soaked the ashes of the dead into the winding Varanasi streets as rivers of mud ran down to the holy river Ganges.