Lárus Bjarnason

Jón was a painter, but not a famous one. He lived in a small town in the south of Iceland, where he worked as a teacher and painted in his spare time. He loved to capture the beauty of nature, the colors of the sky, the shapes of the mountains, the reflections of the water. He had a modest talent, but a great passion. He had a friend, Bjarni, who was a goldsmith and a farmer. They had met at a local market, where they had exchanged their crafts and stories. They had become good friends, and often visited each other's homes and workshops. They shared a common interest in art and history, and enjoyed talking about their dreams and ideas. One day, they decided to go for a walk along a country road, to enjoy the fresh air and the scenery. They took their tools with them, in case they found something interesting or inspiring. Jón carried his easel, his canvas, and his paints, while Bjarni carried his hammer, his anvil, and his metals. They walked and talked, admiring the landscape and the weather. It was a sunny day, with a few clouds in the sky. They felt happy and relaxed, as if nothing could disturb their peace. But then, something did. Something unexpected and terrifying. Something that changed their lives forever. They heard a loud noise, like a thunderclap, coming from above. They looked up and saw a plane, a big and dark one, flying low and fast. They recognized it as a German bomber, one of those that had been attacking the British and American bases in Iceland. They felt a surge of fear and anger, as they realized that they were in danger. They saw the plane drop something, something that looked like a metal cylinder, something that they knew was a bomb. They saw it fall towards the ground, towards them. They had no time to react, no time to run, no time to hide. They only had time to scream. The bomb landed beside a shed, a few meters away from them. It exploded, creating a huge blast that shook the earth and the air. It sent a wave of fire and shrapnel, that tore everything apart. It destroyed the shed, the road, the fields, and everything else in its vicinity. Jón and Bjarni were thrown to the ground, by the force of the explosion. They felt a sharp pain, as they were hit by the debris and the heat. They lost consciousness, as they were covered by the dust and the smoke. They survived, by a miracle. They were found by some farmers, who heard the explosion and came to help. They were taken to a hospital, where they were treated for their wounds and burns. They recovered, after a long and painful process. They lived, but they were never the same. Jón lost his sight, as his eyes were damaged by the blast and the shrapnel. He could no longer see the beauty of nature, the colors of the sky, the shapes of the mountains, the reflections of the water. He could no longer paint, his greatest joy and passion. He became blind, and bitter. Bjarni lost his hand, as it was severed by the blast and the shrapnel. He could no longer work with his metals, his hammer, and his anvil. He could no longer create his beautiful and intricate jewelry, his pride and skill. He became crippled, and depressed. They lost their friendship, as they drifted apart. They blamed each other, and themselves, for their misfortune. They felt guilty, and angry, and hopeless. They could no longer talk, or laugh, or dream. They became strangers, and enemies. They lost their peace, as they lived in fear and hatred. They hated the Germans, who had dropped the bomb. They hated the British and the Americans, who had brought the war to their land. They hated the world, that had become a nightmare. They hated themselves, for being alive. They lost their lives, as they died inside. They died, long before their bodies did.