Creative writing

By: Lucy O’Brien

A roaring sky. Colours like a sunflower poisoned the horizon. Loud, piercing ring vibrated my ears. Glowing snowflakes floated to grey rubble. Tips of my bare toes turned peppery, where the now browned blood had drizzled down my legs like so much rain down a window pain. Destruction was everywhere. This barbarous beast was so mighty he shook the world to pieces. With his quake, he rattled the existence of life on the surface of earth.

Tight and unseeing eyes bring me back to a time less remembered. As I lay on a thin sponge in the corner of apartment number 583, my mind keeps wandering back to the skies people can only dream of. Big, blue open space. Somewhere I once danced on flower fields while sucking in deep lungs of invisible nothing. I was only old enough to count to five but the sense of bliss is forever stuck in the dull, empty space in my head. Heavens so blue, I will always go back to in my dreams.

What life is left now is very little. Colour is something read about in books along with the history of war. The den has little visibility with small bulbs widely spread along crumpled walls, unlike the luminous light that would come from a window. Buried beneath a rich world we are being hidden. Hidden from the cruel, unforgiving naturally of the atmosphere. Hidden from a corrupt human race once filled with rage. Hidden from the undying truth that we are responsible for the endless space of human contamination above.

Deep inhale. Unsatisfied as filtered and processed fuel leaks into my unwilling body. This so called oxygen steams out of small vents on the low ceiling. The upper class were the children more fortunate with wealthier or politically important families. With their power they manipulated the lower class like me. Survivors from the beast were shaken and forced into hiding from his carnage and the influence of the powerful. Told by the powerful how the poison had spread. Poison more deadly than death itself.

I wonder what the sensation of oxygen from the world above is like when it drops into my yearning lungs. After all these years they can not still be hiding us from this possible fatal death. Here in the underneath I will not die. I will not die without seeing the blue space above. Meanwhile I sit rotting in my corner of apartment 583. Waiting for the end. End of the underneath.

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