We were making love when we heard the air raid sirens. It was all wrong, because you couldn’t stop your climax, and I had turned cold and stiff beneath you at the shrieking sound. Whatever release we had been anticipating was lost as I flew out of bed for our house coats and you tried to get up. -I’m sure it’s a drill, you told me, but I grabbed the emergency box just in case and we stumbled downstairs. When my foot hit the landing, the first bomb exploded. I slammed against the railing and you hit the wall, knocking off my least favorite picture from our wedding, the one with your mother and I trying to fix my veil after it got tangled in my hair. The glass from the frame shattered and cut my ankle, but we were so scared that we didn’t notice the blood at first. You pushed me through the kitchen, our dishware chipped and lying on the floor. I couldn’t help but be angry; that pattern had been discontinued and we could never replace it. You were fumbling with the door to the coat closet when I realized I heard the fighter planes. They were like millions of bees, like great, shaking rattlesnakes. You heard them, too, and we stood still, heads back, watching the light fixtures shake. -Get inside, you said, and we pulled the door firmly behind us. As I knelt on the floor, leaning against your knees, I was relieved for the only time that we didn’t have children. There was no room for us both to sit, and your legs wobbled against my back. The second bomb exploded closer than the first, I think it hit the hospital. It knocked you on top of me, and I smashed my head on our vacuum cleaner. All of our coats and jackets lifted violently as the roof above us was blown away. Smoke and the acrid smell of burning shingles stung my airways, and we clutched at ourselves, trying to breathe. The air from the blast was searing hot, but the freezing night wind that followed made fun of our bathrobes and nipped at our skin. You cradled my head, kissing the fresh bruise on my nose and swollen eyes. -We’ll be alright, we’ll be alright. I repeated it back to you, -we’ll be alright. I couldn’t hear anything else, my ears were ringing. Was the city a screaming, wailing mess, or was everyone shell shocked and numb, like us? I could see the flickering orange glow of distant, monstrous flames, and I could see your hands feeling for the emergency box. What did you want inside of it, darling? Was the first aid kit going to stop death’s sweeping march? Were the bottles of water going to put out the fires? Maybe you were trying to find our photo album, or the transistor radio. Maybe you were looking for the little Bible I had tucked away. I never knew, because the fastest, lowest heartbeat I had ever heard was passing over us. The belly of a great, black monster passed low over our home. I could count the little red warning lights that lined its sides like a black widow spider. Your arms tightened around me, and I rubbed the back of your rough hands as something spilled out of the womb of the beast and bore down upon us. It was a hopeless gesture that you covered my frailty with yours, but I faced the darkness unafraid.1
Author notes
Yes, I know that it's one huge paragraph.
But how do you feel?
Comments
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...holy crap.
i dont even know.
thats wicked good.
-
I like how you begin this, for one. =P Caught literally with their pants down, it seems (or at the very least, unbuttoned). The proceeding events seem very realistic, as I imagine they were intended to be, and you catch a glimpse into an individual's terror in such a moment very well. The little details do the real selling, though.
Though, yeah. =o Could use a little reworking, format-wise. Breaking it up into paragraphs and whatnot. Also, an eensy-weensy typo; "You arms tightened around me..."
That pesky little "R" seems to have forgotten its place in the word "your". =P
Anyway, nice read! -
Aside from no indentation...
How do I feel?
Well, here are a few impressions:
First, I never cared for writing in this second person format. I always thought "you" meant me...and this throws a little confusion in the game...telling ME how I'm feeling...what I'm doing, etc. It's kind of annoying. Also...if it ISN'T me...then who IS it? Who is this "you?" Tall? Dark? Young? Frail? Old? Brilliant? What? YOU...didn't even do THAT! All I know is he was screwing his wife...and he was "frail." Anyway, it's an upsetting style. I wouldn't even play with it. It's kind of...off-putting! Why even bother. Always write what YOU FEEL!
Second, Have you ever been in one of these situations? Doesn't seem like it. What it does seem like is YOU...putting your imagination to work, trying to find out what such a situation WOULD be like. There is something about credibility that seems to be missing in this piece. It just did not strike me as real. The responses...the reactions! You know, Xy, there's just some things you can't make up! I try to abstract the worthwhile lessons and ironies from life, put them in order and set them down...correctly and pallatably enough to be conveyed and digested. THAT...is dauting enough of a job. To attempt creating a scene from anything other than PERSONAL, GUT-WRENCHING, experience is rather difficult...formidable! I don't try that. I have enough of a time conveying what I've lived through and experienced.... It's hard enough getting others to share THAT than what did NOT exist...even for me!
Third, You seem to be forgetting about your characters. Who are they? Why should we care about them? Why should be like them? What have they EVER done (except screw?) What do they even LOOK like? And...where are they? Where were they going? Did they HAVE plans? WHAT about this scenario makes it important and different than any other "every day" bombing?
Why is THIS devastation separate? And...how about describing where they are!
Fourth, What is your theme here? Any conflict to be resolved? in which THIS BOMBING PLAYS A PART...and is not just a bombing of ordinary proportions? You are making this bombing event the WHOLE story. No one cares. It MUST be PART of something BIGGER!
You have managed to LEAVE OUT the REST OF THE STORY! Was there, finally ANY resolution? You left it all up, up, in the air.
So there you have it...No characters...no conflict...no theme...no resolution. It's a sketch. There must be more.
The writing is okay...I think you can put it to better use.
Look inside. INSIDE!
GA
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