I wrote this in about fifteen minutes, so I don't expect it to be great. This was a way of...venting, I guess, for lack of better wording, after seeing this video.
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I open my eyes as the final stones fall.
I stare slack-jawed around me.
Bodies are lying everywhere…
…it has rained a scarlet red.
A voice asks:
Can you hear…?
I watch around me. I see people, families, children. People scurrying about, trying to find their loved ones, trying to restore sanity. The air is a thick grey, and the ground is a paint smock, stained red on the empty, white dust.
I step forward, nearly tripping over a man who lies close to death before me. His face is a grisly mess of dust, flesh, and blood. I notice half of his face is gone. He twitches rhythmically, grunting with each tremor. My eyes move down his body—I see the gory, organ-strewn gap that is his left side. With each tremor, blood seeps out, and his organs become closer to sliding out of his chest and onto into the powdery ground.
…the prayer…of the…?
I step over him, dazed by my surroundings. I feel the crunch of the powdered cement under my boots, and hear screaming around me. Men’s voices fill the air as they frantically run about, cleaning up the dead, dying, and decayed. More voices scream for their loved ones, shouting names, crying out at the death, the bomber planes, their fallen children, brothers, mothers.
I taste death on my tongue, and smell darkness in the air. The sun has been blocked out by the cloud of cement, and the smell and taste of the dying fills the air. I spit the bloody dust from my mouth and trudge forward.
…children?
Frozen.
I come upon my sister and weep.
There is not much left of her, but I can identify her well. The lower jaw, left leg, left arm—missing, but she’s wearing the dress I got for her for her fourth birthday.
She has no life left in her. Her small, child body remains motionless to my cracked voice and frenzied hands. Eventually I’m pulled back by others, and she is carried away on a scrap of a splintered plank. I reach out to her, call her name, but I cannot free myself and come to my sister’s side. I collapse in grief, and am left alone by the rest of the survivors as she's carried off to the rest of the dead.
I hear the lamentations of those around me as I struggle to my feet and continue on, tasting the decay with my tongue and nose as my boots trudge over the stained, grisly scene.
I answer the questioning voice:
‘They’ cannot.
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Tell me your honest opinions. Even if you think it's bad, tell me. I can't improve if I don't know the truth.
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I open my eyes as the final stones fall.
I stare slack-jawed around me.
Bodies are lying everywhere…
…it has rained a scarlet red.
A voice asks:
Can you hear…?
I watch around me. I see people, families, children. People scurrying about, trying to find their loved ones, trying to restore sanity. The air is a thick grey, and the ground is a paint smock, stained red on the empty, white dust.
I step forward, nearly tripping over a man who lies close to death before me. His face is a grisly mess of dust, flesh, and blood. I notice half of his face is gone. He twitches rhythmically, grunting with each tremor. My eyes move down his body—I see the gory, organ-strewn gap that is his left side. With each tremor, blood seeps out, and his organs become closer to sliding out of his chest and onto into the powdery ground.
…the prayer…of the…?
I step over him, dazed by my surroundings. I feel the crunch of the powdered cement under my boots, and hear screaming around me. Men’s voices fill the air as they frantically run about, cleaning up the dead, dying, and decayed. More voices scream for their loved ones, shouting names, crying out at the death, the bomber planes, their fallen children, brothers, mothers.
I taste death on my tongue, and smell darkness in the air. The sun has been blocked out by the cloud of cement, and the smell and taste of the dying fills the air. I spit the bloody dust from my mouth and trudge forward.
…children?
Frozen.
I come upon my sister and weep.
There is not much left of her, but I can identify her well. The lower jaw, left leg, left arm—missing, but she’s wearing the dress I got for her for her fourth birthday.
She has no life left in her. Her small, child body remains motionless to my cracked voice and frenzied hands. Eventually I’m pulled back by others, and she is carried away on a scrap of a splintered plank. I reach out to her, call her name, but I cannot free myself and come to my sister’s side. I collapse in grief, and am left alone by the rest of the survivors as she's carried off to the rest of the dead.
I hear the lamentations of those around me as I struggle to my feet and continue on, tasting the decay with my tongue and nose as my boots trudge over the stained, grisly scene.
I answer the questioning voice:
‘They’ cannot.
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Tell me your honest opinions. Even if you think it's bad, tell me. I can't improve if I don't know the truth.