Since they happened, so many things have changed.
They reigned their bombs down, yielded their plumage of metal feathers towards the land. Their birds of steel, die Vögel aus Stahl, they were called, but they were really machines of death. The melodies of sorrow came from the creaks of their machines, came from the hiss of missiles.
The land was scorched, devoured by whirling machinery, tides shrinking back to the ocean as water evaporated. A true wasteland, I thought, a true wasteland they’d made of this town. You can’t even tell that it was once a town. The skyscrapers fell to the dirt, fountains reduced to watering holes. Animals, infested with diseases, roamed the barren streets, oversized rats feasting on scraps wrapped in plastic, their carcasses appearing on our doorsteps (that is, if you even have a door anymore).
It started years ago, before I was born, I’ve been told. I don’t know if I believe them, though. I’ve been told not to trust anyone.
Sometimes it can be peaceful, when the vultures stop circling our heads. The sun still rises and sets, and sometimes its angry red rays can be beautiful. You can’t be caught outside, though. They’ll see you.
The year is 1947, and I live in the Soviet Union.
They reigned their bombs down, yielded their plumage of metal feathers towards the land. Their birds of steel, die Vögel aus Stahl, they were called, but they were really machines of death. The melodies of sorrow came from the creaks of their machines, came from the hiss of missiles.
The land was scorched, devoured by whirling machinery, tides shrinking back to the ocean as water evaporated. A true wasteland, I thought, a true wasteland they’d made of this town. You can’t even tell that it was once a town. The skyscrapers fell to the dirt, fountains reduced to watering holes. Animals, infested with diseases, roamed the barren streets, oversized rats feasting on scraps wrapped in plastic, their carcasses appearing on our doorsteps (that is, if you even have a door anymore).
It started years ago, before I was born, I’ve been told. I don’t know if I believe them, though. I’ve been told not to trust anyone.
Sometimes it can be peaceful, when the vultures stop circling our heads. The sun still rises and sets, and sometimes its angry red rays can be beautiful. You can’t be caught outside, though. They’ll see you.
The year is 1947, and I live in the Soviet Union.
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TreePupWriter
Oct 04, 2022
This is really strong writing! I love all of the metaphors at the beginning--"plumage of metal feathers," "melodies of sorrow"--that paint such a vivid, sorrowful picture. And the line "I've been told not to trust anyone" says so much in so few words. Really awesome piece!!