Been a while since the last prose entry, so here's some random thing that I tossed up in the Writer's section of Gaia a while back. It is so random in fact, that I have no idea what to call it, or if it even needs a title. At the moment it has a trio of question marks for a title, that ought to do for now. Anyways, this came about after spending thirty minutes trying to force ideas for a particular story onto paper, and it just wasn't happening. So instead, I tried writing whatever came to my head. What follows is what came of it. And quick too. The words were practically spilling onto the page.
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? ? ?
It is an average fall afternoon in a New York City subway station. People stand all along the platform in anticipation of the next train that is due along soon. Some are eager or impatient while others wait quite nonchalantly. One or two of the impending commuters don't even seem aware of their surroundings. By whatever means, for whatever reasons, strangers, associates, friends and families, all find themselves gathered at what to them is one of the most normal and usually mundane parts of their lives. A faint breeze of air alerts the experienced riders that their wait is almost done. Quickly following is the distant squeal of metal on metal echoing up the tunnels, and the all too familiar rising glow of an approaching train from within the dark tunnels. But something is wrong, or at least not completely right. Some sense it, inching back platform's edge, but most do not. At the last moment all on the platform realize in astonishment that the train is going too fast. Much too fast. Many try to jump back from their places near the edge, but none present are safe as the lead car explodes in a fury of sound and flame.
Those closest at the moment of detonation are thrown back by the concussion alone, many of those being rendered unconscious almost immediately. They will be the lucky ones. The now screeching mass of the subway train careens about wildly as cars derail in which ever direction proves easiest. By now the horror and insanity of the moment has registered, and those that are still conscious begin to yell and scream in near unison. Many bleed profusely, their bodies and limbs shredded and peppered by flying shards of metal and glass. Those who can still move under their own power do so with little visible purpose. Some grope about aimlessly, others vainly try to help loved ones or injured strangers amidst the smoke and wailing. Many begin making their ways back to exits, stumbling over debris and carnage, the smoke making the task all the more impossible. The entire event would last for little over half an hour, but for those that survive, it would seem an eternity.
An hour later on the cold streets above and for the majority of the survivors, the event itself is well and truly ended. Huddled together beneath a blue tarp tent, everyone wrapped in their own silver shock blanket, sipping on coffees and hot chocolates. most gathered here are disturbingly eerie reflections of one another. Long and ragged breathes, cooling in the fall evening air; creating the illusion of smoke brought up from the subway, seeping from everyone. Many drinks are held forgotten, blankets barely hanging upon hunched shoulders. And their stares. The blank stares that fill the air with a longing to forget, to forever escape what has been experienced. But amongst the huddled mass, there are a scattered few. Some sitting, some standing, but all lacking those vacant stares of shock and death. Their eyes hold something different, something unusual considering the circumstances. And they know it, and they know that the others there that know it, know. They understand, as best their shocked minds can, that something even more potent than an exploding subway train occurred. The incident was neither accident nor attack. They know that the devastation was merely a byproduct of other more potent events that were unfolding. Collateral damage of a battle most bizarre. They know, because they saw.
They saw that within the explosion, there were two that did not burn. They know that as the train derailed and filled the platform with the fallen, there were two that did not fall. There were two who ran through the destruction, wrapping the chaos about themselves, and then sending it coursing against the other. These few, these ever so faintly comprehending few, saw fire, and ice, and death thrown about as easily as a child hurls a pebble. And then they were gone. The two became enveloped wholly in the horror that was unfolding and those that bore witness were able to forget as they struggled to survive. But now their struggle is over, and they live. The live, and they remember. They know.
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So. Yeah.
Comments Welcome.
-FireSpark Out
When I was a little boy, they called me a liar,
but now that I am grown up, they call me a writer.
- Isaac Bashevis Singer
 FireSpark · Wed Oct 06, 2010 @ 04:37am · 0 Comments |
