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Literature Text
April 28, 1986:
I am stuck
behind
a classroom window.
On Friday afternoon,
the teacher accidentally left a light on.
It’s Monday morning and she
hasn’t returned
to turn it off,
and there is silence in the school
and I think maybe
someone forgot to tell me about a holiday.
May 2, 1986:
I have been alone all week.
And I can feel myself
starting to curl
as the light buzzes on
overhead
and the sun blazes on
outside
and I wait
as the weekend begins
for the students to return
on Monday.
May 9, 1986:
The light is buzzing louder now;
I think that it’s been a while since it was changed anyway,
and not even the janitor has been in to see me.
And I wonder
when the kids will return.
I am lonely.
May 28, 1986:
I am parched.
I cannot feel my roots
anymore.
The light has burned out
and the sun burns on
and it is mocking me
as I burn from within –
the glow reaching me,
pervading me,
and I cannot taste even one molecule
of sweet relief.
June 7, 1986:
I have drooped
over the side
of a clay-pot grave.
I am
eking out
my last
puffs
of oxygen,
trying to
give some life
to this desolate place.
April 26, 1987:
I am a dust mote,
drifting in
through a window crack.
My old home
is gray and bleak
and reverberating inside,
like echoes of schoolchildren’s shoes
running on the now-softly-muted floors.
And the city plays host
to my brethren,
and though I miss
the life that used to be,
I feel at peace
as I drift back out on the breeze.
I am stuck
behind
a classroom window.
On Friday afternoon,
the teacher accidentally left a light on.
It’s Monday morning and she
hasn’t returned
to turn it off,
and there is silence in the school
and I think maybe
someone forgot to tell me about a holiday.
May 2, 1986:
I have been alone all week.
And I can feel myself
starting to curl
as the light buzzes on
overhead
and the sun blazes on
outside
and I wait
as the weekend begins
for the students to return
on Monday.
May 9, 1986:
The light is buzzing louder now;
I think that it’s been a while since it was changed anyway,
and not even the janitor has been in to see me.
And I wonder
when the kids will return.
I am lonely.
May 28, 1986:
I am parched.
I cannot feel my roots
anymore.
The light has burned out
and the sun burns on
and it is mocking me
as I burn from within –
the glow reaching me,
pervading me,
and I cannot taste even one molecule
of sweet relief.
June 7, 1986:
I have drooped
over the side
of a clay-pot grave.
I am
eking out
my last
puffs
of oxygen,
trying to
give some life
to this desolate place.
April 26, 1987:
I am a dust mote,
drifting in
through a window crack.
My old home
is gray and bleak
and reverberating inside,
like echoes of schoolchildren’s shoes
running on the now-softly-muted floors.
And the city plays host
to my brethren,
and though I miss
the life that used to be,
I feel at peace
as I drift back out on the breeze.
Literature
Nuclear
i was waiting for the fallout
and told you to hide in the bunker, locked behind the bedroom door
because i was a catastrophe, a blinding light of disaster,
And didn't I warn you to stay away; Why won't you listen?
There may be flowers in my hair, but they're ashes in my hands
and i destroy everything i touch
And this is why I don't hold you when you cry
'cuz it only makes it worse
and leaves the gash in your side with the aftertaste of rot
from where i tried to kiss away the pain.
And try as i might,
I can't fix you,
so please stop asking me.
there's still dirt under my fingernails from the time i tried to plant a garden,
but only
Literature
Of All the Places in the Universe
She was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. S
Literature
Life Is Pain
By natural law
Or chaos manifest
The good die young
It's common sense
Tyranny of majority
Author of the story
Of martyred hope
Death painful slow
Born of the dying
Innocence is multiplying
Just fast enough to stay
Only to quickly decay
The drowning man
Will always drag down
The helping hand
Just as it must help
Give and take
Take to give
Nothing's free
Not even to live
No good or evil
Just push and pull
Because one exists
The other must also
Be thankful who you are
Cog in the machine
Be thankful you work
Toward the greater nothing
For existence is suffering
Featured in Groups
clearly i have a fascination with chernobyl
Written 6/29/15 at 4:13 PM.
Inspired by watching Veritasium’s “A Walk Around Chernobyl” video and seeing what looks like what once was a potted plant in a classroom. I heard its story and wrote it down.
For those of you who are science geeks like me (or who just enjoy fascinating stuff), I highly suggest that you 1) go watch the video that inspired this: www.youtube.com/watch?v=9DWnjc… and 2) watch his special about uranium, airing online and on PBS today and tomorrow in two parts. For more information, go here: www.facebook.com/uraniumtwisti…;
© 2015 - 2024 stargirl2791
Comments24
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Whoa, I loved the perspective and structure in this -- but I liked it even more after reading that you were inspired by Chernobyl. Really cool!