CREATIVE WRITING
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." - Oscar Wilde
"Dead silence fell in the middle of a word. Out went all light. The fires leaped up in black smoke."1/3/2018 I could smell ash; taste it, see it, feel it surrounding me. My clothes were black and eyes fogged by the endless clouds of smoke. Somewhere in the blur of my vision, I could see an outburst of reds, oranges, yellows, pinks, blues and greens. A fire distorted the sounds in the room; the printing machine that would buzz intermittently throughout the day, the clicking of fingertips on keyboards, the chatter of daily office duties.
In a sheer moment of clarity, a new feeling began to console me: panic. Where was Drake? Was he safe? My eyes watered at the thought of never feeling his touch again, never hearing his sweet voice inviting itself into my ears, never knowing what could have been our future in a world without him. With some motive to push the fallen desk off of my right leg, I began to start heaving with all of my power. It felt like hours. The constant pausing to let my leg rest was the largest nuisance. The flickering of the lights and incessant ash caused my breathing to shorten, making the removal process double in length. I could begin to hear again; the faint ringing in my ears had dissipated to a point where words were becoming comprehensible once more. In the distance, I heard a strong voice grunting, as well as the sobbing of several fellow women in the office. After several more desperate attempts to free myself from the compressing desk, I began to shout for help, wondering if anyone would hear. Who else could still hear the ringing? Did the other survivors figure that no one else was alive? Should I have spoken up sooner? I screamed. Then, I screamed more. I screamed so loud my vision began to shake. I screamed until my voice was returned to the whisper it was when I woke from the explosion. I must have passed out from lack of oxygen or other; I awoke in a bright-lit room, an IV pumping some sort of fluid into my right arm, my right leg suspended in the air with a bulky cast. With my mummified leg, I try to sit up but feel a wince of pain. I did not notice the brace wrapped around my torso. I quickly glanced around the room and noticed a folder with my name across the tab. I leaned slightly to the left, snatched it, and rifled through it. PATIENT'S STATUS: Two broken ribs, a fracture in the right knee cap, torn ligament, loss of three toes on right foot, dehydration, sprained ankle on left foot. With each word my eyes ate, I froze a little more. My stomach did back-flips at the "three missing toes" part, and my eyes became spouts of running water. Nothing about waking up seemed worth it; part of me wished I had not woken up. As the idea came to mind, the curtain next to me opened. A doctor smiled at me, looking overjoyed at my waking up. With a bit of struggle, I managed to see who was sharing the room with me at this dingy hospital. A small gasp escaped me, then the largest sigh of relief in the entire existence of the human race. "Drake..." I whisper in a raspy voice, barely recognizing my tone. Drake's eye enlarge at my attempt to sit up and he gets up quickly, rushing to my bedside. "Natasha, lay down. I'm here. I'm okay, nothing happened to me... I was just dehydrated. You, on the other hand..." "I know, it's not ideal..." I frown and hold up seven fingers. "Who needs ten toes when you can have seven?" A smirk escapes him in spite of everything that just transpired at the office. The doctor leaves us to talk and, with the shut of the door, Drake takes a seat on the edge of my bed. "Drake, who found--" A sentence unfinished. My mouth was sealed with a kiss.
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About the author.I love creative writing, especially poetry and short narratives. I hope expand my career as a poet and to always be reading something. Archives
April 2019
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