So Hey!This was just a story I wrote for my english class, a personal narrative. So...yeah...it sucks, whatever.
Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. Gone.
Faceless cadavers lying eternally still beneath a heap of debris.
Waiting to be found.
Bodies being extricated from the wreckage, so badly terminated and gnarled that no one could identify them-even the ones who had loved them most.
Families destroyed, shredded to bits by a hulking monstrosity. That monstrosity?
A sick twist of fate.
My eyes grew big as the horrifying images flashed before me, across the TV set. I stared back at it, paralyzed, in a trance.
What was happening?
I reached for the remote and slowly pressed the off button. The last thing that flew out of the speakers of my TV was the choked voice of the, usually very sunny, anchorwoman saying distraughtly, "It is September 11, 2001. You will not forget this date."
The next day felt different. The air was stale and cold, the American flag was flown grimly at half mast, the wind whistled through the grey, silent air. As a result of this depressing morning, my first grade class was much quieter than any other normal day. Even as seven year olds, we mutually understood the situation and its devastating repercussions.
The halls at of the usually very loud and colorful school were silent. As if the entire school was mourning. The only noise was the occasional sniffle of the usual runny nose.
I sighed as I sat down in my desk, tucking a piece of my sandy blonde hair behind my ear. My shoulders slumped forward and my chin fell down, my back curved in. I sighed again. I looked over to my left, expecting to see Emile, my best friend at the time. She was not in her seat.
My hand shot up.
"Mrs.C," I called out, sitting up, "Emile isn't here today." I gave a small smile; Mrs.C always said that optimism is key. Today she was frowning.
"Emile will be….gone for awhile…" Her voice trailed off and she walked away, the grim frown still on her face.
Emile never came back. Her father had died in the events of that horrible day.
He had died in the flood of dust and shards of black glass that were sent whooshing down the streets, devouring anything in its path.
This affected me greatly. I spent many long nights sitting on my windowsill, the white moonlight falling delicately over my grey eyes.
There I'd sit for hours, wondering where Emile was, what she was doing right now. It was then that I began to realize that the people who'd died and their families were not the only ones affected by the attack. I began to cry. A single tear fell slowly down my red, freckle covered cheek. The whole thing was a domino effect.
A domino effect of heartache.
The next day, I sat by myself at lunch, picking at my lasagna. I heard a tray slide in next to mine. I peered up from my meal to see Cynthia O'Dell.
"Hey." She said quietly. I sat up to face her.
"Why are you sitting with me?" I asked bluntly, realizing it was rude the second I heard it. She seemed unfazed.
"Because. You lost you're best friend since Kindergarten," Which, mind you, was a big deal when you're in the first grade, "and….you look like you need someone to help you out." She gave me a half smile.
I took a deep breath in. Then, in spite of myself, I nodded. She smiled and her eyes sparkled.
That was the sight of my first epiphany (or, at least, the first one I remember) It was then that I realized that though we are Americans, and at times we completely hate each other, that on that day, September 11, 2001, and the explosive chain of events that followed, that all of us, southerners, Yankees, Asians, African-Americans, Hispanics, men, women, boys and girls, all of us, are capable of uniting and lending a helping hand to our fellow, fallen countrymen. I may have been only seven when it happened, and I know it sounds cliché, but that day, amidst the sadness and the pain, I felt as though, for once, we were not a melting pot for a mix of cultures, religions and races, but one united country. If anything,
I was proud to be an American.
So..thanks! for reading, or whatever. R&R?sounds good to me!
There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.
W. Somerset Maugham (1874 - 1965)