Little Boy


The world is bathed in light, and then darkness.

The plane is in motion; the crew is restless.

'We drop Little Boy, and we hightail it outta there before it bows,' they say to each other

Anxious, hoping for reassurance.

I can't care less.

I'm going to be dropped.


Blown up.


Set off with a boom.

Take your pick.

In short, I'm going to go kamikaze.

We're nearing Hiroshima.

I can sense confusion



From far below the B-29.

I can't care less.

To be honest, I can't care less about anything.

I'm being dropped.


I'm falling.

I've been falling for, what, a millenia by now?

The clouds, the birds;

They fly by as I near my imminent expulsion.

Here's me thinking this was going to be quick and painless.

Either the explosive mechanism is a dud, or the ground is much further away than I thought.

I prefer the former.

But–no. Somewhere near the ground, I'm being set off.

Goodbye, world!

Not that it cares about the feelings of a diabolical A-bomb.

But I'm going to go down in history.

Me. Little Boy, the A-bomb of Hiroshima.

I like the sound of that.