Zothar
08-29-2010, 01:39 PM
A bright midday sun shown down on the shimmering glass walls of New York City. The streets were filled with the regular bustling traffic, crawling along, going to jobs, homes and separate lives. Sad, gloomy eyes stared out behind dark glasses and windshields, everyone’s minds and hearts still aching, still denying, still resenting what had happened. It was September 12, and the wreckage from the World Trade Center buildings still smoked, their black columns reaching higher than the smog. Tape surrounded the destruction, lights and sirens still wailing, the laments carrying far into the dark bay.
Michael sat on a bench, watching as a group of six paramedics started yet another round to check for the injured in the ashes. His dark skin and bald head reflected the bright sunlight, and sunken, defeated eyes made his seventeen-year-old face look twice its age. Strong arms fell limp in his lap, a basketball held loosely in the fingers, the owners signature visible. Once a star, now a hollow, crushed spirit, barely able to hang on.
As he sat, a tall figure approached him, his age close to Michael’s. Light skin contrasted with the dark clothes he wore, and his youthful face, creased with smiles and shared laughs, was now solemn, showing concern and wisdom beyond years. Dustin walked up to his best friend, sitting on the ground beside Michael. Breathing deeply, he turned, as if to speak, then closed his mouth, shaking his head mildly. For a long moment, neither said anything as both stared in sad horror at the area of destruction, place of death.
“How could He let this happen, man?” Dustin looked up at his friend’s question, his short, blonde hair shifting in the wind, blue eyes clear. Michael didn’t move, but simply sat, still staring at the wreck. “God, I mean. How could the guy let this happen?” The emotion was all but gone from his voice. It had the tone of resignation, of defeat. His broad shoulders sagged, and his usual proud and confident air seemed to have been transformed into that of a young child, lost and scared.
Dustin leaned backwards, letting out a sigh, his athletic frame also slumped and melancholy in appearance. Though two years older than his best friend, he could think of nothing to say to him, nothing to take this pain away. His heart ached, the inability to help cutting him like a sword. In his mind raced the same question: if God was so good, then how could this happen? It was part of God’s bigger picture. The greater plan. That was the only response that they ever got.
In other words, nobody knew.
“Dad never did nuthin’ wrong,” continued Michael, his voice beginning to quavering a bit. “H-he worked hard, for mom a-an’ me. He was a good guy. He didn’t do nuthin’ to d-deserve this. He didn’t do nuthin’...” his voice trailed off, tears slipping down his cheeks. Slowly, he put his head in his hands.
Dustin put his arm around his friend, his own eyes burning, trying to stay strong. Stinging sadness raged in his heart. Michael’s dad was a fireman, damn good one, too. He was one of the first in the building, right after it had collapsed. Never thinking of himself, he worked tirelessly to save the lives of those he never knew, who most likely wouldn’t even remember him.
He never made it out. Dustin squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear making a clean path down his dirty cheek. In his heart, his sadness mixed with anger. Those people who could care less, who continued to fill their own bank accounts and tables, without thought of people suffering, lived. And the one man who was willing to risk it all, willing to sacrifice his safety, willing to go through hell to protect them, died. His anger built inside his chest, and his throat burned. Why? Why was life so unfair?
He opened his mouth, trying to help, trying to say something, anything, to relieve his best friend’s pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry...” It was all he could say. Nothing he said could bring Michael’s father back. Nothing he could do would take this grief from him. He barely got those words out before his own voice cracked, and he couldn’t say anymore. Slowly, he felt Michael’s broad shoulders begin to shake, silent sobs rocking his body. Pulling him in close, Dustin hugged his friend tightly as the sobs became barely audible. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lowered his head, silently adding his own. The basketball slipped from quavering fingers, rolling a few feet away. Both boys sat there, two lonely teenagers, forgotten in the rush and hurry of the city. The weight of the nation’s sorrow rested solely, for this moment, on the shoulders of a single boy.
And both cried.
Ok so whatever critiques you have are welcome.
Michael sat on a bench, watching as a group of six paramedics started yet another round to check for the injured in the ashes. His dark skin and bald head reflected the bright sunlight, and sunken, defeated eyes made his seventeen-year-old face look twice its age. Strong arms fell limp in his lap, a basketball held loosely in the fingers, the owners signature visible. Once a star, now a hollow, crushed spirit, barely able to hang on.
As he sat, a tall figure approached him, his age close to Michael’s. Light skin contrasted with the dark clothes he wore, and his youthful face, creased with smiles and shared laughs, was now solemn, showing concern and wisdom beyond years. Dustin walked up to his best friend, sitting on the ground beside Michael. Breathing deeply, he turned, as if to speak, then closed his mouth, shaking his head mildly. For a long moment, neither said anything as both stared in sad horror at the area of destruction, place of death.
“How could He let this happen, man?” Dustin looked up at his friend’s question, his short, blonde hair shifting in the wind, blue eyes clear. Michael didn’t move, but simply sat, still staring at the wreck. “God, I mean. How could the guy let this happen?” The emotion was all but gone from his voice. It had the tone of resignation, of defeat. His broad shoulders sagged, and his usual proud and confident air seemed to have been transformed into that of a young child, lost and scared.
Dustin leaned backwards, letting out a sigh, his athletic frame also slumped and melancholy in appearance. Though two years older than his best friend, he could think of nothing to say to him, nothing to take this pain away. His heart ached, the inability to help cutting him like a sword. In his mind raced the same question: if God was so good, then how could this happen? It was part of God’s bigger picture. The greater plan. That was the only response that they ever got.
In other words, nobody knew.
“Dad never did nuthin’ wrong,” continued Michael, his voice beginning to quavering a bit. “H-he worked hard, for mom a-an’ me. He was a good guy. He didn’t do nuthin’ to d-deserve this. He didn’t do nuthin’...” his voice trailed off, tears slipping down his cheeks. Slowly, he put his head in his hands.
Dustin put his arm around his friend, his own eyes burning, trying to stay strong. Stinging sadness raged in his heart. Michael’s dad was a fireman, damn good one, too. He was one of the first in the building, right after it had collapsed. Never thinking of himself, he worked tirelessly to save the lives of those he never knew, who most likely wouldn’t even remember him.
He never made it out. Dustin squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear making a clean path down his dirty cheek. In his heart, his sadness mixed with anger. Those people who could care less, who continued to fill their own bank accounts and tables, without thought of people suffering, lived. And the one man who was willing to risk it all, willing to sacrifice his safety, willing to go through hell to protect them, died. His anger built inside his chest, and his throat burned. Why? Why was life so unfair?
He opened his mouth, trying to help, trying to say something, anything, to relieve his best friend’s pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry...” It was all he could say. Nothing he said could bring Michael’s father back. Nothing he could do would take this grief from him. He barely got those words out before his own voice cracked, and he couldn’t say anymore. Slowly, he felt Michael’s broad shoulders begin to shake, silent sobs rocking his body. Pulling him in close, Dustin hugged his friend tightly as the sobs became barely audible. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lowered his head, silently adding his own. The basketball slipped from quavering fingers, rolling a few feet away. Both boys sat there, two lonely teenagers, forgotten in the rush and hurry of the city. The weight of the nation’s sorrow rested solely, for this moment, on the shoulders of a single boy.
And both cried.
Ok so whatever critiques you have are welcome.