Post by Mala Lelik on Jan 11, 2016 22:56:24 GMT
Pre- War thread- Open to all with special invitation to Zona K. Noakes
Fire nestled in balls. In pellets. Simple metal falling from the sky, digging its way deep into homes and further into the ground, as if to unsettle even the dead from their resting place. The city lived in fear, then calm, figuring after every bombshell, there was peace. But that calm could only live for so long. The mortar sung sometimes in the evening, and other times, in the depth of night, during the modes of silence, of calm and respite. Yet even that pattern couldn’t hold true, not when one hit the peasant’s hovel in the middle of the day.
The blast was ill fated, Sveden, hungry for carnage. It chose a workers mill, striking first the mill itself while the remaining blast engulfed the factory side, toppling walls, crushing innocents, trapping others. But the flame, it soared, threatening to rise, to engulf everything in smoke as the cold air blew embers to nearby houses, as if the embers too, wanted to flee from the spectacle.
Workers scrambled out from partially crushed doors, bleeding, groaning “They’re trapped. Locked in— crushed.” Shakily pointing fingers to the inner wreckage as what remained of the building swayed, unsure whether to keep standing or to crumble like the rest. Screams echoed like a chorus from inside, begging, pleading to get out, to be free just as smaller explosions sounded, oil and fire mixing to create howls, echos of Sveden’s message “This is carnage. This is war. This is us.”
Mala crouched on a rooftop, head tilted. Watched sky burn. The rise, the fall of smoke. Wondered if fire in sky could see. Could understand. Could hear people shouts, their screams. Did they know? Did they understand. Did they hurt? Or, indifferent? Why did fire come? Mala didn’t know. Didn’t care. Kept low, and watched, wanting to know, who come. Who save. Who die.
Fire nestled in balls. In pellets. Simple metal falling from the sky, digging its way deep into homes and further into the ground, as if to unsettle even the dead from their resting place. The city lived in fear, then calm, figuring after every bombshell, there was peace. But that calm could only live for so long. The mortar sung sometimes in the evening, and other times, in the depth of night, during the modes of silence, of calm and respite. Yet even that pattern couldn’t hold true, not when one hit the peasant’s hovel in the middle of the day.
The blast was ill fated, Sveden, hungry for carnage. It chose a workers mill, striking first the mill itself while the remaining blast engulfed the factory side, toppling walls, crushing innocents, trapping others. But the flame, it soared, threatening to rise, to engulf everything in smoke as the cold air blew embers to nearby houses, as if the embers too, wanted to flee from the spectacle.
Workers scrambled out from partially crushed doors, bleeding, groaning “They’re trapped. Locked in— crushed.” Shakily pointing fingers to the inner wreckage as what remained of the building swayed, unsure whether to keep standing or to crumble like the rest. Screams echoed like a chorus from inside, begging, pleading to get out, to be free just as smaller explosions sounded, oil and fire mixing to create howls, echos of Sveden’s message “This is carnage. This is war. This is us.”
Mala crouched on a rooftop, head tilted. Watched sky burn. The rise, the fall of smoke. Wondered if fire in sky could see. Could understand. Could hear people shouts, their screams. Did they know? Did they understand. Did they hurt? Or, indifferent? Why did fire come? Mala didn’t know. Didn’t care. Kept low, and watched, wanting to know, who come. Who save. Who die.