story533.xml
Title
story533.xml
Source
born-digital
Media Type
story
Date Entered
2002-05-07
911DA Story: Story
9/12
It's so peaceful at night.
You would hardly notice the past day's events.
Humid, taste of salt in my mouth,
I'm crying again.
Biting my lip.
Clenching and unclenchingS
Tension and the buildupS
Tree got in my face, that's okay.
Brush it to the side with a stray hand.
I should be using this hand for something.
Something more important than brushing an errant branch out of my face.
You wouldn't have guessed it.
Except for the blue flicker in every window.
Shadows gouged out of faint pale blue phosphorescence--heads and shoulders.
Men, women, childrenS
Cut short by the yellow glare of sodium.
So heavy and luminous overhead, despite barely being sifted through artfully
pruned trees.
My gait's dropping.
My eyes unclench and take in the flickers.
Lines of windows,
all glued to the same screen.
Glued to the news.
There were four terrorist attacks the other day.
Even if the news is a rehash.
They watch it fervently.
Repetitious explosions,
Hands locked together two people leap to their deaths.
They're not the only ones,
It's better than burning alive I guess.
The screens all flick in unison.
Cable.
CNN.
Paula Zahn and Wolf Blitzer.
Quite the duo.
Artfully capped teeth, wrapped in radiation damaged lips...
she should lay off the tanning bed,
Quipping the latest.
It's all about statistics.
Numbers. Figures. Casualties.
Anything but people.
When you die. You're a number.
Numbers...can't be people.
That's what they all tell me at least
I've lost friends arguing this event.
That hardly seems significant.
Children have lost mothers and fathers.
Family's forever changed in an instant...
stretched for what must feel like an eternity for them.
Looped forever on TV.
Real people are gone.
They're not numbers.
It's not time for statistics.
It never will be, and it never should be.
The scope of the issue is clear.
Lives have been forever changed.
A nation has been forever changed.
The world has been scarred.
A fist rises in anger. Then falls to rest. Nice sofa.
There is a cry for retribution.
People are angry, scarred, shocked, and amazed.
Gasping in horror at the television screens as I walk--they drink red wine.
I can only wonder if they realize what a precipice we stand upon.
A flash of brilliant light and it could all be over.
They wouldn't even have time to reach for Resolve as the wine splatters to
their pristine white carpet.
It could finish in an afternoon.
It's sunny, colors washed out by the brightness.
Kids are running through dusty foreign streets.
Another brilliant flash of light.
Dust.
No streets.
No children.
Dust.
I enter my apartment.
I shut the door, dropping my bag to the floor.
I curl into bed, and rock myself to sleep.
It's so peaceful at night.
You would hardly notice the past day's events.
Humid, taste of salt in my mouth,
I'm crying again.
Biting my lip.
Clenching and unclenchingS
Tension and the buildupS
Tree got in my face, that's okay.
Brush it to the side with a stray hand.
I should be using this hand for something.
Something more important than brushing an errant branch out of my face.
You wouldn't have guessed it.
Except for the blue flicker in every window.
Shadows gouged out of faint pale blue phosphorescence--heads and shoulders.
Men, women, childrenS
Cut short by the yellow glare of sodium.
So heavy and luminous overhead, despite barely being sifted through artfully
pruned trees.
My gait's dropping.
My eyes unclench and take in the flickers.
Lines of windows,
all glued to the same screen.
Glued to the news.
There were four terrorist attacks the other day.
Even if the news is a rehash.
They watch it fervently.
Repetitious explosions,
Hands locked together two people leap to their deaths.
They're not the only ones,
It's better than burning alive I guess.
The screens all flick in unison.
Cable.
CNN.
Paula Zahn and Wolf Blitzer.
Quite the duo.
Artfully capped teeth, wrapped in radiation damaged lips...
she should lay off the tanning bed,
Quipping the latest.
It's all about statistics.
Numbers. Figures. Casualties.
Anything but people.
When you die. You're a number.
Numbers...can't be people.
That's what they all tell me at least
I've lost friends arguing this event.
That hardly seems significant.
Children have lost mothers and fathers.
Family's forever changed in an instant...
stretched for what must feel like an eternity for them.
Looped forever on TV.
Real people are gone.
They're not numbers.
It's not time for statistics.
It never will be, and it never should be.
The scope of the issue is clear.
Lives have been forever changed.
A nation has been forever changed.
The world has been scarred.
A fist rises in anger. Then falls to rest. Nice sofa.
There is a cry for retribution.
People are angry, scarred, shocked, and amazed.
Gasping in horror at the television screens as I walk--they drink red wine.
I can only wonder if they realize what a precipice we stand upon.
A flash of brilliant light and it could all be over.
They wouldn't even have time to reach for Resolve as the wine splatters to
their pristine white carpet.
It could finish in an afternoon.
It's sunny, colors washed out by the brightness.
Kids are running through dusty foreign streets.
Another brilliant flash of light.
Dust.
No streets.
No children.
Dust.
I enter my apartment.
I shut the door, dropping my bag to the floor.
I curl into bed, and rock myself to sleep.
Collection
Citation
“story533.xml,” September 11 Digital Archive, accessed September 28, 2024, https://911digitalarchive.org/items/show/4936.