Aftermath: Creative Writing
Aftermath
The battered, bruised buildings are bandaged in white scaffolding. The quad is a temporary emergency room bustling with activity. It is scattered with equipment like triage after an operation. The gashed, cracked and slashed ground is stitched together with staples of asphalt everywhere, just holding it together. The missing slate is like gravel rash on the roofs. The days are cold and short. A thin layer of grey light is all that washes over the ground. The shadows are long and some are permanent, keeping the corners dark and hidden. The sun tries to burst through, but is unable to penetrate the thick layer of cloud. The wet, soft ground is the evidence of last nights torrent of water. Puddles are like spots on a leopards back. As we get out of class for lunch, everyone is aware of the passing weather as the black steam train thunders north. We can’t wait to see what is for lunch as the smell draws us closer to the shelter of the hal. So close but so far away. As news passes down through the line like chinese whispers, our hearts sink, like after a doctor bringing bad news to family members, “it’s sausage rolls,” everyone says. This is bad news for an already miserable day. My only chance of an escape was to think back to the meal I had then when it was crispy chicken subs a favourite for everyone. It’s funny how food can bring back good memories. In The Beginning…
I was in the well kept quad. The surrounding buildings were in pristine condition. The hallowed turf was immaculate. The cleanly cut grass was still as a cat crouching, silently watching its prey. There was an eerie silence throughout the confined, surrounded piece of
The battered, bruised buildings are bandaged in white scaffolding. The quad is a temporary emergency room bustling with activity. It is scattered with equipment like triage after an operation. The gashed, cracked and slashed ground is stitched together with staples of asphalt everywhere, just holding it together. The missing slate is like gravel rash on the roofs. The days are cold and short. A thin layer of grey light is all that washes over the ground. The shadows are long and some are permanent, keeping the corners dark and hidden. The sun tries to burst through, but is unable to penetrate the thick layer of cloud. The wet, soft ground is the evidence of last nights torrent of water. Puddles are like spots on a leopards back. As we get out of class for lunch, everyone is aware of the passing weather as the black steam train thunders north. We can’t wait to see what is for lunch as the smell draws us closer to the shelter of the hal. So close but so far away. As news passes down through the line like chinese whispers, our hearts sink, like after a doctor bringing bad news to family members, “it’s sausage rolls,” everyone says. This is bad news for an already miserable day. My only chance of an escape was to think back to the meal I had then when it was crispy chicken subs a favourite for everyone. It’s funny how food can bring back good memories. In The Beginning…
I was in the well kept quad. The surrounding buildings were in pristine condition. The hallowed turf was immaculate. The cleanly cut grass was still as a cat crouching, silently watching its prey. There was an eerie silence throughout the confined, surrounded piece of