Just a little bit of writing I did - please give me feedback! :D Working on my creative writing for college 
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We were by the window when it happened. My bedroom window. The one with the view of the fields of grass spreading all the way down the hill, the sun beating down above, the old oak tree next to the fences where the birds could be heard singing in the morning. We were both there, both stood gaping outside from my bedroom. Staring for god knows how long.
We'd both heard the noise. My Dad had come running in, his face as red as a tomato, panting, his eyes wide as he charged into my room to join me at my window. Now we both stood amazed. My bedroom floor shook and I nearly lost my balance. It was as if a tidal wave of air had just hit us. I gulped.
Eventually, I managed to drag my eyes away. I looked up at my Dad. His chest was rising and falling heavily. His eyes were fixed on the outside. No, it was deeper than that. As if he was looking at something way behind it all, way behind the fabric of reality.
Eventually, he blinked (to my relief) and slowly turned towards me. He started doing his odd movement with his wrist - turning his hand round as if screwing it back onto his arm. As a child I always hated it when he did that; scared his hand would fall off to reveal a metallic bone of wire where his wrist once was.
Slowly, his lips parted, the skin stuck together slowly being forced away as a tiny little voice peered out.
"Everything's going to be okay."
I knew he wasn't telling that to me. He was facing me but looking straight through me.
No, he was telling that to himself.
He repeated it. His voice was timid, slowly creeping out quietly but forced, as if even that couldn't bare to be in this hell anymore.
His blonde hair was now blending in with the fire outside, the heat creating a drip of sweat that ran down his cheek, down his chin and dropped onto my bedroom floor.
His dark eyes faded and shut tight as he turned back to the window.
Outside, a nuclear bomb had gone off. They had warned us. The people on the radio, on the T.V. and on the posters. They had warned, as they waved their fingers at us with wide eyes and tight lips.
"The war is coming," they had said. "Prepare yourselves for when the bombs fall."
They had told us to make shelters, underground caverns to seek refuge in for when this war begun. But it was too late. My Dad never was quick on his feet, but nobody could have built a shelter in time for this. For, our small village was devastated with the first bomb for that dreadful war. The first bomb came rushing down onto our neighbor town's field a good ten miles away from my bedroom window as some man pressed a button to ignite it, laughing.
"They won't see this coming," he'd say.
And we didn't. Just three days after the warnings, after the media had exploded into "How to survive nuclear fallout", "How deep to make your shelter" and "Effects of radiation" and here we were, me and my Dad, looking out of my bedroom window at this mushroom of fire and rage. Melting in the heat, twitching at the fear. The radiation would come raining down onto us soon. I squeezed my hands shut. In my mind's eye I saw myself in a few years, but it wasn't me. It was some boy with three heads, three hands and a set of lungs like a worn out motor engine. That was one of the images on the "Effects of radiation" program.
Then I cried.
My Dad didn't even turn to me when he said, as calm as a Saturday morning, "Look at that, son. That's the end of the world."
--
--
We were by the window when it happened. My bedroom window. The one with the view of the fields of grass spreading all the way down the hill, the sun beating down above, the old oak tree next to the fences where the birds could be heard singing in the morning. We were both there, both stood gaping outside from my bedroom. Staring for god knows how long.
We'd both heard the noise. My Dad had come running in, his face as red as a tomato, panting, his eyes wide as he charged into my room to join me at my window. Now we both stood amazed. My bedroom floor shook and I nearly lost my balance. It was as if a tidal wave of air had just hit us. I gulped.
Eventually, I managed to drag my eyes away. I looked up at my Dad. His chest was rising and falling heavily. His eyes were fixed on the outside. No, it was deeper than that. As if he was looking at something way behind it all, way behind the fabric of reality.
Eventually, he blinked (to my relief) and slowly turned towards me. He started doing his odd movement with his wrist - turning his hand round as if screwing it back onto his arm. As a child I always hated it when he did that; scared his hand would fall off to reveal a metallic bone of wire where his wrist once was.
Slowly, his lips parted, the skin stuck together slowly being forced away as a tiny little voice peered out.
"Everything's going to be okay."
I knew he wasn't telling that to me. He was facing me but looking straight through me.
No, he was telling that to himself.
He repeated it. His voice was timid, slowly creeping out quietly but forced, as if even that couldn't bare to be in this hell anymore.
His blonde hair was now blending in with the fire outside, the heat creating a drip of sweat that ran down his cheek, down his chin and dropped onto my bedroom floor.
His dark eyes faded and shut tight as he turned back to the window.
Outside, a nuclear bomb had gone off. They had warned us. The people on the radio, on the T.V. and on the posters. They had warned, as they waved their fingers at us with wide eyes and tight lips.
"The war is coming," they had said. "Prepare yourselves for when the bombs fall."
They had told us to make shelters, underground caverns to seek refuge in for when this war begun. But it was too late. My Dad never was quick on his feet, but nobody could have built a shelter in time for this. For, our small village was devastated with the first bomb for that dreadful war. The first bomb came rushing down onto our neighbor town's field a good ten miles away from my bedroom window as some man pressed a button to ignite it, laughing.
"They won't see this coming," he'd say.
And we didn't. Just three days after the warnings, after the media had exploded into "How to survive nuclear fallout", "How deep to make your shelter" and "Effects of radiation" and here we were, me and my Dad, looking out of my bedroom window at this mushroom of fire and rage. Melting in the heat, twitching at the fear. The radiation would come raining down onto us soon. I squeezed my hands shut. In my mind's eye I saw myself in a few years, but it wasn't me. It was some boy with three heads, three hands and a set of lungs like a worn out motor engine. That was one of the images on the "Effects of radiation" program.
Then I cried.
My Dad didn't even turn to me when he said, as calm as a Saturday morning, "Look at that, son. That's the end of the world."
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