A Sharp Turn To The Worst
I am sitting here on the thin grass which lies on the compacted dirt. Under the shade of a tree, the light cool breeze blows on my face and through my light cotton shirt. The grass dances to the breeze. My legs are crossed, I feel the soles of my leather shoes dig into the sides of my legs; but it doesn’t matter, because of the pleasant distractions. Beautiful trees and shrub that surround the oval, swaying in the breeze. The sky is refreshingly blue, with large and smaller clouds scattered across the open sky. I smell the clean crisp air, filtered from those trees that surround. The birds are singing, chirping and unpleasantly squawking. Some glide gracefully in the sweet air above the treetops.
My ears are almost torn off as the most sudden and noisiest bang pierces the sound barrier. So intense and frightful, I roll over, face down, as still as a rock. A constant ringing fills my ears, nothing but ringing. I can’t make it stop. I hold my ears, as if they are ear muffs. It still won’t stop. I flick my head up, frantically looking to see what produced such a sound. There I froze again, a mass of smoke escalating into the sky, so large I wonder if it is nuclear. A man walks into the open near P Block; he is wearing something strapped to his chest. That is when I jump for cover behind a concrete wall. I feel the wall shake as if it were to collapse, being unable to hear doesn’t help. Children’s body parts flung everywhere. I run over to my bag untouched behind a tree. I pull it up onto my back and start to sprint, away from this, along the oval. I run across Dumbarton Park, not tempted to look behind for anything. I run up the road, my house only being about half a kilometre away. My legs are burning, but I persist.
A car slides around the corner at an atrocious speed. I leap into my neighbour’s front yard. The driver spins out and crashes into another person’s house down the street. I practically jump to the front door, pull my keys out and open the two front doors. My dog is hysterical. I fall down to cuddle him. I then instantly rocket up the stairs and into the study, snatch the phone from its dock and dial my dad’s number; he works closest. He picks up and says he’s at the top of Kilkivan. I hang up. Dial my mum’s number. Ring ring, ring ring. She yells, “Are you okay? ”
“I’m fine, where are you”, dad walks in the door and closes both behind him. “Dad, I’m on the phone with mum” I give it to him. They talk for an extra 5 minutes then, hang up. As mum opens the door we all here a whistle, stand there in silence. I see a bright light and ‘KABOOM! ! ! ’ dead, flat, non-existent, Everybody dies! ! !
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (A Sharp Turn To The Worst by Aiden Bird )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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