The Playground Of The Dead
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"The Playground Of The Dead"
by: Wes Robert Ward
Deserted it has become for no more happiness is here. What once was there is nothing more but silence. No echos, no distant traffic noise, no nothing.
Creak, creak, creak.
We used to call these areas playgrounds. A recreational fun zone for children. Mostly from the ages of young tykes to middle teenage years. Such enjoyment for the youth of any generation was here. And now no more.
Creak, creak, creak.
The playground had become a cemetery.
Creak, creak, creak.
There were swings and slides. There were monkey bars and sand boxes. There was life as we know it all around and it was true excitement. Parents watched their kids as they ran amok from one fun contraption to another. And the children, so many children were here, and yet no more.
Creak, creak, creak.
That is until death came to town. True agonizing sickness that had plagued not just the town, but cities and states. Coughing, hacking sickness that turned into a black plague. A plague that devastated our world we lived in.
Creak, creak, creak.
Only one remains on the playground. One that had decided to die there as the sickness took her. Not too young and not too old. And as everybody that she loved died before her she had decided to die where she loved the most.
Creak, creak, creak.
The playground. And death had taken her there. Her remains, or what was left soaked in the wet mud beneath the swing set where she had died, falling off the swing she sat on sullen and sick in her last days living. She was full of life, and now she was full of death.
Creak, creak, creak.
Spirits roam here and there. Spirits roam everywhere. Some go. Some stay. Some never go away.
Creak, creak, creak.
And yet she still swings and she swings away on the swing set. The metal hinges creak away on the rusted chains above. She swings day and night. She swings night and day. Hour after hour.
Creak, creak, creak.
Wetness and mist had also claimed the playground. The ground itself was nothing more than mud, her skull lies upon the crudded ground with eyeless sockets of empty sadness. Few birds chirped that survived and no dogs barked for they had died. No life whatsoever came about with any slight sense of noise. Not even the dark black crow that sat upon the top swing set like a nevermore crow it was.
Creak, creak, creak.
All were dead. Fallout does that.
Creak, creak, creak.
Yet she still swings away as if nothing happened that day. Swinging away without a care in the world. The only sound heard was the rusted hinges of the swing set chains.
Creak, creak, creak.
The playground, the playground, no more, no less. What once was a ground for playing was now death. Ghosts, nothing more, nothing less. And yet the swing set still swings away, sadly swaying and swaying today and tomorrow, and forevermore.
Creak, creak, creak.
The End. \u2620\ufe0f
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