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It started when the sun fell. Its brightness silenced our city and

brought death with it. They did not intend to spare any life, and

with its wrath it left shadows of darkness to remind us of its visit.

There were walking ghosts, wailing children, skin falling off of

people’s bodies, pain seemed to ring eerily through the air and there

was an overwhelming smell of ashes that infected every sense in the

body. It seemed to be raining darkness, dust and dirt, the sun had

fallen and night was following suit. Mumquickly hurried us all down

to the water in an attempt to ease the burns that had formed on our

skin. We were both so young. I was four years old and you were

barely two, we would normally be so ignorant to our surroundings,

living in our own little world, but children have an adept ability to

understand fear and it was palpable in those moments. It was later

realised that this new dawn was not the sun, it was an atomic weapon

intended to destroy. A man in a suit halfway across the world

dictated its release and with only a few words he threw our lives off

balance and everything changed irrevocably.

The war ended, we were on the losing side. History’s bias swings

to those who succeed, they write the story. The world was buzzing

with freedom and hope, whilst we suffered from the actions it took

to reach it, our sacrifice disregarded.

No war has an innocent side. By the end, all hands surrender,

covered in blood, no one is spared from the destruction. However

after every fire, life can still be found.

One of mankind’s best qualities is resilience and it took every

ounce we had to regain order after treaties were signed and

apologies were made. The only option was to move forward, and

that’s exactly what we did. You and I grew up under microscopes,

studied in an attempt to understand the effects of radiation on

those involved in the attacks. Though their inspections seemed

distant, it felt constantly like we had strings attached to us, binds

that were made all those years ago. We were treated as fragile and

were constantly monitored. Slowly it felt like we became these

weird concoctions of glass and strings and experiments, like little

porcelain puppets. Control was never an epithet we got to call ours.

Although haunted by the past most people were able to continue

leading their lives, and we did, until you hit 11 and bruises of

different sizes and shapes started covering your lightly tanned skin,

and yet they appeared without pain or cause.

The Flight Of

A Porcelain


Laura Tinney

Isobelle Carmody Award

For Creative Writing

Highly Commended