Andres Hernandez

Smog Memories

It was spring . The 456th day after the first test. Across the expanse of dead woodland nuclear dust peppers the morning air like toxic snowflakes. A lone homestead juts out like a nail to be hammered, white against the dull yellowish air. A quick flash of movement from an upstairs window reveals a spectator hungrily eyeing the forest. David Crenshaw takes one hagggered breath before quckily closing the shuteers immediately seeing what he was hoping he wouldn’t.