Johnson
Creative Writing
29 May 2009
The Tunnel
I hear cheering, music and chanting. The buzzer sounds, and thepeople line my walls like sardines in a can. It's dark outside, but
bright in here, for my lights glow with a strong intensity. My walls
are now completely plastered with bodies, and I hear the distant
beat. The deep pounding, like the heartbeat I never had. The sound
grows louder, and the source comes into view. The gleaming brass,
swinging through the air to the rhythm of the drums. Endless rows
of night black and blood red uniforms passing by, one after another.
The strong look on their faces illustrates the meaning of the word
"Pride." I think back and remember the man who started it all,
William Stewart. He started the Friday night tradition; he started
the event that gives me life. I see the people pursuing behind the
band. Within minutes, my tunnel is empty. I am alone again. There
is always an eerie emptiness left behind when my walls are bare.
It could be the spirits of past tradition. Either way, I am dormant,
yet again.
