Hello, this is a story I recently wrote for my Creative Writing class inspired by The Scream by Edvard Munch. I hope you enjoy my take on the interpretation of this painting:)

The Silent Scream

Santa Monica Pier, California
Friday, July 15th, 1949
People young and old could be seen playing games in the arcade, taking a spin on the newest carnival ride, and getting into the groove with their significant other in the dance hall. The smell of sweet funnel cakes and cinnamon mingle in the air with the savory sweetness of corn dogs. Music played from the overhead speakers, jaunty, carefree, and full of joy, the type of music you expect to hear at a carnival. It was close to evening when I decided to head home for the day. Having ridden on too many rides, I was feeling slightly nauseous as I walked down the wooden pier. The wood creaked under my sandals, but I paid it no mind as I observed the other carnival goers. I walked to the far end of the pier, away from all the noise to try and reduce the pounding in my skull. 
Turning my gaze from the boisterous crowd, I gaze out at the water. The sun was starting to set over the ocean, the sky painted with strokes of blues, yellows, and oranges making it look like something out of a movie. There weren’t many others on the pier, the night was still young and the weekend was just around the corner. You had to make the most of everyday, especially since the threat of the atomic bomb loomed over all of America. Communists could be all around you, and people had a hard time knowing who to trust, be it life long friends, family members, or government officials. Good thing all the school children have learned what to do if a bomb is dropped on them. Duck and cover, because that’s going to save you from the shock wave and radiation. I let out a soft chuckle to myself before closing my eyes to fully embrace the sound of the waves crashing into the cliff side and lapping against the sand. The smell of the salt fills my nostrils, overpowering the smells of the fried fair food.
I let myself get lost in my own little world, no communists, no atomic bomb, just me, good food, and my friends all safe. I’m not able to enjoy the peace for long as I hear footsteps approaching from behind me. Opening my eyes, I turn to see two men dressed in long black coats and black bowler hats lean against the rail not far from me. Each of the men have lit cigarettes dangling in their fingers and smoke curing from their mouths. Though I am not an avid eavesdropper and don’t care for others’ business, I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation.
“What did I tell you Frank, we can’t be meeting in such public places. What if we get found out? We’ll be deported or worse, killed,” says the taller figure.
“Nathan, for the last time, this is a safe space. Boss told me that you know what wouldn’t be dropped here,” replies Frank puffing out a cloud. 
Quite the interesting conversation they are having. I turn my head in their direction just a touch more hoping to catch more of what they are saying. 
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist Nathan, worrying about things you can’t control won’t get you anywhere,” Frank says to his antsy companion. 
“That’s where you’re wrong Frank, I can control where I’ll be on the day of the drop. How do we know the Boss isn’t lying? How can we trust him when we can’t even trust our family?” asks Nathan, smoke leaving his mouth in angry spirals as he speaks. 
“Of course we can trust Boss, we are on his side after all. Why would he want to kill his trusted agents?”
Agents? More talk about something being dropped, and mentions of not being able to trust those they are close with? That’s odd. I turn my head to stare at them directly. They still don’t see me watching and listening to them, which is a good thing in this situation.
“No. I’ve told you before and I’ll say it again. The atomic bomb will not be dropped here, at least not today. Why won’t you listen to me Nathan? Do you suspect me? We are communists together Nathan, don’t forget that.”
Communists…next to me. That’s when I see a small red ribbon around both men’s wrists. The tails flutter in the wind and fly out from the coat sleeves, the mark of a communist. Should I warn the others? Call the police? The FBI? 
I turn away from them and walk back towards the crowd. My mind is reeling with so many different thoughts and emotions. I don’t know what I should do. Would people even believe me if I said something? Would it cause a panic? Oh what should I do? Before I reach the end of the pier, I turn back towards the communists and walk towards them. Maybe I heard wrong. Maybe they are well meaning folks and I misunderstood the conversation. Before I can reach them, the world goes white. Though the flash only lasts for a few seconds, I feel as though I’ve looked directly into the sun. It feels as if the world goes silent. Everyone is waiting for the siren. The siren that never sounds. Then I hear people screaming. Panic and fear ensue, and I can hear the potential communist yearling at each other behind me.
“I knew we couldn’t trust the Boss, what did I tell you Frank! Now we are gonna die!”
“Shut up Nathan! Maybe that wasn’t the bomb. Maybe that was something different.”
“Even now you are in denial!”
I tune out the rest of the argument as a mushroom dome rises in the sky, the black smoke filling the air. People all around me have started to drop like flies into a proper duck and cover position, but I am frozen in place. Bringing my hands to the sides of my face, I watch in horror as the shock wave ripples out from the cloud, moving at such a speed. Dust, sand, water and debris all rush towards where I stand. I don’t have time to close my eyes before it hits me. 

Breaking News

“Tonight the first atomic bomb was dropped by the Soviet Union on Santa Monica Pier,” the news anchor on screen says, sadness filling her voice as she speaks. “There is a crew looking for any people who may have survived the initial blast, but have had no luck thus far. There have been many disturbing images that have come from the site, one of the worst being of a person with their hands plastered to their face, eyes wide open and their mouth open in what we can assume is a silent scream. Shortly after the photo was taken, a gust of wind blew the ashes away. This is truly a tragedy and we will never forget what happened at Santa Monica Pier, as the landscape is now tainted with the scent of death and blackened by destruction. President Truman will be holding a press conference within the hour. If we have any updates on the search for survivors, we will be sure to inform you.”