Prompt: Write a diary entry, dated 10 years in the future.
July 23, 2030
I miss the sun. It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost three years since I’ve felt its warmth on my face. After we were forced underground, no one’s been brave enough to go back up. They have sun-lamps here. We’re all given a turn twice in a 24 hour period. But they don’t replace the sun. The thought of going above and giving myself up, if only for a chance to glimpse real light, has begun to appeal to me.
There are children being raised down here who have never smelled fresh air. They don’t know what a breeze feels like. They don’t know what rain is. I never thought I would miss crazy Michigan weather, yet here we are. All they know is dirt and rock and dark. They know stillness. They know silence. Oh, to hear the wind tearing through a field of corn, or the spring peepers. These children wouldn’t know the music they were hearing.
The only thing keeping me sane these three years are the hydroponic farms. When they assigned us our jobs once we knew we were trapped down here, I was lucky enough to be chosen. The plants remind me of the world above, even if they’re not grown in dirt. They have a smell to them; an alive smell. The air in the farms isn’t as stale as it is in the rest of this tomb.
The bell for the sun-lamps is ringing. If I don’t get in line soon, I will have to wait long into the late hours. I would say “night” but how would we know? There are no windows. We are not allowed clocks or watches. The chimes and bells and beepers tell us when it is time for everything.
I miss the sun.