Writing Prompt

Y_ou are stained. Stained in every memory that I have. You have tainted even my happiest of memories. The places I love to go to I can’t go anymore because I see you. I see your face in every route I go. I can’t get you out of my head. I wonder if you think about me half as much as I do you. You were my home, but I never was yours. I will never understand what you felt for me. Surely you wouldn’t do that with anyone right? You didn’t do it with her, does that make me special? But you loved her, you didn’t love me. So in more ways than one I lost. I miss you bee._

We didn’t always live here. After the first air strike, though, we had no other option. Father said we couldn’t take our chances, that one time was enough of a warning, and he started digging. Digging for years and years, paving for months and tears, asking for help when needed but mostly just doing it all on his own, determined to survive. Luckily, the house was done one day before the second air strike occurred and we were already all set underneath the earth. Mother, father, our cat Percy, and me.

For lighting, we had a series of lamps that father installed along the walls, lit by a large source of matches. The house was a room: four corners, lights lining the wall on strings. One corner was the toilet, with a large hole reaching even further underground; the other two had mattresses, and the last corner had a small counter and some barrels that father had brought down from the kitchen. Flour, canned goods, and sugar. It was tight, and it would take some getting used to, but all in all it felt like home. And when the final air strike occurred, we felt the rumblings even far below and knew we could never emerge again.

“Closing the rather large hatch you come to flick on a switch against the wall, lights guide the small path ahead and a hum of air conditioning kicks in behind you, the walls are made of metal, and encapsulate you as you arrive at the door.

Yet another blockade, a door more akin to a submarine which is rectangular with a wheel to keep it airtight.

Twisting it open and spinning it till it thuds against itself you open the door, within there is a cube shaped room with seats holding shoes underneath them and above shelves for space. A sliding door separates it from the rest of the hidden house.

Slide it open and there lies a wall of green, selectively chosen plants and counters that span the length of the room, half the area a kitchen and the other half a mixed dining and living room area. Piping giving a smoother edge to the sides of the ceiling.” He theorised and planned as he spoke to the builders.

“So how’s it sound? It’s not done yet but is it at least feasible in some regard?” He asked.

The builder looked at his doodles and notes and placed a palm to his forehead. “I mean… if you’ve got the money I’m sure we can figure something out. Let us know when you’re done otherwise it won’t be your so called ‘dream mole living’ situation.”

He replied “that’s perfect, I’ll see you soon then!”

“What a child-like fella” the builder commented.

650 feet below the surface lies a salt mine Still in use today, though for alternative purposes. The family that founded it, of course, Built a place to stay down there, and one of the descendants, Harold, or Old Geezer, depending on which employee asked, Lives there still. The "house" has a facade, An exact replica of the Victorian craftsman The family had on the surface, blown away During the Dust Bowl era. The descendant now, By day serves as a Museum & Mine docent, though truthfully Has found his life's (avocational) work as a "specific hoarder," Pillaging the National Archive, since the government Eminently-domained space within the mine. This precious storage, Just down the way from the house, far more worthy (and interesting) a treasure Than nearly worthless salt, is missing some key items…Terminator glasses, for one, A curious document from an untitled folder from a monthly file, 11/63, that had been Tucked in a cracked file cabinet, And, rather pleasantly, Clarence's bells ring every time He opens the family house's front door. Replicas on mannequins, and nice but not as rare finds from antique stores Up on surface streets. (Mandated) housewarming gifts are his justified payment From the government for their grift. He does, however, have a growing concern for the increase in number Of wee-morning visits by the men in black with the banker's boxes, And the steel-barred room to which he has never Gained entry.

Every time I walk in here I hear Eddie Murphy’s voice doing the bit about his grandma saying, with an exaggerated drawn out drawl, “Eddie, it’s cold in here…”

I guess that’s one of the points of building a house under ground - natural protection from the heat of the sun.

Of course these days cold is relative. Ever since we hit the 5 degree Celsius point-of-no-turning-back global warming, all of us who are left up here in the Pacific Northwest — CDC estimates a 50% population decline through death and northward migration — only brave the outside at night. Daytime temperatures are well over 120 degrees Fahrenheit on a good day.

So our houses are built underground, and just about everything else is too. We’ve got entire underground cities, with streets, food grow operations, water extraction systems, what passes for restaurants these days, and even performance spaces for live music and theater.

We do go outside, or at least I do. Whenever I can, I head up to the surface. The heat, even at night, is oppressive, but the expansive dessert sands covering what once were forests and grass lands are awe inspiring. And on a good night you can see the moon and the stars pushing through the orangish smog overhead.

I do appreciate the coolness of our underground home. Holographic image generators behind the “windows” of our house create the illusion of three dimensional lakes, forested hillsides, corn fields, or whatever images from nature’s past suit our fancy on a given day. If we are feeling especially ironic or defeated we have the generator project skiers gliding down a snow capped cascade peak.

What the technology can’t solve for is the heaviness. It’s inescapable. No matter what you think you see out the windows, or hear through the INSE (the immersive nature sounds experience), you know you’re underground. Your body knows there’s rock on all sides. Even if you are not claustrophobic, you sense that you could be crushed at any moment.

Humans are adaptable. So we go on living with the heaviness. From a distance the scenes on the underground streets probably appear pretty familiar. Someone from 21st century Manhattan might feel right at home in the perpetual dusk; it’s a lot like the persistent shadows cast by those rows of skyscrapers that left so little room for sunshine.

But things are not what they appear to be. The heaviness has changed us. We are adapting to survive, but the adaptations come at a cost - a steep cost. We are losing the ability to create beauty.

The only way down to the house was through a safe. The turn handle was rusty and it would groan as you turned it and the mechanism wouldn’t open until you gave it a hearty thump. The decent down was dark and dreary and you would sometimes hear the distant scatter of rat feet on metal as you entered the house.

The house itself was surprisingly well-lit with high overhead lights. One could say it even felt homey. It was well warmed in the winter and cooled well during the summer. It provided rooms for all of us.

There were 61 of us in the Underground House. Each hall was lined with identical rooms with identical doors and identical children. No one understood why we were there or who we were. It was only the Underground House and us. It was as though no one wanted to leave.

I was the only one that knew about the safe. The way it groaned. And I was the only one that knew the sound of rat feet scurrying across metal. I was the only one that would pound on the metal door. I was the only one that found the house not warm enough, not cool enough. I was the only one that learned to understand.

I was the only one who left.

John’s boss facing financial issues, and the authorities are investigating whether john took the money home, or where he hid the money, because when they did a search of his home there was nothing to find there, all because john has another house which is underground the normal house

!TW! Implied miscarriage, kidnapping Eloise looked at the children surrounding her in the house with no sun. It was a pretty home with wood floors and blue walls, the floors were cold and and the ceiling would dip down eventually but for now they were safe. These children were to be raised here and would not leave. They would never miss the light, how could they miss something they couldn’t remember. She was going to make a family where no one could hurt them, no one could take her precious babies away, they were all hers now.

After all how could their old parents be so irresponsible, how could they leave these sweet babes alone. All by themselves, outside! She would be a much better mother than they ever would. She deserved to be a mother, especially with how cruelly god had treated her. If the heavens wouldn’t let her keep her children then she would take—rescue she reminded herself—children that were obviously not cared about as much as they should’ve been.

Eloise bobbled around the house checking on children and preparing food. She checked the locks one the doors once more, after all safety for all of them was of the utmost importance. The door shifted slightly under the pressure as she pulled and pushed on it.

As the timer on the counter began to howl with as it ran out she turned it off and reset it for the next dish for the next meal.

Eloise of course knew that the house would collapse eventually, with the weight and no doubt limited maintenance. That at some point the walls would fade and the floors would become scuffed. Or at least she used to know that, vaguely. But for know the house with no sun would house her family and by the time it collapses the children will be long grown and her rights will have been fulfilled as deserved.

The oldest home was our only home;etched eked out of the soil and creatures, minerals rocks ….

My ADHD thought patterns and stamina showing

A peculiar house sat off the main road, completely covered by topsoil, but above the cool weathered rock. Dandelions sprouted from the roof like hairs on a young child’s head. The robin egg blue painted door, visible only by the arch of the landscape emanated a sense of wonderment to all that drove by.