Little Boy

A microfiction told from the perspective of the Hiroshima bomb.

My story starts with an ending. Or rather, the thought of one. I was created for the sole purpose of putting an end to something. I didn’t know specifically what that something was, but I do know that most people seemed to believe that I would be able to put an end to their problems. 

I spent a lot of time holed up in a lab. The same people came in and out every day. They spent a lot of their time performing various tests on me. “Everything must be perfect,” They would say, “We can’t let this go wrong.”

I was loaded into a plane one August morning. I didn’t know where I was going, but the workers were talking about how this would be the big day. Today was the day that all their hard work was going to pay off, and they sure were thrilled. They had a right to be. Today was the day that I was going to solve all of their problems. 

Several hours later, the plane that I was in stopped moving forward. It just hovered motionless in the air. Suddenly, the ground dropped from beneath me and I was falling. The ground got closer and closer with each passing second. There were people on the ground looking up with bewilderment, pointing at me. I continued falling, and falling until I hit the ground.
I went out with a bang. The rest, as you know, is history.

Author's Note

I wrote this for a forum, originally. While I did do some research for it, it still may not be 100% accurate. Also, this was my first time writing from the perspective of an inanimate object, so I'd really like to hear your thoughts.