Bomb Shelter: ?

It was never silent in the bomb shelter. Even when he huddled in a corner with his hands over his ears, it was never silent. That bothered him the most: more than the other kids who tried to start fights, more than his mama crying, more than when they had to stay down for longer than they'd planned and ran out of food. More than anything else he just wanted silence. But when it wasn't a baby crying, it was the hushed murmurs of people trying to distract themselves from their own death. The airplanes flew overhead and their rumble penetrated through the thick cement that shielded the shelter, even if their bombs didn't. It was never quiet. So when he woke to silence, at first he thought that the bombs had made it through after all, and everyone was dead.


Inspiration: I read a line in a book earlier that mentioned looking up women's skirts in a bomb shelter, and as I put my fingers on the keyboard, a plane flew by overhead.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story...novel...any length but flash fiction. Hell, it could be a trilogy for all I know.
Notes: There's something about this twitches my imagination. I don't know what. Midway through, I thought I'd end with a scream as a dead body was found, but no.... This story could go anywhere: mainstream, fantasy, horror, mystery.... Simply because of the age of the boy, I don't think it would turn into a romance, but that's possible too. I guess it couldn't be a Western (oh,yeah? says a little part of my mind). I don't know what happens next, and I kind of want to. Uh-oh. I've felt this before. Must...resist.... I haven't even written much, but the character's alive inside my head. I know about his mother's tweed dress and his stamp collection and the photograph with the shattered frame.