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lunabee34 requested, I'm going to be posting the stuff that I write for my creative writing class here. If you wanna read it, cool, but don't feel obligated:)
I'll post later on last night. hehe.
As Irene and Jake breezed around the corner of the John Hancock Tower, a man in a sharp business suit rushed past them. Not acknowledging them, he plowed past them, knocking them against the glass wall, and sped off into the pedestrian traffic, leaving in his wake only a cool rush of air and the lingering scent of spice and cigarette smoke. The cacophony of Michigan Avenue swelled around them once more: car horns and brake squeaks, traffic, laughter and conversation flooding the sidewalk like a great clamoring wave. Jake turned to Irene and shrugged, as if to say, “No bid deal.”
“Jerk,” she muttered, as they walked to the crosswalk, pausing to wait for the light to change. “People here are so rude!”
“Not so much rude,” Jake acknowledged, “as always running off to be somewhere. They don’t really take the time to notice anything or anyone else.”
“Still rude,” she insisted as the signal changed and they started for the other side of the street, her heels clicking a staccato beat on the well-worn asphalt beneath her. As they reached the corner, the lingering scent of a fruity perfume and roasting hot dogs wafted around like a leaf in the wind. “What’s this?” she wondered, hunching down and picking up a piece of sparkling metal off the dirty sidewalk.
“Looks like an earring,” Jake said, glancing over as he sidestepped a toddling child.
“It’s a pearl earring,” she affirmed, turning it over and reading the inscription on the silver backing. “Venus. Hmmm,” she shrugged, rolling it between her fingers before slipping it into the pocket of her well-worn corduroy jacket. “Wonder who it belonged to.”
“Who knows?” Jake said, linking his arm through hers as they strolled down the avenue
They spent the rest of the afternoon pointing and glancing into the towering windows of the pristine stores, rambling from one shop to the next, browsing and daydreaming what it would be like to own such expensive things. By mid afternoon, they had strolled almost the entire length of the avenue, north and south. Irene was poised to hail a cab when, like a bomb had gone off, a bright flash of color across the street caught her attention, calling her to it. Taking Jake by the hand, she led him across the street and into the little furniture store, passing by row after row of smooth leather armchairs and floral-patterned couches, mahogany end tables and oak dinette sets to the front window, seeking the object of her attention.
She closed her eyes and ran her fingers across the cracked orange leather back of the old chair, like the brittle skin of an ancient reptile. She could feel the coldness of the air reflected from the skin, but also the warmth of the ages this piece had seen. Maybe it wasn’t even old – maybe it was just made to look like it. But it felt old, and it felt familiar. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she whispered?
“This old beat-up thing?” Jake scoffed. “We could probably find something better and cheaper at a yard sale.”
“I know, I know,” she nodded. “But isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yeah, I suppose it is,” he yawned.
“It’s just like Father’s old chair in the den,” she whispered, smiling warmly at a distant memory of a house, a chair, and a man that were all long gone.
The cigarette slips from my fingers and hovers in the air for a moment, caught between currents of wind and gravity. Its ashes, burning embers, sparking silently into the chaotic clamor of rush hour traffic and angry motorists. Most nights, this is my reprieve; my one and only hour – precious few moments – when there is nothing but myself, my thoughts, my unknowing certainty that another day has passed and that another night has come. The headlights, taillights, blinking beacons of change are my meditation; the horns and sirens and shouts of rage are my prayer. The cigarette falters and in less than a breath, it is gone and the car in front of me is moving again.
lunabee34 requested, I'm going to be posting the stuff that I write for my creative writing class here. If you wanna read it, cool, but don't feel obligated:)I'll post later on last night. hehe.
As Irene and Jake breezed around the corner of the John Hancock Tower, a man in a sharp business suit rushed past them. Not acknowledging them, he plowed past them, knocking them against the glass wall, and sped off into the pedestrian traffic, leaving in his wake only a cool rush of air and the lingering scent of spice and cigarette smoke. The cacophony of Michigan Avenue swelled around them once more: car horns and brake squeaks, traffic, laughter and conversation flooding the sidewalk like a great clamoring wave. Jake turned to Irene and shrugged, as if to say, “No bid deal.”
“Jerk,” she muttered, as they walked to the crosswalk, pausing to wait for the light to change. “People here are so rude!”
“Not so much rude,” Jake acknowledged, “as always running off to be somewhere. They don’t really take the time to notice anything or anyone else.”
“Still rude,” she insisted as the signal changed and they started for the other side of the street, her heels clicking a staccato beat on the well-worn asphalt beneath her. As they reached the corner, the lingering scent of a fruity perfume and roasting hot dogs wafted around like a leaf in the wind. “What’s this?” she wondered, hunching down and picking up a piece of sparkling metal off the dirty sidewalk.
“Looks like an earring,” Jake said, glancing over as he sidestepped a toddling child.
“It’s a pearl earring,” she affirmed, turning it over and reading the inscription on the silver backing. “Venus. Hmmm,” she shrugged, rolling it between her fingers before slipping it into the pocket of her well-worn corduroy jacket. “Wonder who it belonged to.”
“Who knows?” Jake said, linking his arm through hers as they strolled down the avenue
They spent the rest of the afternoon pointing and glancing into the towering windows of the pristine stores, rambling from one shop to the next, browsing and daydreaming what it would be like to own such expensive things. By mid afternoon, they had strolled almost the entire length of the avenue, north and south. Irene was poised to hail a cab when, like a bomb had gone off, a bright flash of color across the street caught her attention, calling her to it. Taking Jake by the hand, she led him across the street and into the little furniture store, passing by row after row of smooth leather armchairs and floral-patterned couches, mahogany end tables and oak dinette sets to the front window, seeking the object of her attention.
She closed her eyes and ran her fingers across the cracked orange leather back of the old chair, like the brittle skin of an ancient reptile. She could feel the coldness of the air reflected from the skin, but also the warmth of the ages this piece had seen. Maybe it wasn’t even old – maybe it was just made to look like it. But it felt old, and it felt familiar. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she whispered?
“This old beat-up thing?” Jake scoffed. “We could probably find something better and cheaper at a yard sale.”
“I know, I know,” she nodded. “But isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yeah, I suppose it is,” he yawned.
“It’s just like Father’s old chair in the den,” she whispered, smiling warmly at a distant memory of a house, a chair, and a man that were all long gone.
The cigarette slips from my fingers and hovers in the air for a moment, caught between currents of wind and gravity. Its ashes, burning embers, sparking silently into the chaotic clamor of rush hour traffic and angry motorists. Most nights, this is my reprieve; my one and only hour – precious few moments – when there is nothing but myself, my thoughts, my unknowing certainty that another day has passed and that another night has come. The headlights, taillights, blinking beacons of change are my meditation; the horns and sirens and shouts of rage are my prayer. The cigarette falters and in less than a breath, it is gone and the car in front of me is moving again.
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Really, that's all I can say..
*bows down to your wonderfullness*
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