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Creative Writing : An Essay

Decent Essays
It’s cold, but I don’t mind. The sun is taking it’s time exhaling its last breath before the day turns to night. It feels a lot windier up here on the roof next to the pipes than down there on the sidewalk that Mrs. Browning’s strolling on. She’s walking her ugly dog again. Wearing an expensive coat that puffs up like a marshmallow against the wind, but she doesn’t seem to feel a thing. I want a coat like that, but not all girly and golden, of course. Then again, I’m lucky I have any shirts without any more holes than they need.
I reach blindly behind me for a tiny pile of pebbles that I throw at birds sometimes. I wouldn’t actually hit them; I’m not a bad person. It’s relaxing, I think. Anyway, I pick up a pebble. I dangle my legs over
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Browning walks her dog this time in the evening every weekend. If I was quick, I could scramble up the ladders and grab the nearest, shiniest thing, and be back in my bedroom before she makes it around. Most of my brain says it’s the obvious choice, but the other, smaller parts are grabbing the prior parts by the hood of their jacket and saying it’s bad to steal. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Browning doesn’t even care about any of the stuff in her house, as she’s constantly buying more decor that she has to hold sideways to fit through the front door. I decide that, yes, I deserve that money more than she ever will, and if I’m worth my wits I’m willing to steal it.
I see Mrs. Browning walking three houses down, her shiny coat barely reflecting the light of the setting sun, and I decide it’s now or never. I stand up and slip slightly on a pebble, right myself, and briskly walk over to fire escape, and fly down the steps in groups of twos and threes, and occasionally almost knock my head onto the balconies above me. Perhaps a bit unnecessarily, I sprint on the sidewalk to Mrs. Browning’s apartment, with no pedestrians to question me, or slow me down, or give nasty looks when I brush past them. I walk into the wide alley where the fire escapes are and run up 4 flights of rusty stairs to Mrs. Browning’s balcony, above the other building in the vicinity. As usual, the door is open. I don’t spot it immediately, but there’s a small cat, the color of caramel, sleeping in the sun
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