“Who could that possibly be? No one cares to ever visit me,” Edward thought as he jumped up from his chair in which he was just previously reading a magazine. He smiled at the idea of having company for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He straightened up and shouted, “Just a minute!” over his shoulder towards the front door. He ran over to his mirror, fixed his hair, and buttoned his collar before heading towards the door. He arrived at the door and peered through the peephole at a nice-looking lady standing on his front porch. She wore a lovely lavender pantsuit with a matching hat, pearl earrings, and glasses that nearly took up her entire face. Edward trusted her already. So he unlatched the seventeen locks on the inside of the door and opened the door wide as he put on a welcoming smile. “May I help you?” Edward asked while still holding that award-winning
There is a man on the concrete steps beside her, his face unshaven and almost skeletal in appearance. His arms are wrapped tightly around his knees, his eyes are the same icy blue of the threadbare blanket on which he sits. The homeless man’s dog jumps up excitedly, generously adorning her face with wet kisses as she bends down. Her face is animated as she converses relaxedly with the man, his pale face lit with the warm glow of contentedness. The two are a welcome beacon of light in the choppy sea of pedestrians, their blank faces staring coldly at the cracked pavement under their feet as walk. The woman reaches into her designer handbag, pulling out what appears to be a sandwich, handing it to the grubby, outstretched hands of the man. His blue eyes are youthful, the eyes of a man no more than a day past thirty, but his skin is weathered and leathery, from the weight of life’s
Most of them were well kept, gaudy paint fresh, brass fittings shining, flowers in pots on the deck, but some of then looked neglected, and squatted low in the water, as though mourning their lost brilliance. There was a kitchen chair lying on its side on one of them. The man had been sitting on a chair much like that, she recalled, shoulders slumped, hands dangling between spread thighs, but he’d straightened up and his face had brightened when she’d looked at him, as if he’d recognised her and she was important to him. She stooped to look through the window, and a dog hurled itself at her shadow, barking hysterically. Others joined in; it sounded as if they had turned on each other. She backed away, imagining their snapping jaws, their flat arrow shaped skulls and dead eyes, and ran back along the path and up the steps to the
Talking. It was fine, I guess. Better than before. She leaned against the wall, drink in hand. Some kind of cocktail, but I could barely tell. I slowly reached for my glasses, but stopped myself. I just didn’t want to know. Why would I? She wore a black dress, I could tell. I’d seen her wear it before. I’d seen her wear a lot of things - that dress was my favorite. She always wore black on Tuesdays and red on Wednesdays. White on Thursdays. Purple on Fridays. Pink on Saturdays. Blue on Sundays. And whatever she wanted on Mondays. Always something different on a Monday. I came here whenever I could; she was here all the time. She worked here, actually. At a bar, yeah, but she was so smart. College. She went. Made it look easy. I did too. Geeky crap. Not a big deal. But she was such a big deal. Everything she did was so important, like they could write a news story just about her smile. A book about her laugh. A national news event on just the way she breathed. I’d seen her every day - off right now, no work on Tuesdays - and I’d say the same thing every time I saw her. A melancholy grumble. “Sprite.” And just like that, she’d give it to me. Her white
“Has your energy depleted Bridgette?” Amiable, despite the apparent lack of care he was affording either her or her visage, his thumb trailing across one of the faces blinking up at him from that page. Rubbed half-semi-circle into that image, lips pressed together with a fondness that didn't translate properly onto his features. “Should you prefer, at any point, we can further discuss things- your conversation has always been anything but engaging darling, perhaps you'd rather conserve your strength for the latter?” Was a slow swivel, his nail pressing into the very center of that face, eyebrows just barely lifted as to the conversation he was verbally carrying out, that 'no' just near beneath the decibel needed for the utterance at all. Paused, in his own reply, slow roll of his eyes upwards to that back that was presented him- whisper of something behind that reflection of his eyes just before she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. [I] “No sir.”[/i] Better- tap of his fingers against his table his only response as his gaze fell once more- that barely recognized rip within those pages from where that crescent shaped nail had dug into it... irritated, that flick of the paper over, face now covered
Raindrops ran down the window pane, creating streaks of water on the glass. A lightning bolt struck lazily, and a quiet roll of thunder followed. Fragile clouds let loose a few rays of sun, illuminating small parts of the city. The woman lounging in the window seat languidly drew a few finishing strokes on a piece of paper, then set the sketch aside, allowing her eyes to roam to the outside. She rubbed them gently, blinking out the dreariness that came with stormy days. No balloons today, she thought with disappointment. They were beautiful with their bright colors and elaborate designs.
Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.
He continued scouting out the window, the face haunting his thoughts. The surprising realism didn’t perplex him; it was the stare. He couldn't shake the feeling there’d been intelligence behind the eyes. Too bad he didn't get a photo. She was lost forever. He did have the next best thing, though—his notebook. He'd been writing and drawing stuff in it for the last couple of years. He could draw Cloud Girl and show it to his mom when she woke up.
While listening to the StoryCorps stories, three of the five that I chose to focus on all have something in common. Each story depicts in some sort of way that hard work goes a long way in life. The stories I listen to were, “Anytime they had a stunt to do with a black actor, they would paint these white guys in blackface.” “The way that I look at my job as a vendor, I am a professional athlete.” and “All of a sudden Dr. King drove down the street.” These three stories showed that when you work hard, good things come to you. The “black actors” story talked about two men who wanted to become stuntmen for real actors. These two men were rejected from many films but continued practicing in parks, and on the streets. They would dive off park bleachers
“Hey, sunshine!.” The lighthearted voice of my best friend greeted me and I turned to look at her. Marina had her hair up in a ponytail today, the brown waves almost reaching her back. She was wearing a simple sundress, and looked like she was about to burst with excitement. Looking back at Chad, I saw that he had grudgingly returned to his spot on the couch, probably assuming that Marina would try to give him a black eye if he interrupted us again. Then again, his assumption was probably correct.
“Bob” calls Brenda out the window. “Come on in sweetie, we have a lot to do today! We barely have time to reflect on our situation right now, due to the 4th of July party coming up; the Smith’s 2008 fashion event; and, your get together with the guys…all in just two days.” Bob, a middle-aged man, lives in New York with his wife, Brenda, and his parents. Soaking up the sun, he stands dressed in a Polo short –sleeve and plaid shorts on the front sidewalk of his Mom and Dad’s home. He calls to his wife, “Brenda, come out here and join me. I need to ask you something.”
I stared out the window, squinting as the rays of sun hit everything in their reach, burning into my eyes. I usually enjoyed the soothing warmth that the sun's rays emitted, but today was different. Today, my mom was driving me to high school...Johnson High School, for my first day as a freshmen. At the corner of my eyes, I saw a bruised, grayish-looking cloud, even the sun’s radiant light couldn't reach it. I couldn't help but think how me and that worn out cloud were so similar; dull and lonely. Geez, I definitely was going to be lonely. As we neared the school, I could feel my mom's eyes imprint into me as she stared at me. "Sahar", her voice spelled out concern. I knew she just wanted me to say that I was happy and excited, but she knew
Even when the sky cried, the town was perfect. The weekly manicured grass welcomed the unexpected warm summer rain. Rainbows of chalk drawings washed away in dark pools, and even with whole world seemingly turning dark, the perfect white trim on the houses shown, and the old gas street lights illuminated the pristine street. In the beige house, behind the white picket fence and the red door gathered a group of APT moms in the kitchen, hosting weekly book club. My sad reflection in the window stared back at me, visible to no one. I laughed quietly to myself when I saw the very familiar group. Making small talk at the head of the table was Mrs. Jackson, I had gone to school with her son forever. Funny, I didn’t see her at the funeral. Chipping away at her manicure was Mrs. Webster, our conservative Girl Scout leader whose daughter Lillian never liked me much. It was a quite diverse group, some sporting intricate hairdos thick with hairspray and pins, sipping their soy lattes perfectly poised, conversing only slightly
Mrs Hutchence eyed the sky nervously, the clouds that had been wispy and white that morning were now darker and denser, and the usual virescent hues of the Land were muted. Gone were the sweeping blue skies of yesterday, now awash with various shades of bronze with a greenish edge to it that hurt her eyes. She had been waiting for Janet McIvor, to go about their usual routine working with the bees. A few days had passed since Gemmy come to stay with her, and the McIvor’s were still on edge. This time, Janet came alone, and as made her way across the dry field, Mrs Hutchence started to feel a chill. Janet looked up to her, and met her gaze with an eye of interest (solemn expression?). Mrs Hutchence
That evening Kollins returned home, like everyone else at six. She ran up to her room, and wrote down how perfect everything seemed today. After, she scurried down the stairs, to find a fresh batch of cookies lying on the windowsill to cool. She bounced a cookie around in her hand until she was able to handle the heat. She grabbed a glass of milk and plopped down on the chair, diagonal to where her mother sat. A sheer look of sadness covered her mother’s face. “Kollins, I need to tell you something very important.”