Short Story One Ordinary Day With Marshmallows

I trip over the curb, spilling a few drops of iced coffee over the brim of my cup, as I attempt to keep my dog-eared notebook from slipping out of my grip. I twist and shove my way through the narrow street, apologizing to the owners of the stray feet I step on. I walk onto a larger street and let out a breath; the suffocating heat of an Italian summer is enough to cope with, without the sweaty skin of a hundred others pressing against me. I can’t say I didn’t want this—the air is thick with both moisture and stories. I sit down in a nook by a rusty water fountain and take out a pen.

It was the year 1922 and life hadn’t been this good in a while, times had taken a big change for the best. In Manhattan, New York, there were extravagant parties every weekend; the whole city shows up and doesn't leave until they see the sun. There was once this wealthy family living right in the middle of the roaring twenties. There was a mom, a dad, an older sister named Alice, and a younger sister named Anna. Alice loved to go to all of the huge parties, meet new people, and not come home until the morning. Every time Alice would get ready to go out for the night, Anna would watch her get ready as if she was picturing that was herself. Anna looked up at her sister and wanted to do everything she did. Alice had been talking about this party for a long time, and the night

A man of his mid-twenties, Lucas Walker, was walking down the sidewalk. The colorful leaves swirled on the ground near him. They were almost completely gone from the trees. Recently the sky had gotten darker foreboding the coming of a storm. As Lucas continued, he heard his stomach grumble. It was around noon, so it was to be expected. Quickening his pace he made his way to the nearby cafe. Lucas strolled toward the building. Looking through the window he saw himself. He wore a red sweater with jeans. Lucas mumbled about the overpriced cafe in front of him, clear displeasure flashing across his face. He pushed open the door and entered. Only a few people were there and after scanning the room for a seat he froze when his eyes crossed a certain lady.

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

As Connie got into the car she felt a wave of grief. She couldn’t get away from the invisible gates surrounding and trapping her as if she were a hunted animal. The ride seemed like a journey, going on forever and ever. Trying to pry information causally, Connie would ask Arnold ,” Where are you taking me?” Arnold just turned around and gave her that sleepy smile of his and , “Don’tcha worry ‘bout a thing honey. You are safe with me.” His smile, that reassuring yet mysterious smile quenched her longing for home and diminished the thought of how her family would think about the absence of their youngest daughter. It seemed to mask her thoughts of how how her cold mother and father would react seeing the their screen door wide open and the music that Connie listened to

There was some hustle and bustle in the kitchen that worked as my alarm clock that morning. With a few groans, an extensive stretch, and a yank of my comforter, I rolled out my warm bed and onto the icy hardwood floor. I reached for a sweatshirt in the pile of clothes stacked at the foot of my bed before I sauntered to the kitchen to see what the ruckus was. I was delighted to see four people fixing and drinking their coffee instead of just the usual two! Zach and Garrett had returned home for break the night before and this was the first I had seen of them. Sleepily, I made my way to the closest bar stool where Zach was sitting and wrapped an arm around his neck; “Did you miss me, bubby?,” I joked. In all reality, I was the one who had been waiting for them to finally be home. I sat down adjacent to him, next to my mom, and denied the coffee I was offered like

It was a cold morning in January, but the sun was shining bright as Grace walked up to her favorite bakery. She had just come from church and was looking forward to sitting and relaxing over a cup of coffee and a warm muffin before she met with her lawyer this afternoon. The bell above the door jingled and the heat of the bakery warmed her face, welcoming her into the cozy atmosphere it provided.

She was late to her friend’s house. Her mind became so easily distracted by the mix of bright colors on the small, portable, handheld device. Jolted back to the reality of what little time was allotted for packing; she took purposeful grabs containing bare necessities for the night with the clock still ticking away behind her. One by one, Della dropped items into her black and white, polka dotted, drawstring bag. And then out the door- like a dazed New Yorker rushing through the station to get to the departing subway-- she left her modern yet plain house, only saying goodbye to her mother. Her father hadn’t lived there for years.

I would not have stopped there if it wasn’t for my children’s constant begging for ice cream, even before 9 A.M. It seemed a suitable place, with a garden and several empty tables where the sun’s rays intended to stay a little longer that morning. Or maybe it was the desire for a cup of coffee, or perhaps the smell of mint or fresh pastries. Somehow that place had gathered all fragrances from one New York, April morning, just far enough away from the crowds and noise, yet close enough to everything.

Three droning tones served as the morning call of the bustling businesswoman as she awoke in the city that never sleeps to the blaring alarm of her phone and the view of the Manhattan skyline through the tall glass windows encompassing her. She was somewhat accustomed to the sirens and sounds of the city indicating the dawn of the day ahead of her, yet still, she could not persuade herself to ascend from her dishevelled bed sheets as a result of the dispiriting drip-drop of drizzle on the autumnal horizon. A strong black coffee was calling her name; the figmental, unyielding aroma enamelled the walls of the two-bed apartment, permeating Emily’s nostrils as she longed for caffeine. She grudgingly traipsed her way winding through doorways and

Her sunset hair danced along the night sky, slapping back and forth like a flag in the wind. And out of her bright, emerald eyes crept just enough light from the high up moon for onlookers to have the opportunity to see the outline of this youthful, round face from their apartment windows. She was out of place -to be seen in the center of town, so late at night, at such a young age, being only two or three years old, without a parent by her side, nor any suggestion of a caretaker of guardian of some sorts.

She smiled as the refreshing breeze blew into her face, filling her nose with the sweet smell of her flowers. Maria Brown always enjoyed the cool mornings. She adored the sound of the bird chirping and feeling of the warm sunlight shining down her body, making her feel drowsy. But today was one of those days with too many things to do. The old Mrs. Brown looked like she was being controlled by invisible strings from above, only her puppeteer was drunk. She had that brilliant smile on her face, and her cheeks were faintly pink from all her excitement. She was getting a visitor today, her dearest granddaughter was coming to visit from the big city.

In a small urban apartment in the heart of Manhattan dwelt a small, respectable family that consisted of a laboring father, a devout mother, and an adoring son. All of them hustling and bustling in the business of life. The father, Conner Walton, a relatively older man with small patches of well worn grey hair around his leathery lips and ears, worked at an enormous storage house; full of musty boxes of trinkets and tools to supply to the locals. The mother was ambitious and fiery. Older, like her beloved husband, Kim Walton took it easier in her age. She stayed in the house and cleaned, took care of their child, and apartment alike. The son, Jeffrey Walton, a bright young boy with lots of potential, attended a normal grade school, had few

Walter walked with purpose towards the coffee shop on Main. He was heading to order the missus her latte. After every hair appointment she wanted a latte with extra cream and Walter had to get it for her. As he walked along he passed a school. It was 2 o’clock and he heard the loud, obnoixous bell ring as he passed. He hurried along before the kids started filing out the door. He was still thinking about it when he reached the door of the coffee shop. He placed his order and sat down, staring out the window towards the school.

It was a cold December night and Alex was walking around the streets of Boston, aimlessly searching for a place to lay down. Seaport Boulevard. Atlantic Avenue. Finally arriving on Congress Street. That night marked the one-month anniversary since Alex lost his job at one of the largest financial institutions in the world, due to a dispute between him and his boss. In retrospect, that well-paying job, with the spacious corner office and the unparalleled view of the Boston Harbor were the least of his concerns. Before that very dispute, Alex’s grandmother, Isabel, whom he loved very much, died after a long hard fight against cancer. At the time of her death, Alex was living in her apartment, which made coping with such circumstances all the more difficult. Drowning in student loans, and unable to foot the bills, Alex was forced to find other living arrangements. His grandmother’s highly coveted apartment in the heart of the city was foreclosed upon and sold to a young family from India who had just recently moved to the States. No job. No money. No family. Three things that plagued Alex and his experience so far as a young adult trying to find success in Boston. Many of Alex’s classmates at this point were starting families and had stable occupations all over Boston and the globe. It was nights like these, that Alex felt ashamed. Wandering alone in the brisk winter night, searching simply for a bench to sleep on, he would try to forget about the friends he