A week had passed since the ten-year anniversary of mom's death and again I found myself staring out the window at the gloominess. Okay, so it's just my reflection in the glass. It was a brilliant Sunday morning with an endless blue sky. The buildings, the Hudson, everything had a winter crispness to it. I wish I could enjoy it, but I can't get comfortable here, can't concentrate. Can't write. Even fifteen stories up, I felt the constant undercurrent of activity. The silent hum of a city that sometimes moves too fast for its own good, my own good. Two ice cubes and two fingers of Macallan sat at the bottom of a silver-rimmed Madison Avenue whiskey glass. Sunday and our pre-church routine is underway. Sarah thought it would be good …show more content…
Adorned in a black turtleneck and gray slacks, she offered me a perfunctory smile as she grabs her coat off the rack. She’s a no-nonsense New Yorker who never met a problem she couldn’t solve. Besides me, anyways. She's also sharp with the tongue when someone needs to be put in their place. Guilty as charged. But she’s genuine and honest, and has a smile that lights up a room, and I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve her. She also enjoys taking off her clothes around me. Or did. Before our problems started. My problems. We met at a writer's conference in Atlanta in. She was there gathering manuscripts, looking for that undiscovered gem; I was there to put Parade of Echoes in the hands of as many editors as possible. I assumed she was just another aspiring author as I sauntered up next to her at the bar. She had the sexy librarian look, wire-rimmed glasses and yellow number 2 pencil through the hair bun. Four hefty manuscripts cradled in her left arm and three flash drives hung from her neck. When I saw her take her seat behind the Barnett Publishing table, I couldn't take my eyes off her. I wanted to pull that pencil out. As the evening wound down, I convinced her to have a nightcap with me. There was a manuscript to discuss, and such. I owed a great deal of my success to her. Yes, I wrote Parade of Echoes after hearing Albert Bolton's story, but Sarah loved my version and believed in it enough to bypass the slush pile and put it on the desk of her boss and
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Sara’s arms ached from the heavy bag, full of manuscripts she must finish, as she stepped out from the office building and made her way to the company parking lot. Her earlobes tingled from the brisk evening air and buzzed from the loud noises of cars, as they spewed exhaust fumes and rushed down Seventh Avenue. She wondered where the hell were all of these people going at this time of the night.
It was a cold and windy day, a perfect day to uncover secrets and truths about writers I had heard of, but new little about. I entered the library to escape the weather and lose myself in books about Sandra Ciseneros and the characters she creates in her poems and stories. I began my search at a computer resource station, and then absorbed myself in the materials it provided, which were biographies, criticisms, and the works of Cisneros.
The stone streets were a veil at this time of night, with who knows how many menacing horrors hiding behind the curtain. The lingering gas hovering over the ground was timid, dispersing at the sight of anyone who strayed near. The moon tried to pry into the city’s shadows, but it was too thick to cut. The buildings were nothing but faded memories: gray, eroded structures that once boasted splendor and beauty. Street rats, both rodent and human, scuttled about in the alleyways, knocking assortments over and fleeing if anyone walked past, just like the gas. A dog barked in the distance. Car horns blared on 5th Avenue nearby. Tank sighed. No place like home.
Amidst the swirling ripple of faceless people meandering around fire hydrants, pedestrian signs, and ragged newspaper stands, he stood; embedded within the relentless stream of continuous people trickling by him. The occasional nudge threatened to dislodge his balance as he gazed across the road where two buildings laden by carmine shaded bricks separated. The same two buildings he walked directly pass early in the dewy morning and late in the brisk evening weather everyday for the past two decades. Surely he knew every wondering power line and dimly lit alley of the surrounding neighborhood? Yet something glimmered from in between the impossibly small gap separating the buildings. His conscious turned from thought to action as he leapt from the scuffed curb and into the high voltage current of traffic without a second
As I paid my visits to Elkton, a new town revealed itself. Elkton was dying. The sign on the hardware store had fallen on one side, the movie store had bankrupted and closed, and the tiny library was a pathetic joke. I never went back to the thrift store, I had thrown away my stuffed animals long ago, and the place stank of cheap cigarettes. Worst of all, the little house I had once lived in was dead and vacant. Weeds almost swallowed the "For Sale" sign at the road, and a green film grew over the siding. To me, Elkton reeked of decay and hopelessness. I hated the
“I grew up there, thought I’d spend my entire life calling that city ‘Home.’ But it didn’t workout that way. I learned to love it here too,” Dustin told his neighbour’s grandkids, remembering the horrific event that tore him away from his home and ended his career. His neighbour, Sally, and her family were the only people who accepted Dustin; they shared something in common, the disaster. Sally lost her husband in the tragedy that destroyed Dustin’s once handsome face.
It was that grueling kind of boredom that makes you want to move. Need to move. Just run outside and do anything other than sit on the couch and stare at the TV screen. It was a brisk February afternoon, just a few days after a huge snowstorm had ravaged the Connecticut coast. I stepped outside onto the porch. Ice crunched under my rain boots. A gust of cold wind made my eyes water and my cheeks burn. It was only 5 o’clock, but I noticed that it was nearing dusk. The sky, a faded blue, was streaked with purple clouds and street lights were slowly flickering on. Even as I looked onto vast expanse of empty road, I felt suffocated. There was only one place that I wanted to be: the
I can still hear Lori’s voice whispering to me, and four years later, the sounds are no less symphonic. Four years later, the memories are still vivid and exciting, but on the night before my graduation from medical school, I find myself without Lori and once again alone. Life is truly a matter of perspective. On our first night in this apartment, looking through the window from a vantage point on the floor, I remember seeing only a clear August sky, countless stars that twinkled in synchrony with our heartbeats, and a Gleasonesque moon that seemed almost alive. Tonight, from the vantage point of an empty bed, I can't see the stars or the moon. Looking down through my bedroom window, I can only see the emaciated rooftops of a North Philadelphia tenement. Life is full of such incongruities. As they say in North Philadelphia, "Some days, you're the pigeon, and some days, you're the windshield." Tonight, I'm definitely the windshield. Graduation day from medical school has been the light in my forest for as long as I can
The sun broke through the grey and breathed life into the awakening city. The woman’s eyes though opened, were empty and moved accordingly to the flock of doves that soared through the chilled air. She gazed at the beautifully choreographed dance above where delicate wings formed prominent silhouettes against the comforting rays. The ancient apple tree which only last month was a mess of unruly twigs and withered leaves had now flourish into a bounty of lively red apples that heralded the Springtime. The richness of the sanctuary generated distant and painful memories in her head like the scenes of a tragic movie. She could still picture the remorseful look in the man’s eyes during his last breath. Her father, a man of ambitions and responsibilities, was not the father to throw her into the sky and tell her how much he loved
As I lay in bed on a fall evening, an open window lets in a cool breeze accompanied with sounds of crickets and a faint train horn blare. As I peer out into the dark night sky I see an ebony sky glittered with stars. A sense of calm washes over me and I know I’m right where I’m meant to be! It’s a small town, Galt, with a population under 23,000. I didn’t grow up here, but it’s where I’ve lived for the past ten years, and it’s where I’ve chosen to raise my children. The town is a combination of city and farm living. Children from the same school either take a long bus ride through the desolate and diminishing backroads every morning, or a short walk through the peaceful and charming subdivisions to reach their destination. There is a mixture
Evie hopped off the bus with a renewed sense of purpose. “I came here to succeed. Not to worry about home,” she thought to herself. She was feeling driven and ready to begin anew here, in a foreign land with foreign people, people who don’t know her or her legacy. She looked around at the lively street scene before her. The signs were vibrant and their brilliance drew her closer and closer to the center of town. The entire city seemed to be moving towards her, and an endless sea of men and women spewed out of the buildings and down the block. The congested streets keep her pace slow, but her mind was racing with new thoughts and ideas. The gridlocked traffic finally allowed for some leeway, and Evie found her way out of the fray and across
The streets of Michigan Ave. were lined with people and their children as they hurriedly rush down the sidewalks. Taxis were beeping their horns, trying to get people’s attention, men and women were just getting off of work after a long day. The sky was a light blue and white puffy clouds were spotted in the sky, there was a light breeze in the air. The water under the bridge splashed lightly against the walls, it was hard to hear over the excited chatter of the people over top of the bridge. You could smell the smoke from the cars but also there was a faint smell of popcorn from a nearby popcorn vendor cart, shops and hotels filled in what the people and cars didn’t, it was truly a beautiful sight.
Her voice breaking the morning silence, the only noises coming from the busy south Boston streets. A little less hectic than an ordinary August day, as it was 5:45 AM on the Friday before Labor Day. And that meant that many people would be taking the long weekend to head down to Cape Cod. I was too hung-over to reply with words but uttered something incoherent. The brightness, which was eye-piercing due to the surrounding buildings’ sun reflection, filled the space in my overpriced apartment. It was a little too nice for someone with only a third year consultant job, but some extra family money never hurt anybody.
As the sun set into the waiting night, Birmingham, known for its steel and history decades past, fell into its usual routine. The city faded into dark, much like when a song reaches its end, and became lifeless except for the few couples and families huddling together along the sidewalk. The only light shining came from the stores and restaurants still open at the time, casting ominous shadows onto the street seeming ready to grab anyone passing by. The chill in the air was much like every year in November, raising the hair on the back of the neck and making the tip of a nose ruddy. The chill was accompanied by a breeze that whistled between alleyways and disturbed the few trees present within the city itself. Despite the near-winter weather,
We stood hunched over and shivering in a small lobby, our clothes dripping on the tiled floor. The tiny room could barely fit the both of us. It led into a restaurant, which promised shelter and hot food; it beckoned us. I wrung out my sleeves and shook my hands to dry them. My mom offered her phone to me, and I fervently started typing. We were huddled together in a tiny vestibule, completely soaked, and helplessly lost in New York City.