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Literature Text
Warm lamplight reflects off of the empty, rain-washed strip of pavement. The night is in its prime, but pedestrians had long since abandoned this old side-street to rush to their next destination or to amble back home. Underfoot, the paved street records no imprint of the rubber treads which so frequently pass over it; the people come and go as quickly as the lamplight above forgets their shadows.
Snowflakes begin to drift from the sky; aimless. I watch them dance briefly in the wind, but they are soon found lying in the street, only to melt and be forgotten. I forget them as they blend into one. A single snowflake catches on the tattered scarf of a young boy as he walks, holding his mother's hand, passing on its way his downcast eyes and flushed cheeks. For a moment the crystal clings, then like the rest it melts away.
The full moon is high but blurred by gathering clouds. A girl pauses in the street, lingering strangely. Most passersby I see walk straight, unflinching, without shifting their gaze from their thoughts to those they share the street with. Was this girl lost? The toe of her unblemished boot taps anxiously at the cool asphalt. A flurry of flakes swirls about her copper rimmed lenses as she adjusts their perch in front of her distant eyes. She draws back her gaze and peers at the cluster, gathering herself. Through the clear glass she decides that these spiralling fragments cannot dizzy her. Not now. Slowly she pivots on her right heel, leaving a new scuff on the fresh sole. Hesitating at first, she runs back in the direction she came from, the lamplight tracing her every stride.
The stars fade into existence one by one from behind the receding veil. The hardened roadway clacks under the uneasy paces of a taller, lone figure. The man's gaze is set ahead, not seeing as I watch, and as he looks through the thinning snowfall the precipitation dissipates entirely. As he drifts forward his right hand hangs vacantly by his side, lifeless in its apparent longing. For only a second his empty fingers clench, grasping desperately for the evasive illusion they slip through. I see his chin turn, and his gaze follows, toward the south. I have never been south. His brow furrows. Is he angry? Or perhaps it is a look of confusion. It is as though he wonders why at that moment he has been knowingly deprived. His chest rises and he looks away. He continues walking, and a scrap of fabric falls from his left hand, drifting to a silent rest nearby on the pavement. The man disappears from view, but the wrinkled, tear-stained cloth remains.
Dawn breaks. A young girl is standing on the curb, her toes curling over the concrete. The sun has warmed the dark, heat-hungry street. The girl stares hard at me, then across to the wildflowers on the other side. Her bell-shaped frock is whiter than the snow from the previous night. Her small feet tap lightly on the asphalt as she crosses gingerly; not a scrape, nor a scuff, nor a bruise. She leads a life that has only just begun, she has so much to learn, so much she should be warned of, but what warning can a simple road give? What aid is my insight? I wait for the sun to rise higher and the callous crowds to smother me with their feet at noontime, each person walking alone, unseen and unseeing, while I watch them all. If only they knew the importance of their story.
Snowflakes begin to drift from the sky; aimless. I watch them dance briefly in the wind, but they are soon found lying in the street, only to melt and be forgotten. I forget them as they blend into one. A single snowflake catches on the tattered scarf of a young boy as he walks, holding his mother's hand, passing on its way his downcast eyes and flushed cheeks. For a moment the crystal clings, then like the rest it melts away.
The full moon is high but blurred by gathering clouds. A girl pauses in the street, lingering strangely. Most passersby I see walk straight, unflinching, without shifting their gaze from their thoughts to those they share the street with. Was this girl lost? The toe of her unblemished boot taps anxiously at the cool asphalt. A flurry of flakes swirls about her copper rimmed lenses as she adjusts their perch in front of her distant eyes. She draws back her gaze and peers at the cluster, gathering herself. Through the clear glass she decides that these spiralling fragments cannot dizzy her. Not now. Slowly she pivots on her right heel, leaving a new scuff on the fresh sole. Hesitating at first, she runs back in the direction she came from, the lamplight tracing her every stride.
The stars fade into existence one by one from behind the receding veil. The hardened roadway clacks under the uneasy paces of a taller, lone figure. The man's gaze is set ahead, not seeing as I watch, and as he looks through the thinning snowfall the precipitation dissipates entirely. As he drifts forward his right hand hangs vacantly by his side, lifeless in its apparent longing. For only a second his empty fingers clench, grasping desperately for the evasive illusion they slip through. I see his chin turn, and his gaze follows, toward the south. I have never been south. His brow furrows. Is he angry? Or perhaps it is a look of confusion. It is as though he wonders why at that moment he has been knowingly deprived. His chest rises and he looks away. He continues walking, and a scrap of fabric falls from his left hand, drifting to a silent rest nearby on the pavement. The man disappears from view, but the wrinkled, tear-stained cloth remains.
Dawn breaks. A young girl is standing on the curb, her toes curling over the concrete. The sun has warmed the dark, heat-hungry street. The girl stares hard at me, then across to the wildflowers on the other side. Her bell-shaped frock is whiter than the snow from the previous night. Her small feet tap lightly on the asphalt as she crosses gingerly; not a scrape, nor a scuff, nor a bruise. She leads a life that has only just begun, she has so much to learn, so much she should be warned of, but what warning can a simple road give? What aid is my insight? I wait for the sun to rise higher and the callous crowds to smother me with their feet at noontime, each person walking alone, unseen and unseeing, while I watch them all. If only they knew the importance of their story.
First short story I wrote for writer's craft, I'm rather pleased with the outcome.
Hopefully it's understood, but what I aimed to convey was the idea of the importance of not letting people pass us by, because each one has more to them than what's on the outside. If you look hard enough you'll see inklings of their story but you will never know all of it.
Hopefully it's understood, but what I aimed to convey was the idea of the importance of not letting people pass us by, because each one has more to them than what's on the outside. If you look hard enough you'll see inklings of their story but you will never know all of it.
© 2012 - 2024 mitsuki94
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