Brie had already filled out the application, in her careful scrawl. She gave old man Root his pen back, and turned and ran.
BRIE: I walked precisely down the street, inhaling the dust off the community garden, and crossed over churchside before I pulled out Moose and the squarish Walkman. The words were perfect, I wanted nothing more.
Except, maybe, a ciggarette. In the words of Oscar Wilde's Lord Henry, "The ciggarette is the perfect kind of prefect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?"
I coughed, stopped, crossed the street again.
Then I saw it. Beautiful. It was like the whole town- derelict, melencholy, dark and glimmering. I posed theatrically, then turned to find the fire escape.
Aretha rolled the charcoal in her fingers, feeling the old trees that had gone from beauty to beauty. She looked lazily up and sighted to the horizon, measuring four marks from top to bottom of Thallow Flats, and then one from side to side. It was a horrid old building, in reality, but that was art; taking horrid old things and capturing their soul, until they seemed almost beautiful.
ARETHA: I looked up from my sketch, my seat on the gabled roof of the Theatre. The sun was going down and the sun was cutting straight over the buildings and into my face. I glanced down to the shaded street, and saw a girl; from the flats, perhaps, or maybe not. She walked and stopped, looking up in a slow motion like the sun rise, and her face dawned similarly. She was looking at the building underneath me. As if it were an archangel, or something brighter.
And then Brie looked up.
BRIE: It was my new place. It was "back home", it was for me. It was a high-glorious shelter, a safe perch. I found the fire escape on the east side, and began to climb.
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3 comments:
Lovely work! I'm sorry I didn't include you more, but I just didn't want to mess up the concept you are going for. I tried to continue it. Hope it's okay!
I wake up to the sliver of sunlight protruding through my plush curtained window. Finally, the sun. The rickety sweak of a spring reverberates around the room as I place my feet with unclipped toe nails on the green carpet. The very toe nails that I once painted with bright pink nail polish. I pick a piece of paper at random out of my notebook of the past. Walking into my kitchen, I slip my gray woolen coat over my frail shoulders and gather the bread crumbs off of the counter from my meal the day before with the present conscious intent to feed the pigeons. Tossing the crumbs into my pocket, I shift the door open with my slender, wrinkled hands. The number "713" stares at me from across the hallway. A faint haze of memory neither clear nor completely hidden, sits in the depths of my mind. A woman, young, staring at me. Indicating to the door in her own eccentric way, without motion, only with knowledgeable eyes. 713. The number nags at my conscious, but I continue down the hallway closing the door behind me, attempting to disregard the feeling of forgotten memory aroused by the simple number.
Padding down the stairs, the faint trickle of crumbs drains from my holey pocket. I am aware of this, but I choose to ignore it. If the crumbs wish to drop, let them drop. The sun shines on my face as the door to the cool atrium closes behind me.A young woman walks towards me with the wary look of one searching for something she consistently fails to find. A flicker of understanding dawns in her eyes as the crumbs trail behind me. She moves past me, brushing my left shoulder, disrupting the precious and antagonizing notebook. With a brief apology she continues on her obvious journey for something I fail to see. Similar to the many shoulders I have felt before. Hoping for a memory. Nothing. My shortly cropped hair barely shifts in the playful breeze.The park is surprisingly uninhabited, excusing the somewhat elderly man crumpled up on the wooden bench. I sit next to him. He doesn't acknowledge my presence until I reach in my pocket to offer some small bread crumbs. He gives me a somewhat sardonic look, until he awkwardly, but graciously accepts. He slips them into his pocket. Like so many times before, a brief shimmer of knowledge collides with me and disappears as quickly as it came. Another somewhat scraggily man in a large sanctuary accepting a sandwich from young woman's hand. The memory disappears. Nothing. I pull out my notebook, shrugging aside the pain. The front page reads "Karen- 2:30." The unkempt man stands and walks down the street towards the church. He empties his pockets. Bread crumbs. Remembering my appointment, I wander up the street towards the large building. Number... panic strikes. The room number fled from me. I can't breath. I fall to the ground. The distinct feeling of disorientation and confusion returns to me with colossal impact. I see myself wandering the streets aimlessly for days with no one to help. A man grabs my arm."Excuse me are you okay?" He looks at me with concern. I tell him I'm okay He retreats. For once I fully recognize someone from my past. An image completely clear and untouched by a marred memory floats in the recesses of my mind. A court room. The dark haired young man with his head down as if in shame. A young woman next to me in tears. Barnaby stalks away in the opposite direction almost in a huff. 716. I remember. I stand dazed and walk home immediately knowing I need to be there but of the reason, I am oblivious.
ok.. yes I am confused.. who is Ellen again? I thought your character's name was Brie.. but then again I could be wron.. I generally am.
Er...Lauren...this was a very confusing post of mine, it switched POV at least three times... sorry about that
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