Post by Itena on Feb 9, 2010 23:32:15 GMT -6
An assignment for Creative Writing class that I'd thought I'd share. :3 It was a project where I'd make a short story(500 words max.) based on a "postcard" or any image. Be sure to listen to this with some jazz piano solos. <3[/center]
It was raining. It always rained. The atmosphere is damp, grey. The young man looks on, sitting on the wood bench sheltered beneath the building. The clouds don a thickness that paints London a bluish hue.
The lighter clinks, the small fire burns. The man gazes at it flickering, watching it create a new form of light for its surroundings. His brow creases as he takes his cigarette and lights the butt, cupping the lighter with his hand to shield it from the rain. Breathing in the fumes, he looks up at the dreary stuff above him. He sighs and gets up. He takes a long walk, heading for the jazz club.
“What’ll it be, Rob?”
Rob comes in, wet in the doorway. He walks over to the bar and sits down on one of the stools.
“Give me a Bourbon Whisky.”
“…Uh, we don’t have that here, Rob. How ‘bout the usual Ale?”
“… Fine, a pint o’ Ale then.”
The young man takes a chug. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he stares down at the counter. He shifts uncomfortably as his damp suit sticks to the leather stool; then his mind wanders.
And then a sound.
Rob turns to the stage. A man is playing the piano. He recognizes the tune; “The Nearness of You”. The title makes him feel bitter. His fingers run through his black hair, ruffling it up in frustration as he remembers. The bartender comes over and refills the young man’s mug.
“Best you forget ‘bout that Yank, Rob. “
A glare at the server, and another chug of Bitter down the throat. “Don’t call her a Yank, Bill. Don’t bloody call her a Yank.”
Another refill, another pint, and another. The man feels light-headed. He fumbles with the lighter, only barely managing to light the smoke. He drops the lighter. He doesn’t notice.
Another tune plays in the air, and the man is an open soul. The sound waves hit Rob’s ears, bouncing back red lights of infatuation, swirling around the room, taking the walls and splashing them with paint. Each key emits another ripple of waves, flowing through the particles, subduing the man’s eyes to the vision of her; an illusion of his woman in the cigarette fumes. In this world of particles and lights and illusions, the man’s hands stretch out to reach the girl, to touch her. Take me, just once more, she seems to say.
But the wispy vision vanishes. The song is over, and Rob’s hold is empty.
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