Jun 17th, 2008, 02:24 PM
Just a small bit of what I've been working on.
Ahhhh... that chill. It stings. I'm not talking about fear or anything as pretentious as that. I'm talking about the cold. The pure cold that rides the winds. Okay, maybe that was pretentious. Living in Chicago, I've experienced some fairly ferocious wind, just a bit. I can deal with it. But in the cold of winter, the wind chill the wind will cut through you with the deftness of a blade. The cold's anger, while fierce in its own right, is best by its cunningness. Soon, after the sharp has long since set in, a sense of non-feeling slowly falls over you and what you're left with as far as feeling goes is extraordinary fatigue. Soon, the urge to fight is ripped away from you. You are at peace. You belong to the winter. Sinister, if judged only by its invalid sense of justice.
The girl was pretty by all definitions. She had fiery red hair which spoke of a great passion and vivaciousness unparalleled by any other living organism. A rare creature, indeed. She was asleep in her apartment, sitting aloof in a chair. Her legs were thrown up onto one of the arms, the other supporting her head. Sleeping pants are so lovely, no?
She wakes up in the morning to a smell, not a piercing buzzer or some blinding light. It was a burnt smell, one familiar to many. It was coffee. Personally, I can't stand the stuff. It's like toxic mud. I'm a Coke man. Ahem. But that is neither here nor there. To her, it was a sign of things to come; a good sign.
She would shower, get dressed, eat, and start out the door. It was a Sunday. The morning light cast marvelous shadows across cars, trees, and the occasional dog walker. Most people were still holed up - either asleep or at church. Some unlucky individuals had the gall to come into work on such a glorious day, like myself. This girl's destination, however, was the coffee house conveniently located about a block and a half away, walking distance. You may remember I said she had already had coffee, however, this girl is an addict. Obviously.
Were it spring or summer, the little cafe would be obscured. In the late fall, though, it was obscured only by the barest of branches. It was a quaint little number, situated between two very tall buildings, with an apartment sitting on top of it. The walls were of a red brick. There were wrought-iron fences enclosing the patio were several snooty individuals were sipping their foamy beverages under the protection of an umbrella. Lord only knows, the Sun'll kill 'em.