As a writer, I often find myself feeling as though I keep reaching for the same tattered and dingy phrases again and again. Its a problem we often face that involves a lack of inspiration and quite possibly, exhaustion. I'm still recovering from Mockingjay at the moment, so my fingers are itching for a new book, but my mind is just a little rummy. Perhaps I'll take a third stab at Life of Pi, perhaps I'll hit the hay before 10 for the first time in months. But instead of disregarding this-book/writing diary, I'd like to share an old english assignment with you.
I wrote this short story two and a half years ago in my English II Honors class, the assignment was to include two people exiting a building. Enjoy.
She bit her lip. Her cheek muscles contracted and there was a sudden rush of pressure at her temples. She could feel his hands tighten around hers. They were cold. As he whispered something into her ear, she could feel his breath on her neck. She couldn’t tell what he was saying, she couldn’t hear anything but a low rattling that seemed to echo out of the emptiness. He led her up the hall, across the foyer, through the door, and down the dark street. It had stopped raining only an hour before and the pools of shallow water reflected every light like tiny luminescent moons on a black canvas. The ordinarily peopled sidewalks had been vacated, and soon, even the low hum of life was absent from this place. Her heels clicked against the slick pavement, each step a lifetime. She could feel the damp edges of her skirt as they brushed against her calves.
Their destination unknown to her, she let her mind drift away. Into the old, blue Toyota that had seen better days. Over the bridge on 64th and up the long driveway to the place that she called home. There was a stack of soggy newspapers on the porch under the swing and she could not remember a time when the mailbox had stood erect. By the front door were her tall stilettos kicked off one by one after a long day at the office and her coat sat abandoned on the couch. There was laundry on her stairs in a faded old hamper and her bathroom light was on.
Suddenly they turned a sharp corner, his nails dug into the her arms at the turn but her cries were muffled by fear. She saw a bright flash of light and her eyes struggled to adjust to it. This street was wider and emptier. The darkness it held seemed to buffet the pair on all sides. The light had come from a lamppost that seemed unusually tall and far too bright for an alley like this. At his first chance, by the light of the lamppost, he tightly bound her wrists with a strap that had been the sole occupant of his jacket pocket. He scratched his stubbly chin now, glad to have the use of his right hand.
They were making good time but he was in a hurry, and he jabbed her in the back twice to remind her to keep up the pace. She began to bleed and the warm blood slid down her back and seeped into her blouse. This time she gasped and he made good with his word as he tightly fettered her mouth with his handkerchief. To her surprise, it smelled freshly laundered and was neither tattered nor greasy. It seemed odd to her, that a man like this could have in his possession something so clean. She tried to imagine him laundering a handkerchief. Perhaps his wife had even folded it for him this morning, or maybe it had been a gift. He had, after all, not looked like the type who would gag and bind an innocent civilian and drag her to her doom. She just now remembered her watch. She wondered what time it was, it felt like hours had past but it really could not have been more than five minutes. This street was much longer than the first. She had goosebumps from the biting cold, the hair on her arms and neck were raised, and she began to shiver.
Almost without warning a car appeared, this was dark too, and the man stopped. He pulled out his keys and manually unlocked the trunk. He withdrew a thin cord and, with it, bound her legs so tightly that it cut painfully into her flesh as she tried to readjust. He also took out a rough clothed bag that cinched at the end, and pulled it over her head. The light from the lamppost shone through the weave of the bag like dwarfed stars until she was shoved into the trunk, her knees pulled up to her ribs, and the man slammed it shut. She listened to his footsteps as he walked around to the front of the car, got in, and locked the doors click-click. The pair disappeared down the street, swallowed by the darkness, and all that remained was the beaconing starlight of the lonely lamppost.
*If you're feeling really ambitious, complete the assignment yourself and share it with me below~
(Real blogs will resume on Monday)
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