I pulled out a tattered rag from the pocket of my overalls and wiped the beads of sweat collecting on my forehead. I leaned against my RAM 2640 and sipped the last bit of water I had left in my bottle, savouring every last drop. I allowed the sun’s rays to heat my skin, enjoying what little break I had before continuing to load boxes into my truck. The stacks of boxes began to tower over me, mocking me and my numerous trips back and forth from the house to the truck.
Ever since I could remember, I’ve always had the habit of staring into other people’s windows. Wait. That came out wrong… What I meant is that, I’ve always enjoyed observing how other people act when they’re alone in their homes. At first, I glanced into windows while I waited for the bus or when I took Rex out for a walk in the evenings. You know, just to pass the time or to occupy my mind.
Author’s Note: This is an excerpt of a much greater (incomplete) work.
The rolling hills carried wind from the countryside to the city, and by dusk, the industrial smog that had taken hold of Manhattan in the day was ushered away by the labours of the strong gusts. The asphalt tiles of rooftops and cement roads, at last found relief from the beatings of the sweltering afternoon heat, as the sun set and the horizons coloured to a navy hue. A jet black Auburn drove up the incline of Main Street. Cars had been double-parked alongside the road for the past mile, and continued onwards, but in an increasingly dense fashion, as the Auburn approached midtown.
“We know Valentine’s doesn’t always go as planned… so if your last minute Tinder date falls through (or ends up being a total weirdo), have a read through some of these horror stories and let’s all share a laugh in the name of love and ice cream.
After is such a long avenue. It is a party long ended; the room in chaos, full of dirty dishes and unarranged chairs. It is taking your hands from lemon dishwater and half-hearted handshakes and slipping them into your pockets. It is walking home in new heels and then walking flat on the cold kitchen floor.
The trees grow for mile; beautiful and tall. They are a power of their own. We look to them for life, and we tear them down for sport. Yet my words will egg on to the page in perfect parallel lines, never to be confronted. Though they seem disconnected at first, the print will steal away all this work, as the foresters skin the trees and submit them to torture in order for my thoughts to live and breathe.
The large grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room glared at Dr. Rockwell showing half past 6, much to his dismay. He impatiently tapped a pencil against his clipboard as he waited for his next patient: Alice. While Alice’s case may not have been anything all that foreign to him, she had definitely proven to be difficult at the most unsavoury of times. Such difficulties placed a strain on his well-being as he glanced at his reflection in the silver china that laid on the table before him. A man who was of the age of 27 stared back at him, but he certainly did not look younger than 40. What was left of his thick, jet-black hair was now heavily sparse on the crown of his head and appeared to be a dusty gray shade. His overall build, much to his wife’s chagrin, became delicate and fragile as his bones began to protrude through his skin. If someone did not know any better, they would have thought that he was a patient at the “Little Peaks Sanatorium”. Sometimes, he felt as though he were one, with what he saw during his first few months working at the sanatorium, his mind became a place of terror.
« Tout ce qui n’était pas essentiel serait enlevé, vous comprenez, Calla ? »
Calla a hoché la tête en regardant le médecin. Allongée sur la table d'opération, la déclaration du chirurgien lui semblait terriblement extrême. Il s’est penché envers elle pendant l'inspection en appuyant ses mains froides contre ses jambes, son ventre et sa poitrine. Calla a constaté qu'il avait probablement été un bel homme, avant d’avoir commencé sa carrière exigeante en médecine. Elle se demandait s’il avait lui-même déjà subi une chirurgie, mais il semblait impoli de demander.
Home is ringed by four stretches native to a malevolent heat of which neither touches the other as most borders do. Celestial Church Street is a lady hidden from view, draped in muted colors except for her crowning jewel, an ivory tower in royal purple and metallic grey. She is wise and knowledgeable, the cradle in which Agidingbi’s schools and churches find their being. She is perhaps most beautiful in the warm embrace of the daily sunset that rings her in a halo of vivid purples, pinks and golden yellows.