Puddles

i had a lovely vision of this last line. though, now that ive written it down, im not sure if it is quite what i meant.

*note-there isn't a genre for it on the menu, but this is a vignette.

Morning.

She pulls her calves up to the backs of her thighs. Her long shirt skins her hips with patterns like a six ear old went at it with paintbrushes in either fist.

Her toothbrush lies on the sink between a half empty glass with dying daisies floating from one rim to the other and hand cream with a no-label etched out top.

Chuckles from the static radio pulse like windmills over and over as she pulls a sweater on top of her make-shift night gown. Her feet are bare and drum across the hardwood as if dancing in ballet slippers to a darkened pitter-patter.

Her jeans feel up her legs as she pulls them from the chair with the little red cheques on the pillow. The radio waves come at her like tempests and tsunamis and hurricanes. She hears the chorus, but doesn’t piece together the notes from her favorite song. Her feet change rhythms.

He sees her from his side of the street as the just bright enough light on the corner burns to repent for some unknown wrong. There are children exploding in their fits of giggles further up the concrete. The sidewalks are wet and she opens the door down her stairs and locks it.

He shuts the door of his taxi and she walks a few blocks up the avenue. She has a bag in her hands as she makes her way to the office. There are twirls of cold jumping down her frame and up her hood.

Evening.

The air is milky and latte thick. It hangs over the clouds waiting for the temperature to drop so the dark can wind up around the bases of buildings. Spilled water splashes across the darkness and the droplets fall together and blur the edges until the whole city looks smudged and charcoal-y, like someone took their fingers across it.

Her hair sticks to the back of her oilskin, stretching out in dark ringlets save the strands holding fast and straight to her cheeks. The bottoms of her jeans are more frayed than earlier, but the apples on her cheekbones stayed just as ripe and rosy.

She pulls the key from her pocket as the rain and the tears roll over and into each other down the front of her face. She lets herself in and walks up her stairs as silent as possible without really making an effort to mind her step. The radio isn’t as static-y, but it isn’t switched on, either. Her feet hit the floor and the rhythm plays faster and heavier inside her head.

Stocking feet sprinkle across the ground making hard to follow connect the dots routines. She hasn’t taken her coat off until now. She drops her jeans with it and pulls herself back into her sheets.

Morning.

Her eyes are not nearly as pink as her cheeks. The inside of her knee rubs up against the other. She covers the only visible part of herself in her hair as she turns over and fights falling back into sleep. Her fingers trace the sockets of her eyes and hit her eyelashes. Everything keeps falling but she hardly opens a lid to her windows. Her rain boots are yellow and sit just inside the door.

Author's Note

is there enough plot?
and does the ending "end" sufficiently?

Reviews

[Lily]

mr martin would be proud. especially with the apple thing.
plot was good, but it was kinda confusing with the guy in there on the corner. i was basically lost.
and i personally love the ending line =p

[Interrupting Dawn]

This is really kool. The plot is thin, and I can't honestly say i understood everything but I did like end
Yet again, you chose your words very well and i still envy that...
Also, none of the thoughts seem to really connect, if you were going for a sense of lifelessness in the text then good job, but if not then the words lack life.

But good job!