The Writer~Part One

The writer sits by himself, and observes the world around him

An Italian girl crying to her friend, with a smile stretched across her face. A group of girls coming by, speaking in hushed voices and big laughs. On the basketball court, some kids trying to show off and failing lamely. Half of the football pitch filled with little children, and bigger children, crying out words to pass the the ball. A cheering little crowd, clapping and laughing. A dark haired german boy shouts words, comically becoming a new Hitler over what coud be his friends. The glow of the low sun faintly above the blue, glassy art building pours through the lonely branches. There is no silence, no soothing word. Benches bent around trees where young lovers sit in passionate embraces under the glinting golden sun. The cloudless sky is still. The sun seems not quite bright as some seasons ago. Boys argue on the benches, a triumphant cry echoes from the football pitch. Boys and girls are by two or threes passing by. Some rub their shoes against the pavement, making a scratching sound. The boys are waiting for the ball to come back into the game--each taking a stand with hands on their hips and a quick steam coming from their lips. The ground looks frozen, solid rock. Three girls come this way, standing close, speaking confidentially. A girl on her own, with hoop earrings of silver and curled hair passes, her lips in an "O", seeming quite confused and yet walking quite resolutely onward, toward an unknown view. The red and blue buildings are towering. There is some triumph in the way they stand, a glory, an anonymous victory making them tall. The contours of the bricks are clearly visible, and the strange aquatic blue seems out of place, lining the windows and the doors and forming unnatural pillars against the red bricks. There's the garbage cans, on the other side of the football pitch, against a see-through green building which is undoubtely the schience building. They are red, yellow and blue, each with a small poster too far to see. There's the silent kids studying, the ball flying through the air, and...the writer. The writer who looks down at her hand, willing it to move, sitting crosslegged on the bench. The light hitting from the (back-left) side and reflecting on a strand of golden hair absorbing the light. The sun's rays come onto the paper, reflectin the hand and pen into a shadow, as well as the ring on the finger. A writer who is lonely, a writer who has nothing else to do other than write what she sees and imaginethe comforting warmth of the golden globe.

Author's Note

I wrote this in school at the end on November. The picture attached is the picture of the school which goes from K-12 !!