In lieu of proper entries, for the next few days I will be transcribing some stuff I wrote in high school that seems mood-appropriate. Ergo...
Anne Raymond, a tall and gaunt figure wrapped tightly in a long black coat, made a silent sojourn over the December snow that muted the park. The wind stabbed at her cheeks and blew her blonde hair into a tangle as her eyes watered at the crisp bite of the late afternoon�s chilly bite.
She reached a wooden bridge with a single lane wide enough to permit a vehicle to cross, flanked on either side by a pedestrian walkway, delineated by a low barrier of oak. She chose, however, to take the expanse in the middle, there being no traffic that day, and began to cross. Her boots made soft thuds against the doming structure that were amplified beneath it with an almost sinister resonance that reverberated off the blackened water. At the center of the bridge, her footsteps stopped falling.
She stooped, for at her feet there lay a tiny crimson bud, a stark contrast against the barren desert of white that glazed the earth and deadened all sound. She took the blossom gently between two gloved fingertips and considered it for a moment with a questioning frown. Quickly, then, she rose and crossed the bridge, the dull, echoing footsteps chasing behind her.
She hastened around the curve at the bridge�s south end, a virga of wet frost in the distance threatening to break into a hostile precipitation at a moment�s notice, and turned onto a snowy trail that ran alongside the railroad tracks. The path wended its way eastward, eventually disappearing into shadows beneath a much larger bridge that crossed over the entire park and bore the weight of heavy traffic for the city�s commuters. The trail caught the light again on the other side, of course, but those several feet of unforgiving gloom always worried her�
As she approached the hollow under the bridge, she saw something move, and the shadows divulged a young man in a dark overcoat who began to come towards her. Anne�s stomach twisted with a peculiar sensation not unlike fear, although not quite the same, either. The whisper in the back of her mind was not one of warning, but one of resentment, directed at a stranger who had the indecorum to disturb the otherwise pristine emptiness of that afternoon in the park.
As he passed her, the stranger winked at her, a salutation for which Anne was most certainly not prepared. She gave him a surprised smile in return, and as he passed, the sleeve of his coat brushed lightly against hers in a delicate, almost deferential way. Anne turned to watch him as he moved off away from her.
She stood there for quite some time, even after he disappeared, even after twilight stole the last of the graying light from the sky and the tawny glow of the streetlights broke upon her. She stood and watched as stillness filled the park, and she wondered what that young man was thinking.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: "mark Burnett" asshole And: all these pies I�m Watching: Dude, Tru Calling was almost mediocre last night. Am I high?