I write test preludes to dabble with different genres when I get the idea for them... this was my latest about a month ago.
The moon was always a spectacular and friendly face in this woman’s mind. It was her friend, her keeper, since she was fifteen. The moon gave light where there was none in the dark alleyways and the lonely streets, illuminating her every step. With every step, she left that moonlight with the sweet kiss of her heels and her shapely shadow. Indeed the moonlight shone bright and wicked on the warm summer evenings on her retreat home, painting the city streets in a steely grey-blue shade, though with much regret in the back of her mind, this evening was not of that.
Snow drifts piled against the base of black walls of family homes, heaps were shovelled and swept aside, leaving the cracked concrete pavement cold and icy and iron fences once of apple-green were capped in white and painted in black ice. The snowfall was light, but the winds were rising. Faced with the brooding blizzard, this lonesome woman was choiced with leaving the lemon-flooded main street for the bruised web of tunnels that punched the rows of Grand City.
One particular shortcut that’s only flaws in the summertime were improperly joined water pipes and an overpowering odour of shit was just up ahead, and with the odd gusts of wind which whipped her midi-skirt up against her fishnet thighs ever increasing, the scales of risk in her mind were tipping. The moonlight was waning, the massive dark front of the black snowcloud in the sky crept in. She knew soon even the streetlamps would not lead her home and with her keeper receding, the alleyway on offer cut her journey down from half a kilometre to shy a tenth of that.
The rhythmic clipping of Madeline’s heels came to a stop, her blue doeskin gloves held her skirts steady against the coarse wind and she stood staring into the gloom of the alleyway. The low breathy sound of the wind took a sudden sharp increase, causing snow drifts to throw tiny snowballs in her direction. Madeline just about caught her netted brimmed hat, but lost balance as the wind failed against the gap, the emptiness pulling her a step in. With the tempo begun, she awkwardly followed the pace and began the shallow descent of steps.
The alley cut a sharp right and a short left a hundred paces ahead, and soon came out on Lincoln Street. Half a block downhill led to her apartment on the fifth floor. In the alley, where the light was meagre, the bite of the wind was less.
Pausing and looking back over her fox-furred shoulder, ruby lips parted and exhaled tequila breath in a steady chain of dissipating vapour. Dark almond-shaped brown eyes suspiciously inspected the opening… snowfall drifted and whipped alternatively. With haste quickened by a growing innate fear, Madeline pushed on. Her shoulders pumped with each step as if shrugging off the hands of black clasping shadows, abysmal black grins pressing at her back. She kept her eyes down so as not to come face-to-face with any dreaded spectre of the night or a pack of giant wolves dripping black blood in the maws. With a quick inhale she turned the double corner, then looked up and stopped in her tracks.
Nothing. She couldn’t help but smile and let loose a cup of laughter at her silliness, her childish fears. Ahead was the descent of steps onwards to Lincoln Street. The wind was a seemingly distant thing, a quaint whooshing sound far away, but on stepping off the final step, the wind found her and cruelly took her leg. The right crossed the left, the shift of weight pulled her side-first out onto the icy street.
A black handbag went sliding into the road, Madeline’s elbow and thigh found the pavement with a painful crack that sent her arm into spasms. As luck would have it, the only vehicle to brave the weather steamed by and crushed the bag, sending it skipping back onto the pavement in two thread-held halves. With disturbed locks of waxy brown hair send awry, Madeline’s blue hat took to the skies in search of a fairer set.
Stinging sounds of pain escaped Madeline’s teeth as she pulled herself up, cradling a pained arm and sporting one torn stocking and a snapped heel. Bundling her bag and heels she limped, carefully, down the cold road barefooted as the storm pressed on. The view about her was whitewashed and deafening as she neared the steps to her apartment and with key in hand, loosed herself to the golden-bloomed silence. With eyes closed she breathed, her back against the wall and once again possibly considered if the entertainment business was worth it. But what else could a woman in times like this afford a place sporting an elevator?
On retreating to closed-curtain apartment with a definitive clicking of the lock, sleep overcame the pain of her elbow and thighbone. However, it wasn’t just the breath of winter and a splintered elbow that she had brought home with her. Her shadow had been there, ever present and ever patient, and indeed, ever ready. The shadow separated from the blackness of the room and stood at the end of her bed. Eagerly it had watched her routine; patiently it had learned her habits and her name. Its eyes pulling away the sheets; pulling away her clothes she had not let fall to the floor with her peep-toe heels and torn bag; pulling away her skin and her soul; her presence and her beauty; her essence and her virginity; her innocence and her life.
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Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 314029 times)