Vignettes
So, we have to write four to six vignettes in the style of Sandra Cisneros for English. anolinde wanted to read mine so I'm posting the first two on here. I'll probably post the next two when I'm finished with them, along with the revised copies of these.
Feel free to make fun of them, I dont care. ...Well, that's a lie. I do care. But whatever, constructive criticism.
New York City
Everything is close together in New York City. The buildings, the people, the roads. It’s all… squished. Huddled together for warmth. Strong and silent like the London Palace Guards. Tall and imposing. Like my father.
We may be close together in out bodies, but our minds couldn’t be farther apart. You can pass someone on the street and never see them again. Glare at a druggy in baggy pants and leather jacket and then see them homeless a few days later. And if you fall down, pick your own self up. No one’s going to help you.
But not everyone is like that. There’s the Cookie Lady, who sells her fresh oatmeal raisin, molasses, chocolate chip, sugar on the corner every day. The ones who really look for the pretty kitties in the ‘Lost’ posters hanging on the telephone poles.
At night, the whole city lights up and when you look out you can see the street lamps and disco lights flashing in the road when someone opens the door. Music floats down the street on the wind like leaves and into open windows. Into open windows.
My lullaby.
Sidra
Flashing lights, heavy breathing. The smell of liquor, smoke in the air. Bodies, hands everywhere. Sweat, heat, heartbeats rising. Air think with music, floor with feet.
Sidra. The club down the street. Tables shaking. Sneak out at night. Speakers pumping. Laughing in the alleyway. Fake ids in our pockets. Heads bobbing. Bodies grinding.
Make-up makes you look older, Jamie says. High heels make you taller. Steal your sister’s id, she’s not using it.
Long hair, long legs. Wound wild in the gyrating crowd.
Don’t step on my toes.
Why don’t you watch where you’re going?
Watch it!
Can I buy you ladies a drink?
Smooth and suave in a sea of frantic movements like they have to give themselves to the music before they go.
Sure.
Amber liquid in a glass. Pressed into my hand.
One sweet syrupy drink, then two.
I think I’m failing geometry.
Three, four.
My dog died a month ago.
Five, six.
I’m not innocent like I used to be.
Seven…
I don’t feel well.
Woot.
Feel free to make fun of them, I dont care. ...Well, that's a lie. I do care. But whatever, constructive criticism.
New York City
Everything is close together in New York City. The buildings, the people, the roads. It’s all… squished. Huddled together for warmth. Strong and silent like the London Palace Guards. Tall and imposing. Like my father.
We may be close together in out bodies, but our minds couldn’t be farther apart. You can pass someone on the street and never see them again. Glare at a druggy in baggy pants and leather jacket and then see them homeless a few days later. And if you fall down, pick your own self up. No one’s going to help you.
But not everyone is like that. There’s the Cookie Lady, who sells her fresh oatmeal raisin, molasses, chocolate chip, sugar on the corner every day. The ones who really look for the pretty kitties in the ‘Lost’ posters hanging on the telephone poles.
At night, the whole city lights up and when you look out you can see the street lamps and disco lights flashing in the road when someone opens the door. Music floats down the street on the wind like leaves and into open windows. Into open windows.
My lullaby.
Sidra
Flashing lights, heavy breathing. The smell of liquor, smoke in the air. Bodies, hands everywhere. Sweat, heat, heartbeats rising. Air think with music, floor with feet.
Sidra. The club down the street. Tables shaking. Sneak out at night. Speakers pumping. Laughing in the alleyway. Fake ids in our pockets. Heads bobbing. Bodies grinding.
Make-up makes you look older, Jamie says. High heels make you taller. Steal your sister’s id, she’s not using it.
Long hair, long legs. Wound wild in the gyrating crowd.
Don’t step on my toes.
Why don’t you watch where you’re going?
Watch it!
Can I buy you ladies a drink?
Smooth and suave in a sea of frantic movements like they have to give themselves to the music before they go.
Sure.
Amber liquid in a glass. Pressed into my hand.
One sweet syrupy drink, then two.
I think I’m failing geometry.
Three, four.
My dog died a month ago.
Five, six.
I’m not innocent like I used to be.
Seven…
I don’t feel well.
Woot.