Original Writing Exercise 1: Receipt
I have been having trouble writing anything lately, so I decided to try some writers block exercises to see if I could free myself up enough to write something more substantial. Here is my first attempt.
It is dusk, and the street that Logan is walking down is mostly empty. There are only a few people around at this late hour: a teenage girl crossing the street, her knapsack - probably filled with school papers - flapping behind her as she runs before the light can change; an elderly man walking a small brown dog. The world is winding down, and Logan feels he should be winding down with it.
Logan stops in front of the bus stop and stretches his arms above himself. Yes, winding down would be a good feeling right now. Instead, he bends down to pick up a tiny crumpled sheet that the wind blew into his foot just now. He glances at his watch as he unfurls the paper; it's 7:15. The bus should be here soon.
The tiny crumpled sheet unrolls into a long store receipt, various items and prices printed over the front. The receipt looks old and worn, and parts of the ink are faded, where the paper has become translucent with age. Logan can't see the store name, but whoever this receipt belonged to must have had plenty of money to spend.
From what is left on the receipt, Logan can see that the owner bought a red dress, for $300; a pair of slacks, $205; three pairs of stockings, $30; a pair of shoes, half-price, $199.88. There's more on the receipt that he can't make out, but what he can see is enough to assume that the owner of the receipt is a woman.
He wonders what she was shopping for, with a receipt like this. Could the red dress have been for a fancy date with the shoes to match? Stockings and slacks for work in an office? Logan stares at the receipt, trying to make out the bits that have been rubbed away. Even though he handles the receipt carefully, more ink still disappears under his fingertips, staining them a faint black.
He imagines what the woman could have looked like. Petite and slender, with shapely hips and thighs? Small feet? Red, curly hair; straight, black hair? A wind-swept blonde? Then, Logan thinks: she could have been the opposite! Tall, voluptuous, and soft, with ample breasts and a body clothes can barely contain.
Both of those women could be the one that owned this receipt. Or even some other type of woman he can't make up an image for. He leaves that thought alone, imagining instead what the dress could look like: sleeveless, or maybe backless even; cut high on the thigh, coupled with strappy sky-high heels. The receipt doesn't say what colour the shoes are, but Logan likes to think that they're red too, the same as the dress.
As it draws later and the sun sinks further away, the wind picks up, threatening to blow the receipt right out of Logan's hands. He glances at his watch again, 7:30. He can see the bus coming up the road now, ready to pick him up and take him home. Then he can unwind and fall asleep with the rest of the world. Logan takes one last glance at the worn receipt, then lets it slip away from his fingers, tumbling with the wind into the world again.
The bus pulls up in front of Logan and he climbs on, paying the fee with coins that jingle noisily as they slip into the fare box. How many people have seen that receipt? He wonders.
All the way home, he wonders.
It is dusk, and the street that Logan is walking down is mostly empty. There are only a few people around at this late hour: a teenage girl crossing the street, her knapsack - probably filled with school papers - flapping behind her as she runs before the light can change; an elderly man walking a small brown dog. The world is winding down, and Logan feels he should be winding down with it.
Logan stops in front of the bus stop and stretches his arms above himself. Yes, winding down would be a good feeling right now. Instead, he bends down to pick up a tiny crumpled sheet that the wind blew into his foot just now. He glances at his watch as he unfurls the paper; it's 7:15. The bus should be here soon.
The tiny crumpled sheet unrolls into a long store receipt, various items and prices printed over the front. The receipt looks old and worn, and parts of the ink are faded, where the paper has become translucent with age. Logan can't see the store name, but whoever this receipt belonged to must have had plenty of money to spend.
From what is left on the receipt, Logan can see that the owner bought a red dress, for $300; a pair of slacks, $205; three pairs of stockings, $30; a pair of shoes, half-price, $199.88. There's more on the receipt that he can't make out, but what he can see is enough to assume that the owner of the receipt is a woman.
He wonders what she was shopping for, with a receipt like this. Could the red dress have been for a fancy date with the shoes to match? Stockings and slacks for work in an office? Logan stares at the receipt, trying to make out the bits that have been rubbed away. Even though he handles the receipt carefully, more ink still disappears under his fingertips, staining them a faint black.
He imagines what the woman could have looked like. Petite and slender, with shapely hips and thighs? Small feet? Red, curly hair; straight, black hair? A wind-swept blonde? Then, Logan thinks: she could have been the opposite! Tall, voluptuous, and soft, with ample breasts and a body clothes can barely contain.
Both of those women could be the one that owned this receipt. Or even some other type of woman he can't make up an image for. He leaves that thought alone, imagining instead what the dress could look like: sleeveless, or maybe backless even; cut high on the thigh, coupled with strappy sky-high heels. The receipt doesn't say what colour the shoes are, but Logan likes to think that they're red too, the same as the dress.
As it draws later and the sun sinks further away, the wind picks up, threatening to blow the receipt right out of Logan's hands. He glances at his watch again, 7:30. He can see the bus coming up the road now, ready to pick him up and take him home. Then he can unwind and fall asleep with the rest of the world. Logan takes one last glance at the worn receipt, then lets it slip away from his fingers, tumbling with the wind into the world again.
The bus pulls up in front of Logan and he climbs on, paying the fee with coins that jingle noisily as they slip into the fare box. How many people have seen that receipt? He wonders.
All the way home, he wonders.