Feb 05, 2010 00:25
"She heard the characteristic "chim, chim" of his bike bell as he tipped it over the top of the hill. She turned to face him as if in slow motion, her long mahogany locks twirling through the air like the spin of a ballroom skirt. A glow emanated from her like cool light through a window pane at midnight. Her eyes lit up when she saw his silly grin. He was reaching top speed on the hill when he tucked his legs underneath him placing one foot on the seat and one on the handlebars. He rose to greet her in the mid-afternoon, riding gracefully and fearlessly like a log-driver coursing downstream.
When he reached the bottom of the hill he simply stepped off the bicycle. He landed in a squatting position, fingers braced on the ground like Spiderman. The bike clambered noisily into the fence, crushing the flower bed and scattering the geese who were until that point residing comfortably in the field beyond.
She clapped her hands together with delight. Her face had the look of a child and she was gripped with a contagious enthusiasm for life and love. She grabbed his elbow and skipped with him down the path to the crash site. The top right corner of the basket was broken and the rear fender was slightly bent. He flashed that silly grin again as he flipped the bike and began putting the chain back into place."
So that's part of a scene I've been dreaming up that takes place in High Park. It's the time that the cherry trees are in full bloom. Here is the other part. I probably wrote it a year ago:
"From my vantage point I could see the whole park. I could see him chasing her through the fallen cherry blossoms, her long dark hair dancing on the wind. For a moment I imagined I was her, my graceful feet lightly skimming the earth as pink and white petals adorned my mahogany locks. Then I remembered my antagonizing allergy to all things natural and stifled a sneeze in my sleeve."
The protagonist of course is a young and savvy journalist (Think a radical, punky Penny from Inspector Gadget) who is hiding in a tree, too caught up with revealing truth to have room for romance. Lets call her Emily Republic and the girl with the mahogany locks Diane.
Also, completely unrelated to this creative writing thing that's been stewing, I sold two of my photographs from the library exhibit! (Two of the Toronto Necropolis) So happy!