An Old Story

I felt like posting something old that I wrote. It was for an English class. Mimic an author's style. I don't remember whose, but I dunno; I enjoyed writing it. It's a bit rushed in places, but whatever :) First post!

Anyone who has a word they want me to use, comment!

Fall(ing)

When the world ages in colors rather than years. When change is inevitable and redgoldbrown replaces the monotony of green. When overindulgence is muted, and the last wisps of summer, signs of life, sail away on a worn out wind.

Memories always accompany the falling of leaves. Their scent possesses twinges of compunction, lingers in the air, and is only felt with somberness. They trickle down, one by one, kissing the earth with light touches. The world sighs, and nature seems to respond with distilling silence.

She used to love Fall.

But no longer.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dust lived in the House on Corden Lane with her. Followed her through the timber framed front door, to the living room with mahogany wooden floors that creaked every once in awhile, along the tiled path of celadon, and up the stairwell that always caused one to experience vertigo. Into her bedroom.

She woke one morning. Seven Oh Clock. Teeth brushed (Crest). Coffee made. Food eaten (Stale Poptart).

She knew the routine.

In front of the closet she stood. Her fingers caressed the cloth of her dresses, sliding across each one as she walked by. The window was open, and dust traveled to and fro. She watched, eyes half-lidded, as her clothes breathed along with the path of the wind. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Flutter. She began to sob. Dust danced together in a slow waltz. From above, the fan sighed at her.

She owned Too Many black dresses.

One for Uncle Rev Who Died of Natural Causes.
    One for Aunt Mary Who Died Sleeping.
        One for Grandma Who Was Old.
        
                                                the Last for The One She Loved.

Hanging just in front of her. Newly delivered and still wrapped in plastic.

A few minutes later, the door slammed shut and upstairs on the bed with a tear-stained duvet, lay the plastic with no dress.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The office. Mindless jabbering. The tittering and clicking noises from rapid typing, periodically punctuated by  the SPACE bar as it is hit more forcefully than the other keys. A symphony of ringtones, Hello, You’ve Reach…The strain of the copy machine as it tries to complete on simple task.

“Fuckin’ machine. Can’t do a Damn thing,” muttered a man. His workmate echoed his interjection with enthusiasm, littering the air with more expletives.

She sat behind her desk, in a cubicle with scattered papers and a wall of sticky notes as her view the whole day. She stared ahead with dazed eyes and passiveness on her face.

She knew what she was supposed to do. Do what's right. Do what she is made for. But....but....

"Penny for your thoughts?" A teasing co-worker said to her. She gazed up at the intruder, eyes blank and void of any emotion.

He would have to pay his whole life.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At One Oh Clock, she stood up. Her chair skidded back.

“Ooh, I like your dress!” cooed one impudent girl who worked with her.

Creakkk. The chair spun. Drawer pushed open. Drawer closed. The OFF click of a lamp.

"Where are you going?" whined one impudent girl when she noticed her standing up from her chair. She turned in her comfy leather computer chair, squeeeeakkkk, and held a coffee cup to her botoxed lips. She was one of the girls who did nothing of particular importance; her work experience mostly took place around the corner after 10 At Night.

"Funeral."

Keys jingled. The ringing of phones crescendo’d.

The girl seemed to stagger for a moment, her bad personality seemed to disappear, and she could've worn coffee the whole day.

"Oh, Sorry for Your Loss." The copying machine was malfunctioning; someone started to give it a couple of hits so it sounded like "sor(smack) fo(smack) (smack)yo(SMACK) loss".

Sorry I hit your dog with my car. Sorry you're just not my type. Sympathy is a mixture of good-humor, curiosity, and self-importance. Someone once said to be sympathetic you must have soul.

 The girl in the seat had none.

"It's Okay," the other said.

and She walked away, forgetting that she forgot to say Goodbye

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The leaves that once held Life crunched crisply under her heels as she came home. She walked by cars that rested in their driveway, tired and beaten from road trips and family vacations. The scent of wet and dry, the remnants of a light rainstorm, still danced tantalizingly in the air.

Her scarf wrapped around her like a snake, and underneath, her lips trembled.

She used to love Fall.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She needed a glass of wine. For the trip. Sangiovese. Sand JOE ve see. Time skipped, and she reached for the bottle in the cupboard tucked behind overdue boxes of cereal and popcorn packets.

She revered in the taste that was so hauntingly silky, that caressed her palate, and cooled her esophagus.

In a garage a pale finger Swept along the exterior of a blue and white Porsche 944 in a vertical line, leaving behind a path without dust.

She slid herself across the leathered skin, feeling the bumps against the back of her thighs. One hand reached up to grip the steering wheel, only to finally rest on the finger grooves worn down ages ago. The other grasped the Bordeaux glass of red.

Keys in the engine. Windows rolled down.  The car steadily roared to life like a creature waking from sleep.

She forgot to open the garage.

Eyes blinked and blinked, and as she did this, the glass slipped from her hand and onto the matted floor, and in her mind she heard the thump of her Heavy Heart slowing and slowing a n d s l o w i n g   a   n  d  s   l    o     w   i