Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Timed Write — First Thing that Comes to Mind

She walked down the street quietly, hands embedded into the pockets of an overly large beige rain coat. A piece of garbage blew past dancing along the street to some silent tune while the occasional rain puddle stood showing the sky in its natural mirror.

She sighed. Perhaps she just wanted to hear more than the occasional dripping of droplets from rooftops trying to hurry to the ground in their own wet way.

Sometimes she liked to hear her own voice, it almost sounded like it was coming from some other person. Her voice wasn’t how she imagined it would sound like in her head. It was higher, tinnier, distant. Like an echo of what she assumed was her voice.

She was young, wearing a maroon scarf and a small black hat askew. She had her own fashion sense, it was a bit nonsensical. Part retro part comfort, part a little bit detective movie, and a little bit couch potato. She wasn’t sure who she was yet, or who she would become and the impression she gave was of a whimsical and confused teen who wasn’t sure she liked herself all that much.

She knew she liked the rain. It was soothing when it hit her hat and her coat, it made a satisfying plop sound. It made its own music, a rhythmic percussion of sounds that set a tempo for action or just a lengthy walk.

She loved to walk. But, for some unknown reason, when the rain stopped something about the world seemed dark and gloomy. The music slowed down, and everything just sat wet and bland. Everything was just there, remaining around concrete and water.

The clouds were still overhead promising a return of rain in the near future. But in the meantime she was left walking down a largely deserted street wondering if the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse would resemble this.

Everything and everyone needs water, and rain is the form it often comes from. Rain was life, just like sunlight was. A plant would die without water just like it would without light. The air smelled different after a good rain.

The humidity messed with her hair more than her hat did, and she would stop to readjust a strand that somehow got into her face. It was a constant battle between her hat and her hair and her glasses. There was never a real victor, much like the rain or the sun, hair always came back.

Occasionally she would yank a particular strand out and examine the root of it, before tossing it. It would grow back. She guessed that was okay, after all, she didn’t want to be bald. Then again, since she liked to wear hats, perhaps that didn’t matter very much to her. Hair was kind of a symbol of vitality or health though.

People looked at a girl funny without hair. Everyone would probably make insane assumptions like cancer, or some terminal illness if she lost all her hair. Perhaps it is better to have it, so she can blend into the surroundings better. She didn’t want to attract too much attention. she didn’t want any more stares than she occasionally got for the hats she would wear.

A little attention was nice, a lot of attention was scary. She didn’t want stares, a glance was okay, but a stare would be altogether different. She wanted to be different, but not necessarily a freak.

It was a delicate balance that she might not ever perfect. But she was learning how to be herself and sometimes mistakes would be made.

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Author:

Singe mom, part time writer of primarily sci-fi and fantasy.

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