Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are jolt, ribbon and zeal.
Space
The space smells of crayons that have been left in the sun too long.
A third-floor walkup, it’s utilitarian in composition. One great room. A small kitchen is pushed to one side. A smaller bath that’s often mistaken for a closet. Four cheery floor-to-ceiling windows offer views of a tree-lined street, the city skyline.
Lives have been lived in this cramped space.
The first, young lovers with a zeal for French chamber music and Sunday mornings spent in bed with pastries, coffee and the newspaper.
The recently divorced middle-aged woman who cried herself to sleep most nights and a fit of desperation plucked a gray-and-white kitten with a pink ribbon tied to its neck from a cardboard box at the subway stop to fill up her loneliness.
The artist who tortured himself with jolts of intravenous drugs and jugged wine until his long-suffering muse told him to fling himself off the George Washington Bridge.
A fresh coat of paint the color of eggshells awaits the newest tenant. A pilgrim from the wilderness with a few battered cardboard boxes and a beloved, battered IBM Selectric typewriter.
He picks absently at a flyspeck on the window with a fingernail as he watches life pulse in the city.
He turns from the windows and commits the crayon smell to memory, hoping one day to incorporate it into a story he’s yet to write.
Space
The space smells of crayons that have been left in the sun too long.
A third-floor walkup, it’s utilitarian in composition. One great room. A small kitchen is pushed to one side. A smaller bath that’s often mistaken for a closet. Four cheery floor-to-ceiling windows offer views of a tree-lined street, the city skyline.
Lives have been lived in this cramped space.
The first, young lovers with a zeal for French chamber music and Sunday mornings spent in bed with pastries, coffee and the newspaper.
The recently divorced middle-aged woman who cried herself to sleep most nights and a fit of desperation plucked a gray-and-white kitten with a pink ribbon tied to its neck from a cardboard box at the subway stop to fill up her loneliness.
The artist who tortured himself with jolts of intravenous drugs and jugged wine until his long-suffering muse told him to fling himself off the George Washington Bridge.
A fresh coat of paint the color of eggshells awaits the newest tenant. A pilgrim from the wilderness with a few battered cardboard boxes and a beloved, battered IBM Selectric typewriter.
He picks absently at a flyspeck on the window with a fingernail as he watches life pulse in the city.
He turns from the windows and commits the crayon smell to memory, hoping one day to incorporate it into a story he’s yet to write.
Comments
Hmmm. A foreshadowing of the writer's beginning? Kindergarten-nature of the new tenant? I wonder....
Someone above me noted the crayon, too. Obviously it is a connection for us all.
I also got a quick image of the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun" where Frances lives for a time in the "Recent Divorcee" apartments in San Francisco BUT I don't sense this space was as drab as that one. Somehow the tree-lined street outside the spacious windows speaks to me of great hope.
(I better stop, I think this comment may be getting longer than the original post!)
Wonderful piece of work.
-Tim
http://timremp.blogspot.com/2010/01/wiccan-rivalry.html
larry
Okay, stickler for details or you are truly masterful. I read these once for the sheer joy of the story, and the 2nd time to find the words if they didn't jump out at me. After four times through, I still can't find 'jolt'. Is it blending so well that I can't see it?
either way.. very tangible feel.
an interesting room, I must say:)