Monday, September 13, 2010

3. The grating sound flew through my open window, pulling along a rhythmic slap, slap, slap.  My attention was easily pulled away from analyzing Hester Prynne.  The sound slowly grew louder; whatever was coming wasn't coming very fast.  I craned my giraffe neck to see, and finally he appeared.  His back was facing me, riding his skateboard.  He wore no shirt, just black pants, a curious hat and black flip flops: the source of the slapping.    My eyes were glued to his figure as he rode by my house, my ears listened once he was no longer in sight.  I can't concentrate on Hester Prynne now, I'm wishing so hard that he will come back, this time facing me.  I want to know who he is so I can hold on to the tiny thread that my daydreams will come true.  A few more sentences are squeezing themselves out of my brain, applying themselves to paper.  I hear it!  He's coming back!  Now he is in my view, quicker this time for the street is shorter that way.  He is facing me. Oh golly gee he better see me.  Now he is gone.  I noticed his dark hair, appearing-to-be handsome face and good-on-the-eyes shirtless state before he disappeared from my view for the second time.  He didn't notice me and he hasn't come back.

1 comment:

  1. I have to say, your prose is quite good!
    (You too look beautiful.)