A journal prompt I got from my (pretty awesome) English teacher for an in-class quickwrite that exercises imagery. I came upon the dilemma on whether or not the assignment was casual enough for me to contractions...I took the safe route. It definitely gives off that rushed, time-constrained, writing vibe though--I'm pretty sure of myself that I can write better descriptions with even weirder symbols and personifications.
Crisp autumn air rushes through my lungs as I walk down the empty suburban side street. A painter’s palette of deep, passionate reds, fiery oranges and honey yellows litter the sidewalk and mask the ominous overcast sky above me. I continue down the path until I reach a small bench, a sturdy, smooth slab of oak, marbled with dark chocolate browns and sandy tans. I pull out a modest, black composition notebook and my favorite jet-black pen and start filling up pages with scribbled emotions and odd metaphors about life—what I like to call poetry. The soft, singsong chirping of small sparrows accent the swells of rustling as cool autumn breezes shift the vibrant painting of fallen leaves on the ground.
I recline in the brown suede sofa, smooth and worn from decades of use. The smooth voice of Nat King Cole fills the chilly air and caresses my ears as I sip a strong, deep-hued brew of my favorite oolong. I lean my cheek against the cool glass of the window and feel the tapping of raindrops as they fall from the sky. I spend a few moments and watch as they hit the sidewalk—an interminable series of small splashes dancing and creating an elegant water show. The crackling of a small fire is washed over behind a modest TV broadcasting the Lakers’ Christmas Day game. I set my mug down on a small coffee table and allow myself to be engulfed by the soft folds of a goose down blanket and the hulking sofa as I doze the winter afternoon away.
The soft drone of Sunday morning Westwood traffic disappears as I walk through the wooden framed glass doors of Chipotle. The buzz of college students talking about last night’s basketball game or their ridiculous midterms blend in with the sizzle of a grill and shouts of customers eagerly ordering their meals. The enticing scent of spiced, slow cooked meats, sharp salsas and earthy stewed beans is inescapable as I move my way towards the counter. I head out a few minutes later with two burritos radiating their warmth through the brown paper bag in one hand and two bottles of iced tea in the other—the cool condensation on the bottle running down my hand. A short walk down a hectic street laced with profanity-filled road rage and I finally meet up with her in the park. We settle down in the grass under a tall, hulking pine and begin to gorge through the perfect picnic meal. Full and relaxed, we lean back on the tree and enjoy the beautiful spring day. Warm rays of sunshine beat down on us as we sit close together on the prickly, uniform grass—broken only by a rare breeze that dances across the yellow-green blades.
A group of close friends and I hop out of the car and excitedly make our way to the gate of the decently sized football stadium—but we will not be watching football tonight. We traverse through the expansive parking lot, allowing the setting summer sun to beat down our backs as the East Los Angeles heat drops from burning to bearable. We pass through the modest entry gate and under a banner proudly boasting: “Pacific Crest and Drum Corps International presents to you: Corps at the Crest”. After a quick run for overpriced stadium food at a rundown stand, we make our way into our seats. I ignore the uncomfortably hard and rough wooden benches in the stands, knowing it will be worth the performances by the top West Coast drum corps. The blazing sun finally sets and hides behind the rolling hills of Mt. Sac and I sit in the stadium, nestled into the side of one of the hills, and take in the scenery with the buzz of the crowd engulfing me. A small hawk cuts through the warm swells of summer air that still linger over the valley and envelope me as one of the corps take the field. I watch as they float across the field in formations, bellowing out beautiful melodies that steal the audience’s hearts and harmonies that fill ears with bliss—and all I can think about is how badly I want to be one of them, some day.
And I just read this over in its entirety for the first time..
needs
major
editing
Goodnight.
