On The Brink

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Was rummaging through old classwork and short stories I wrote in 2012 for a creative writing class and ended up stumbling upon this intruguing short story exercise…

He couldn’t escape; that man in the window.  I see him everyday at four O’clock.  Shadows cast over his face, shoulders and arms.  His fingertips like suction cups against the glass.  He wears the same striped tee, as if he never bothered, even once, to look down and see his own reflection against the glass.  Always dreaming, always longing and reaching for that first step that will lead him away; still, he waits, as if time will preform miraculous tricks for him.  Perhaps, a miracle will approach, and everything will shatter and pile on the floor in little neat pyramids of sharp and crisp ideas to snatch up just as greedily as his eyes glare outward and onward; a daring leap that has his feet bound.  On the surface, it is a montage of color, irregularity and creativity, but on the inside it is just as sedentary as his thoughts.  Careless, they whisper to the man on the other side, the man on the brink.

 

Quite interesting I believe…

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