Big Al
10-01-2006, 11:20 PM
Hey everybody. Thanks to a writing class that I've been taking, I've managed to break free of my writer's block, and I started writing a story today. I'm not incredibly far into it, but I plan to work on it daily, and I'll update with every new section that I finish. Feel free to tell me what you think. I also haven't thought of a title yet, but anyway, here it is:
It was late autumn in a small town in the heart of Illinois, and it was a particularly cold morning. Though it seemed like fall had just arrived, all of the signs were now pointing to winter, which was rapidly and unwelcomingly approaching. Only a few scattered leaves remained on the otherwise bare trees, shivering in the crisp and slightly bitter wind, which also blew through the fallen leaves blanketing the ground in brilliant shades of red, orange, yellow, scarlet and gold, causing them to rustle gently and lazily as they were swept along the streets and the sidewalks and the many prim and well-kept lawns.
On this particular morning, and every morning for that matter, at eight o’ clock an old man could be seen emerging from his house. The house was very typical of any small town, indiscriminate and unmemorable; it was a two-story affair with white siding, a gray shingled roof, and a haphazardly-raked lawn, naked of all plants but grass and a few trees, with a concrete walkway, which stretched from the sidewalk to the steps of the front door, cutting through the center.
The old man seemed equally typical of such a town, not necessarily because the likes of him were extraordinarily common, but because of how well he seemed to fit in with his surroundings, how well the town seemed to suit him. He was dressed in a thick black sweater and tan trousers, over which he wore a long and heavy brown overcoat, and also shiny black boots and a gray hat pulled over his balding head. He had a face lined with wrinkles, and a long, bushy white beard and eyebrows, and deep blue eyes, which were creased with the lines of a thousand joyous smiles and a thousand dispirited frowns. His eyes no longer twinkled and glimmered like the eyes of a carefree and innocent youth, but rather they appeared dulled by the wisdom of age and a lifetime of experience, like a brilliant, roaring fire that has died down to faint, glowing embers.
It was late autumn in a small town in the heart of Illinois, and it was a particularly cold morning. Though it seemed like fall had just arrived, all of the signs were now pointing to winter, which was rapidly and unwelcomingly approaching. Only a few scattered leaves remained on the otherwise bare trees, shivering in the crisp and slightly bitter wind, which also blew through the fallen leaves blanketing the ground in brilliant shades of red, orange, yellow, scarlet and gold, causing them to rustle gently and lazily as they were swept along the streets and the sidewalks and the many prim and well-kept lawns.
On this particular morning, and every morning for that matter, at eight o’ clock an old man could be seen emerging from his house. The house was very typical of any small town, indiscriminate and unmemorable; it was a two-story affair with white siding, a gray shingled roof, and a haphazardly-raked lawn, naked of all plants but grass and a few trees, with a concrete walkway, which stretched from the sidewalk to the steps of the front door, cutting through the center.
The old man seemed equally typical of such a town, not necessarily because the likes of him were extraordinarily common, but because of how well he seemed to fit in with his surroundings, how well the town seemed to suit him. He was dressed in a thick black sweater and tan trousers, over which he wore a long and heavy brown overcoat, and also shiny black boots and a gray hat pulled over his balding head. He had a face lined with wrinkles, and a long, bushy white beard and eyebrows, and deep blue eyes, which were creased with the lines of a thousand joyous smiles and a thousand dispirited frowns. His eyes no longer twinkled and glimmered like the eyes of a carefree and innocent youth, but rather they appeared dulled by the wisdom of age and a lifetime of experience, like a brilliant, roaring fire that has died down to faint, glowing embers.