This is my second installment of my April short story, and yet it's still not done. I'll be posting the third and final section on Sunday, which I know is in May, but really, it's a process (please feel free to give me all kinds of crap about that).
Quick question, do you want to see this piece in its edited, final drafted, glory? It's going to need a lot of work, but I'm confident that I can pull it off.
*It just frustrates me in pieces like this where things can go in so many different directions, and it's hard to pick the right one.
*It just frustrates me in pieces like this where things can go in so many different directions, and it's hard to pick the right one.
Sorry for rambling. I'll just let you read it.
It’s all on fire, the gold. The gold and the rubies and the diamonds are ensconced in a brilliance that might convince even God that Heaven is inferior.
Dawn just flowered over the high-rises. The kind of dawn that can make you believe in anything, even through smog. My little box feels like it belongs on the point of a Christmas tree, rendering me slightly blind and ringing from the ferocity of sensory onslaught. People stand in crowds to see me all day, but on this morning, with this dawn giving birth to this brilliance, there are only a few stragglers who will see it. But maybe, maybe it’s better that way.
In this box, for this week, I am a Tiffany’s employee. Tiffany’s defines itself by luxury. So I am to live in extravagance. Exotic and scrumptious foods are sent up to me three times a day on a silver and Tiffany blue platter. Since I am a tool in their promotional campaign, they want the public to take notice of this, and since people are easily influenced, they do. Crowds bigger than normal gather during mealtimes, more preoccupied with some strange man’s dinner than their own. So far I’ve been served expensive meats, cheeses, vegetables, soups, and salads, all on the first day.
Luxury is biting me everywhere as I eye the lift’s doors, willing them to open, particularly a spiked pendant digging into my right thigh. I wait patiently for breakfast this morning, feeling slightly empty now that the angles have shifted and morning is just morning, no longer dawn. Luxury bit into me last night when, oddly enough, there was no bed to sleep on. Luxury keeps me on my toes, just thinking about the paycheck at the end of the week. Yet, luxury smells delicious as eggs, bacon, grapefruit, toast, and jam appear behind the lift’s doors. There’s a crowd gathering as I spear into the pink fruit.
No comments:
Post a Comment