Writing Assignment #2-Draft 3

The dreary weather was dominant that day. The fog, spread across the city like margarine on toast. From the street, through the fog, the old building didn’t look like much. The roses, lazing just outside the window in an old rusted flowerbox drooped downward. The old door and shutters; muted of color and life. All was in a lazy still.

There she sat. Creak creak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as the backdrop to the almost empty room. It's only contents were the rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once great provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room;looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils, sheered her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was succumbed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick…tick...tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, the world shall never know. All was in a lazy still.

A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there?

Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. A worn-in warm must of sandalwood and amber. The smell of a lover's embrace; the safety, the warmth, the passion. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room. Underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep; the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair became bright like the sun and began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.

Writing Assignment #2-Draft 2 with Ms. Wisiener edits

The dreary weather was dominant that day. The fog, spread across the city like margarine on toast.From the street, through the fog, the old building didn’t look like much. The roses, lazing just outside the window drooped downward. The old door and shutters; muted of color and life. All was in a lazy still.
There she sat. Creak creak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors, as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as a backdrop to the almost empty room. The rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it was it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room, looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils, sheered across her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was blanketed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick……..tick……..tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, the world shall never know. All was in a lazy still.
A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there? All was in a lazy still.
Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. A worn-in warm must of sandalwood and amber. The smell of a lover's embrace; the safety, the warmth, the passion. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room. Underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep, the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair, bright like the sun began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.

Writing Assignment #2-Draft 1

The dreary weather was at its high that day. The fog, covering the city like jam on toast, spread to every edge. From the street, through the fog, the old building didn’t look like much. The roses, perched outside the window drooped downward. The old door and shutters; muted of color and life. All was in a lazy still.
There she sat. Croak croak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors, as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as a backdrop to the almost empty room. The rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it was it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room, looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils sheered across her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was blanketed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping to the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick……..tick……..tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, we shall never know. All was in a lazy still.
A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there?
Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room; underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep, the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair, bright like the sun began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.