Another prompt in the course, Writing Fiction, posed the questions – where would be the worst and the best places to write. Here was my response…
The train begins down the tracks with a jolt, and he grumbles slightly to himself at how busy it is this time of day. He reminds himself again that this is only temporary, soon he will be able to put this job and the hectic bustle of city life behind him. But first, he must find it within himself to finish. He has never been one to love the fast life – where IS everyone going in such a hurry? As he settles into his seat for the commute, he hopes that the music streaming from his ear buds will be enough to drown out the mindless chatter around him. The black screen stares back at him, taunting him to type something – anything. He closes his eyes and tries desperately to re-center and focus on words that seem hopelessly lost to him right now.
The cabin always holds a certain magic this time of year. As the door opens for the first time in over nine months, there is that unmistakable smell – a certain muskiness that lingers in the air. Not offensive or unwelcoming in the least, but will nonetheless dissipate as soon as the fire is lit. The flames in the hearth soon blend seamlessly with the red and golden leaves on the grand oaks and maples outside, creating a synergy of the room and the nature encompassing it. The old desk sits in front of the dusty wood-paned window overlooking the lake, and as the sun sets the rays dance off of the water like a thousand mirrors reflecting an orange hue on everything they touch. She grabs her tea, turns on Moonlight Sonata and pulls out the chair, which creaks as she sits down. Soon this light will not be enough, and she will have to turn on the banker light. Opening her laptop, the glow from the fire bounces off of the white screen. She sighs contentedly and begins to type.
One day, I will have one – perpetually caught in Autumn’s vivid colors.