Status: purely an experiment. a compiling of some random snippets and of some short works, molded together to create one story.
Sheltering Midnight
Home
September 10, 2010
She remembered that the only thing seen for miles was the thick fog that looked like the stagnant white of the eye, or an animator’s page prior to inspiration. For miles, the fog covered everything- houses, oceans- leaving only the whistle of a boat she couldn’t see. As they crossed the bridge, a new scent assaulted her nose: that of green leaves, and grass freshly sprinkled with morning dew. The scent was so overpowering that her eyebrow had risen, but the familiar scent of gasoline and smoke was able to comfort her momentarily. Long gone however, were those familiar scents of her raucous New York that she begrudgingly gave up.
Sophia left an America she knew in exchange for an America that the world knew when she entered Vermont three weeks before to live the life of an adult, where a liberal education, or so they said, awaited her.
She remembered the look on the motherly face that left her and felt the sudden pang of Loss against her heart, beating as repetitively, as naturally as the blood she needed to survive. Yes, pain had become a reaction of equilibrium again when she recalled the face of a distant, unrequited love, one year her junior, who’s eyes she’d never forget for as long as she lived.
When Sophia Hirsch thought of home, she thought of a place where love didn’t overflow, it swelled deep down within her. Where men walked the streets unafraid to hold hands with other men; where groups gathered to protest something they didn’t understand; where the seeds of revolution grew in suburban victory gardens in the backyard; where pretension was a three letter word, “you” because righteous was a two letter word: “me”; where beauty was found round every corner, in every window; where danger was in every household in every borough; where there was no room for empathy in the largest mansion; where she’d found her first love, where she’d loss her voice and where she found it again in pages and pages of written word.
Sophia had been brought up in a world of art, one she wasn’t keen on leaving behind just yet- because to be an artist was to be in opposition, to be at war constantly. She was sure no such thing existed in the small town of Middlebury, Vermont. Conflict was an illusion masked behind smiles and know-how. The doctor said the fresh air would do her some good. But Emerson knew she was stuck there, in the perpetual loop of those four years, where days couldn’t coalesce enough to make the experience as quick and painless as a shot to the arm.
As she biked across campus with the cool air at her heels, she retreated back to that place in her heart where she kept New York. She knew she’d need it to get her through the nights.
She remembered that the only thing seen for miles was the thick fog that looked like the stagnant white of the eye, or an animator’s page prior to inspiration. For miles, the fog covered everything- houses, oceans- leaving only the whistle of a boat she couldn’t see. As they crossed the bridge, a new scent assaulted her nose: that of green leaves, and grass freshly sprinkled with morning dew. The scent was so overpowering that her eyebrow had risen, but the familiar scent of gasoline and smoke was able to comfort her momentarily. Long gone however, were those familiar scents of her raucous New York that she begrudgingly gave up.
Sophia left an America she knew in exchange for an America that the world knew when she entered Vermont three weeks before to live the life of an adult, where a liberal education, or so they said, awaited her.
She remembered the look on the motherly face that left her and felt the sudden pang of Loss against her heart, beating as repetitively, as naturally as the blood she needed to survive. Yes, pain had become a reaction of equilibrium again when she recalled the face of a distant, unrequited love, one year her junior, who’s eyes she’d never forget for as long as she lived.
When Sophia Hirsch thought of home, she thought of a place where love didn’t overflow, it swelled deep down within her. Where men walked the streets unafraid to hold hands with other men; where groups gathered to protest something they didn’t understand; where the seeds of revolution grew in suburban victory gardens in the backyard; where pretension was a three letter word, “you” because righteous was a two letter word: “me”; where beauty was found round every corner, in every window; where danger was in every household in every borough; where there was no room for empathy in the largest mansion; where she’d found her first love, where she’d loss her voice and where she found it again in pages and pages of written word.
Sophia had been brought up in a world of art, one she wasn’t keen on leaving behind just yet- because to be an artist was to be in opposition, to be at war constantly. She was sure no such thing existed in the small town of Middlebury, Vermont. Conflict was an illusion masked behind smiles and know-how. The doctor said the fresh air would do her some good. But Emerson knew she was stuck there, in the perpetual loop of those four years, where days couldn’t coalesce enough to make the experience as quick and painless as a shot to the arm.
As she biked across campus with the cool air at her heels, she retreated back to that place in her heart where she kept New York. She knew she’d need it to get her through the nights.
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i just realized how short this chapter is.but if you like it anyway, please dont hesitate to comment and subscribe!
the chapters will be alternating timelines though, so i hope its not too confusing.
heytheredelilahlee ^_^