Practice Creative Writing
Practice creative writing
The daily scream therapy of my neighbour in the shower does not fail to act as an alarm clock every morning. This daily “alarm clock” was a good enough reason to not succumb into the pressure of calling the police. The rhythmic sound of everyone’s steps outside gave birth to the gravel, small as peas which moved beneath their feet and from it a faint dust rose, the perfume of the town. This perfume I had to get used to now, this perfume I will smell for the years to come. This foreign town was now my new home, away from all the sadness, unfulfilled relationships and the past, a town full of versatile people, some doctors, some painters, some chocolatiers and some farmers, all with big houses towering over them. A town still rich with bicycles and kids playing in the streets early in the morning, the streets filled with the aroma of bread this all felt very new to me, I was a city dweller, this made me feel great unease.
I have been awake before dawn at 0645 am all thanks to the scream therapy in the shower, I am washed by the cool air, air which seems that no one is breathing yet. I know where I am suddenly, I am part of this quiet and beautiful town and I am happy. Suddenly, the pure melancholy, first blue of morning begins. The air where one can bathe in. the electric shriek of a train, heels on sidewalks. The first birds. I am part of this town now.
I am in line at a coffee shop; no one seems to pay attention to me, the young girls shuffle back and forth, their faces white as soap with ankles as skinny as a stick, worn shoe showing the outside toe, dressing showing beneath the white smocks.
“Bonjour?”
They all wait for me to speak, I am lost for words, and they all now know I am not from here. It makes me feel a little uneasy but I would like to speak without the tiniest trace of an accent. I have the ear for it I have been told, I’d like to understand the radio, the words of songs. I would like to pass unseen. A lady with
The daily scream therapy of my neighbour in the shower does not fail to act as an alarm clock every morning. This daily “alarm clock” was a good enough reason to not succumb into the pressure of calling the police. The rhythmic sound of everyone’s steps outside gave birth to the gravel, small as peas which moved beneath their feet and from it a faint dust rose, the perfume of the town. This perfume I had to get used to now, this perfume I will smell for the years to come. This foreign town was now my new home, away from all the sadness, unfulfilled relationships and the past, a town full of versatile people, some doctors, some painters, some chocolatiers and some farmers, all with big houses towering over them. A town still rich with bicycles and kids playing in the streets early in the morning, the streets filled with the aroma of bread this all felt very new to me, I was a city dweller, this made me feel great unease.
I have been awake before dawn at 0645 am all thanks to the scream therapy in the shower, I am washed by the cool air, air which seems that no one is breathing yet. I know where I am suddenly, I am part of this quiet and beautiful town and I am happy. Suddenly, the pure melancholy, first blue of morning begins. The air where one can bathe in. the electric shriek of a train, heels on sidewalks. The first birds. I am part of this town now.
I am in line at a coffee shop; no one seems to pay attention to me, the young girls shuffle back and forth, their faces white as soap with ankles as skinny as a stick, worn shoe showing the outside toe, dressing showing beneath the white smocks.
“Bonjour?”
They all wait for me to speak, I am lost for words, and they all now know I am not from here. It makes me feel a little uneasy but I would like to speak without the tiniest trace of an accent. I have the ear for it I have been told, I’d like to understand the radio, the words of songs. I would like to pass unseen. A lady with