This is super "OA" (as we would say in the Philippines) or over done. It was supposed to be a Descriptive Writing composition. Again, I'm not so sure, he he. Anyway, here it is.
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A man saunters down an empty road. His head is down to the ground, his soul downcast. Happiness has become a stranger; faithful friends have become foreigners. With every aching step he takes, the suffocating emptiness weighs the once-jovial-clown down.
Where have the days of sunshine, skies of colourful hues and fresh summer breezes gone to, questions the foot-fitted creature of misery and sadness. Who stole the twinkling stars from their place, the owls and crickets that bring life to the scheduled darkness?
In and out, he takes a breath and plods an inch further. Rats dance round his feet and trash flies fly. To his left a diseased half-bred German Shepherd rots and before him, a decaying city street. Everywhere he fixes eyes to, death and decay are all he sees.
Left, right. Left, right. Where is this man going? On down the road he continues. He walks until his socks are soaked with red, his body rich with stench. And soon, a rumbling is heard. From my stomach, he presumes and into a diner he enters.
The lights are way too bright, dull in an odd way. Corny music stings and deafens his ears. The lead singer sings about all the wrong things and the acoustics are terrible.
"Switch that damn music off!" he demands. In an instant, like a blood-sucking leech, all eyes are glued to him. He comes to his senses after an awkward silence and apologizes for his impudence.
A tall slender redhead with 4-inch high heels then escorts the man with brown, wavy hair to the far corner of the diner, to the right of the kitchen away from most of the customers. "Can I get you anything?" the ethereal voice questions.
"Coffee. Black. Get me bacon and waffles with no syrup and extra butter."
The waitress smiles a coy grin and as she retrieves the five-page menu she says: "Is that all?"
Instead of an answer, a blank stare from greenish-gray eyes with thick black eye bags is all she gets. "Very well then" she mutters as she retreats. "Jackass" the man hears as she walks away with that over-done model's stride.
The food arrives way too late. The butter is hard and the waffles stale. In response the man simply exhales and without bothering to loosen his scarf of fold the sleeves of the white woolen sweater that fits him perfectly--custom made concluded the broker across the room--he gulps it down. Cuts it in half and swallows without chewing. His plate is empty in four bites.
Images flash through his his head like pests infesting a downtown apartment. Pictures and still frames invade his vision. Then like it was being squeezed out, a fat tear accumulates in the left corner of his right eye. Down his cheek it itches. I miss them, he lips. Secrets, memories from decades ago haunt him...
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I didn't even finish it. I don't remember if I even handed it in or not. Now thinking about it, I probably wrote this during a free period, he he. Hope you didn't get bored. :)
Photo: "The Empty Streets" by Andre Bob
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