Descriptive Writing

05 junio 2007

Descriptive Writing

Esto lo escribí como redacción para inglés, excepto los dos últimos párrafos. Así que hay que agradecérselo a mi profesora. Me pregunto que pensaría de ella. Probablemente nada.

Walking down the frozen street he was trying to remember his sad duties with the boring company he was warking for. It was a frigid evening; the sky was hazy, clouded in a solid way. He tried to grab his hat as the wind was blowing his hair. Althoughhe was going to be late to catch the eight thirty bus, he could not run, afraid of failling, because of the ice rink it was formed beneath his feet.

He was such a skinny man, he was said to be able to pass through a needle's eye. With the fierce wind it seemed whe was about to be blown away, like a falling leaf. He always wears a serious face with a sad smile carved in it. The green scarf, twisted around his neck as a snake trying to choke him, and his old brown hat, trying to fly away as a bird willing to die freely, made his appearence as someone in a film in a scene out of a film.

After waiting for an eternity, the bus finally arrived. He was grateful for the bus coming before he was turned into a snowman, although he wished that it had arrived before he got his toes frozen-solid. When he got up to the bus, the concentrated smell of a hundred people's sweate smashed his nose as a profesional boxer's punch. When finally he made it into the center of the bus, in a position where he was more or less stable, he look around. He only saw a sea of faces that were criminally vulgar. They were all boring and anoying.

Finally the bus spat him out. He was in his neighborhood. He was surrounded by cold towers, barely lighted. The sun was turned of, exchanged poorly by the pale lights of the night lamps. The thunderclap appeared, the herald of the storm. He'd better hurry up. He stood up in front of one of those heartless towers, tiny, as a bacteria in front of a giant. He got in and took the elevator. He reached his floor and raised the key, sword of the true knight.

Suddendly, when he turned the door's key he reached another world. Somewhere where everybody knew his name. The light took him in a warm hug. The heat threw the cold away, and wake him into a new life.

He was home.

"Home, home again.

I like to be here, while I can.

And when I come home cold and tired

it's good to warm my bones beside the fire"

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Time, The Dark Side of the Moon. Pink Floyd