Friday, March 25, 2011
Tell Me as Story, Please...
Please join me in telling a story. Below are two paragraphs—in the comment section add the next lines or a paragraph to continue the narrative and let’s see what our fertile minds come up with.
I opened the door to my apartment. My apartment—the one I always dreamed about. Location—overlooking the park where I could see trees display soft green buds in March and prepare for summer when they dressed in large leaves the color of jade. The dream began when I was eight and my mother and I walked along Park Avenue across from Central Park. We gazed at the buildings—buildings that touched the sky presided over by men in uniform who doffed their caps and opened highly polished wood and glass doors to the fortunate residents who lived in this magical place.
The ugly taxicab-yellow tape that kept me from my home was gone now and I was free to live my life alone. Free to do what I pleased with no one to stop me—no one around to say, “No.” The months since my lover was found dead had been the grimmest months of my life. I was a suspect. My past examined, my present scrutinized, my future unknown.