Here is another piece from an assignment in my Creative Writing class titled “The French Revolution Waits” that I’d like to share. I have to say, I am loving these short shorts I get to write. I knew this class was going to be good 🙂
It wasn’t a day I wanted to be away from home. Being at the office (if I could call it a proper office) was not the right process of healing. The grade of a C+ on my history essay I got back yesterday was poisonous. I can’t say it’s my fault, at least not all of it. I don’t have the money for books, and I could only get to the library two times in the past two weeks, and for only three hours max, because Efficiency was thinking itself creative again and found the necessity for five meetings and a decent load of marketing and sales reports that each took a meaty two hours. I had no time for serious research on the French Revolution from 1790 to 1792. Apparently it was so rubbish I downgraded the epic Storming of the Bastille before and the disgustingly pleasurable execution of King Louis XVI after. Nothing special happened in my time period, anyway, and I thought it wouldn’t be that bad. It seemed the professor held the failed escape of the royal family to Varennes in high regard. I kind of glossed over that.
You see, I should not have been at work today. As I walked down the sunset burned sidewalks of boisterous and clumsy Manhattan, I couldn’t suppress my growing annoyance at the world. I was not supposed to be here. I had ideas; dreams, but I call them ideas. They’re not dreams anymore. I was a sales analyst, for a company I did not care for even in the smallest degree, and I was hailing a cab home because I was tired and I had an essay to save my life with.
I stood on the edge of the sidewalk and leaned, as if I had an intention to step right into the street and make the trip short. I raised my arm to all the yellow vehicles sliding past, waiting for one to acknowledge my presence. I was looking to the left, always looking to the left, but for some reason I decided to turn my head a little to the right, to look directly ahead of me. I saw a sign which at first appeared blurry, but when I allowed myself to focus I could finally see what it said:
“Coming to a stage near you: A Little Princess. Walk in auditions. Come sing for us!”
What a collection of words to rock my world. I felt a splatter of collected rainwater on the tips of my boots and realized that a cab had come at my bidding. I hesitated. This moment seemed dreamlike, dreamlike like my dreams. My dream…it was to be a Broadway performer. I don’t remember when it faded away, or maybe crashed into the moon, but it was coming back, carefully, creepily, tauntingly. I was twenty-three. Was there still time?
The cab window rolled down and the driver’s raspy air-conditioned voice called out to me.
“You getting in, ma’am?”
My hand was on the door handle, and all that was left was to pull, and I would be home in fifteen minutes; home, alone, in a dream, scribbling French Revolution absurde et trivialty historique. But my hand wouldn’t pull.
“Ma’am, if you’re not getting in could you please move on then?”
No, I’m getting in, I wanted to say. Was I? My eyes wouldn’t come off the sign. Perhaps this was it, the day the dream became a reality. I imagine I was shooting to some very far off stars, but I shot nonetheless.
I released the handle and tore around the cab. I went for the nearest crossing and hopped on my feet, waiting for the light to turn green. I definitely wasn’t going to be home in fifteen minutes. The French Revolution would have to wait for me now.
Let me know what you think in comments ^_^