The Story I Almost Wrote For The Class I Almost Took

The last sweet, shy tendrils of sleep began to loosen their grasp on the city as its drowsy inhabitants stirred slightly in their beds. Chests rose and fell as the fresh morning air filled lungs. Arms straightened and bent. Legs curled and uncurled beneath blankets that were tossed aside and pulled back.

The sun, just waking, as well, began her elegant arc over the sky, slowly easing her light over the town, mingling with the still fog to create an orange, velvet glow that caressed the faces of the reluctant wakers, lingering on eyelids with the hope of coaxing them into submission—into relaxation—all the while stirring to life the things of the city.

All of this Joel watched with a quiet intensity, a reverent silence. He had no bed of his own, no blanket to shelter him, no window to mediate the glowing sun’s rays, illuminating dust particles that did not exist, floating in the air of a room he did not own. Sleep had abandoned Joel long before, shrinking back from the touch of the warm sun’s icy predecessor. The sharp bite of the wind had taken it upon itself to wake Joel before ascending to rouse the sun, rushing unceremoniously through Joel’s unkempt hair, finding ways into Joel’s worn coat. For Joel had no door to turn the wind away, no walls to serve as the lamb’s blood, commanding the wind to continue his search for a victim.

Neither smiling nor frowning, Joel watched the sun make her entrance. He alone was her audience. In that immobile moment, when the raucous parties of the night had dispersed and the stiff businessmen of the day had yet to make the journeys to their offices, he alone was awake. Joel sat in deferential acknowledgment of a warmth that had never acknowledged him, much like a child who might love the image of a father who was incapable of showing love in return.

***

News: Deborah Reber, the author I mentioned in the previous post, emailed me back. She found my blog, though I didn't give her the address. So I'm curious as to how she managed it. And she asked for a writing sample. I sent her the tidbit above, along with the first two pages of my book. She hasn't written back yet, and I'm nearly ripping my hair out with impatience while trying to tell myself not to get my hopes up.