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| MEMOIR |
Monsoon (1138 words)
The day
was overcast, gray. The Captain had issued safety equipment to me and a man
whose wife kept slapping his bald head with sunscreen. Having received our
warnings, we darted off in different directions, the choppy water pulling us
away. The water was baby blue, darker in areas where the reef clustered below
us. I sucked the air in and out of the snorkel, a raspy sound which mixed with
the hum of the boats motor. Having not sealed my snorkel tightly enough, I
pulled my head up, emptying the watery mask that kept me from viewing the wild
world below. The soft rain beat a quiet rhythm on my shoulders.
Passage (1324
words) I was self absorbed, reading the Tribune when an old
man standing next to a terminal window caught my eye. He had cleared a small
circle on the sweating glass with a wrinkled handkerchief he was stuffing into
his back pocket. The condensation had covered the glass in a glaze of water,
making the tarmac almost invisible. The man stood erect as his bent frame would
allow, his hands clenched behind him, his eyes riveted on something below.
I Will Miss (560 words)
I will miss this when I am gone…the quiet broken only by
the music, the picture of the street framed by a tall window, the silence that
turns to excitement with the movement of life outside, the people and their
personalities that makes this life worth living. I will miss that.
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