My life is comprised of inconsistencies, daydreaming, procrastination techniques and occasionally, writing.
“You wrote down that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It's never been anything but your religion." - J.D. Salinger
I would like to say this quote describes me but I'm one of those writers who just procrastinates all the time. More of a "writer" if I'm being honest. To those unfortunate enough to read my work: I very much appreciate any comment you can provide, particularly if it's the constructive kind.
Written By: Grace Mary Potts
November 20, 2014
Stepping out onto the platform wasn't anywhere near as exhilarating as she had envisioned, in fact it lacked any of the glamour or lavish content which so often consumed her fantasies. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. The air was perfumed with a tang of what appeared to be a bizarre combination of grease from fried food, petrol fumes and BO. The tiled floor beneath her was grubby and littered with the occasional drifting piece of rubbish. The McDonalds 'M' glared a lurid yellow from where it peaked out the top of an overflowing rubbish bin, and worst of all, was an overwhelming presence of grey. The stale shade coloured the walls, the floor, ceiling and columns in gritty strokes of paint reapplied too many times.
It was as though life had been leached from the world to leave vapid surroundings masked with a failed illusion of polish and sterility. The consequential effect being something that Kris could only define as suffocatingly dull.
Nothing at all like what she had imagined the city to be. Where was the colour? The buzz? The crowds of bustling people?
Well then, she thought as she surveyed the scene grimly, I guess this is the great big world.
“Hey!” A man behind her cut into her musings, “Think you could move kid? You’re blocking the way out.”
The gruff voice startled her enough to jump to the side, immediately freeing a previously constrained mob of citizens. Clacking heals, ringing phones and bobbing heads of teenagers spilled out in a rush of movement and sound. Shoulders knocked hers and bags swung at her head in quick succession, the world becoming a blender for twenty seconds. Then… nothing. A cool breeze tickled her neck and they were gone, abandoning her to stand in solitude before the carriage door. A hiss of air and the doors slid shut, whirring engines smoothly carrying the train away from the station.
To her right, people clambered up grimy stairs and out of the tunnel, into the city above.
She stared after them without comprehension for a moment, before a laugh built in her throat and her eyes stung with tears of what was as probably the beginnings of hysteria. If there was anything she’d have to warn people about while she was here, it was her tendency for over exaggeration.
The inner city had always been a vague concept for Kris, its theatre shows and towering buildings the subject of mere wonderings, passing daydreams. Living in outer suburbs had left her bereft of world knowledge but overly keen to abandon the ever-constant picture of low-set houses and the purple flowers of the Jacaranda tree showering the grass with delicate frosting. And move to the inner city, the great big world where concrete met trees, lights stayed on past one o’clock in the morning, shows continued past midnight and anything, everything, was a possibility.
Her breath caught as her throat constricted. Nerves buzzed beneath her skin, churning in her stomach. She glanced down at the plastic card labelled ‘Go,’ clutched in her grasp, digging red grooves into her hand. Then she returned her gaze to the staircase and, with a deep breath and images of skyscrapers and things beyond imagining in her mind’s eye, she took a step toward it.
She could do this.