(Attempting to get back into writing again by creating character sketches.)
It was like she had used the flesh of her right arm as a sketch pad – doodling layer upon layer of indelible pictures over the entire sleeve of her skin. Peering more closely at these seemingly unrelated tats reveals the history of a life lived – the I-don’t-give-a-shit, exuberant branding of young adulthood; the visual reclaiming of scarred intimate territory; and the markings of middle aged milestones. This woman literally wore her story and looked comfortable in the skin of that tale.
A teenage girl in skinny jeans and a flaming orange hoodie that engulfed her torso carefully made her way down the ice and snow covered sidewalk, her thin body tilted slightly to the right as she attempted to balance a bulk of school books in one hand and incongruently holding a fat gray pigeon in the palm of the other, arm outstretched as though royally presenting the dirty street urchin to passersby.
The woman’s bulk prevented her from fully embracing her friend. Her arms, grotesquely extending from her massive sides, looked like fat, leafless branches protruding from a topped tree. The friend awkwardly leaned into her, arms barely skirting the woman’s wide frontage.
No comments:
Post a Comment