Pasternak

The beginnings of a story I am writing.

There would be a day when the sun would come out from behind the clouds and shine bright again. Today is not one of those days, nor will tomorrow be. How do I know? Easy. I can still feel the rustling winds whistle through the destruction. As long as the wind still lingers, the storm is still relevant. The raindrops may have evaporated and the thunder’s booming faded, but the wind is still there.

It was a cold autumn day in New England. She was sitting outside her brick house in a jacket, fingerless gloves, jeans, and a baseball cap. And of course, she was smoking a cigarette. Her face was rosy and her body stained with various bruises and furiously placed gashes. The sidewalk was busy as she exhaled smoke. She lived off a side street but she could still hear the angry car horns of the city.