A.N. This story is supposed to reference Claude Monet's loss of vision later in life. just for those of you who thought the vision loss thing was out of randomness.
Almost dark and so foggy, I could hardly see. Was it the really fog, or was it my own eyes that were going. I’d left the car behind many blocks ago. My apartment had to be just ahead. Cars drive by, only visible by their headlights. I turn and look for my street at the crosswalk. The fog covers everything in sight. A small glimmer of light escapes from the clouds, if only for a brief moment, and flashes across the water. I can see the outlines of bridge leading to my apartment, shining on the horizon and I can see clearly. The black haze that usually shrouds my eyesight is gone. The sun completely separates itself from the clouds and for a brief moment, breaks through the fog. and then.. The clouds come back, enfolding the sun. the water is bleak, the fog blankets the city and I know, I will never see the water so beautiful again.
Interesting here. I wonder why you didn't write this as a poem. It seems like it comes together that way. Perhaps experimenting with the way you use language as far as spacing, and breaking lines, will lend some more emphasis to the other things you are aware of as a writer. Those creating ways to lay the text out can cause the reader to see the words the way you want them too.
ReplyDeleteBecause I don't write poetry.although everyone else seems to. I kinda thought the reason nobody commented here is because it's a story
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