Well, although I’ve been in London for the past two weeks, dancing my feet off (quite literally), I have not forgotten my writing. As London has, quite possibly, the worst traffic in the world, I spend a l0t of time sitting in the car while my husband drives. What do I do with my time? When I’m not helping him navigate these winding thoroughfares, when I’m not engrossed in the epic tale of Monte Cristo, I’m writing. So, here is the latest writing prompt I completed (and actually had time to type into the computer). I wrote the following piece of flash fiction while we drive through a section of south London called Carshalton. This neighborhood is, thanks to the pond that winds through a park that follows for some time the main road and the old brick churches that line the other side, probably my favorite section of south London. So, without further ado, here is the result of my prompt. Tell me what you think!
Prompt: Observe something for 20 seconds, and write about it.
Title: The Jaywalker
With profound courage did the jaywalker step off from the curb, emboldened by bravery and the pride of one who has done this many times in the past. There is a measure of trust in his countenance, for he knows, from years of experience, that the drivers will yield and the cars will halt to allow him passage. There is an unmistakable set of determination in his eyes, for never has the gleam of red and yellow nectarines seemed brighter, north smell of fresh cut dahlias sweeter, nor the call of newly baked baguettes and the drip of the espresso machine more irresistible, than this foggy October morning. Today’s temptations were greater than yesterday’s, as surely tomorrow’s would be greater than today’s; but the jaywalker made no comparisons. He was driven by one goal: the latte and croissant enjoyed amidst the perfume of dahlias, perched as he soon would be at the edge of a pristine pond upon which glided the most elegant of swans.
And so the jaywalker boldly quitted the sidewalk, thereby beginning his trek across the busy London road. His newspaper under his arm, his cane in hand, he hobbled across the lanes, and, true to his assumption, the cars rolled to a patient stop. No one honked, no one swore or endeavored to rush his progress with cheers or jeers; they simply waited. As soon as the jaywalker had given enough berth between himself and the cars parked defiantly on the road, the cars moved on about their business. Halfway there and he was still going! The permanent pin in his ankle caused considerable pain (those damn Germans), but his fortitude urged him forward, always forward!
At last, he reached the other side. Placing the butt of his can on the yellow-painted curb, he gritted his teeth and pushed himself up, enduring the agony of his afflicted ankle. Safe upon the sidewalk, as the cars continued about their business, he paused to catch his breath.
The rhapsody of milk yielding to the steamer reminded the jaywalker of his charge. Like victorious knight, he strode toward the coffee stand, leaving white pigeons scattered in his wake. As he ordered his latter and placed his pound coins upon the countertop, he grinned triumphantly at the girl who minded the flower stand. He had made it. Another morning, another latte, another daring success at crossing the road.
Word count: 398