Rough Draft; Late Assignment turned in
Jeez, I am a complete ass, aren't I? There were some excellent writing taking place here, and I never followed-up on the posts! I am very sorry!
That said, I typed out the first draft that I had scribbled in a tablet, which I had to dig out after stumbling across this buried thread. As rough as it might be, here is my creative stab at the image source:
'Sea salt was just a part of life in the port city of Old Colt. There was no escaping it. The hover-cars, which were once pushed off the assembly lines vibrant with racing colors, glided through cobble streets frosted dull with the salts blown across the industrial community by the ever-present mist wafting off from the choppy ocean coast. Some of the vehicles groaned out the ageless agitations of motors in need of cleaning as they drifted by Boardwalk.
Three broad chested sailors, each at their own station upon the docks, were tying a large cargo ship to land in a well rehearsed manner despite the strong winds blowing the mightier of waves over and onto the wooden planks. The dock bobbed as the waves crashed against the shore, and the name “The Iron Cleaver” was etched in a frayed white stenciling across the side of the ship.
On the Boardwalk, two women—a mother and daughter—strolled in their elegant dresses past a row of store fronts wedged against each other in competition of a tourist’s coin. The mother, who was gripping her white summer hat to her head, was wearing an airy blue dress, which ballooned in a comical manner when caught by the snarl of the wind. The daughter, who was garbed in a similar manner as her mother, had long since given up on keeping her decorative umbrella open to the weather’s torments. She had the folded umbrella slung over her shoulder and absentmindedly twisted its stem in a back-and-forth manner with her slim gloved fingers.
When the mother peered into the display window of Sweet Mary’s Antique Store and frowned at her own reflection, her daughter admired the local flavor of the deep autumn colored crown of rust that sat on top of the Iron Cleaver’s large cargo tanks.
Our excursions are always the same, she thought.
Regardless of where they traveled outside of New Bombay, her mother was determined to mull over the same tiresome types of tourist traps. Culture couldn’t be bought and gift wrapped, she reasoned as she pushed some loose strands of hair that had escaped the boundaries of her bun (for she had also admitted defeat to the wind by tucking away her headgear the moment they stepped off the carriage). The first time on the other side of the continent wasn’t going to be crammed into aisles designed only to herd her and her mother into the next row of assorted goods. Knick-Knacks. ****-Ditties. Call them whatever they wish. She wanted none of it.
Not for me, she thought while watching The Iron Cleaver’s anchor plunged into the raging sea with a large splash. I want something a bit more....authentic.
“Quaint little ship, isn’t it?” Someone said, startling the daughter out of her inner tourism.
“Excuse me?” She said and darted her eyes around to find her mother, but she was no where to be seen. She had lost her to the lull of an old twentieth century pendant that Mary promised was a steal.
“The Iron Cleaver,” the stranger said and pointed to the ship in question. He was of the same age as her: snapping apart the last of adolescent’s strings tied to awkwardness and dependance. Donning a drifter’s dark raincoat that had become fashionable among low grade sea merchants in recent years, the young man leaned back against the stone wall of the antique shop (an act that made him profile to her) as he interrupted his small amused smile only to make way for another bite of his fish and chips. He had a pair of goggles tucked into his unkept blonde hair in a way reminiscent of two tree stumps hidden among a plain’s wild undergrowth.
To her, his playful blue eyes held their own agendas. His wry smirk that tattooed his pale face promised no promises other than a lot of trouble. He seemed right at home walking the alley way of Old Colt by the way his clothes dulled his appearance much like the harbor. It was as if the city had put him forth to properly introduce itself to her travels.
She had decided to instantly hate him.
Ignoring the question, she put forth her own. “Are you some sort of bandit, boy?”
“It counts,” he muttered, and she noticed a strap of metal studs wrapped around the hand that held a chip to his mouth. “Are you some sort of well-off princess that would bring about a handsome ransom?” He held the morsel of fish motionless a moment in his mouth to gauge the reaction to his cheeky comment. Unsatisfied, he resumed his chewing and swallowed. “No? Than let’s not waste time trying to flatter each other.”
“I’m sure you flatter yourself well enough without anyone’s help,” she said while raising her chin to his eye line.
It was his turn to give deaf treatment towards a forth put comment and propose another. “The name is Pierce.” He didn’t bow, but he rolled his free hand to his stomach as if he had. No longer profile to her nor leaning, he offered his dinner by extending the cardboard tray to her.
“No, thank you,” she said while eyeing the bottom of the tray, which was saturated to a hue of dusk from all the excessive grease of the fried fish and chips.
“Suit yourself,” he quipped and tossed another bit in his mouth. Pierce worked it around his mouth while looking away from her and across the Boardwalk in a manner that suggested that he felt the conversation was at an end.
She brought the steel tip of the umbrella down to trace the edges of a cobble stone that made up the street while working out whether going into the shop to join her mother nauseated her stomach more than the odor of fried fish. Tough call.
“My name is Rahel,” she offered and mentally traced his eye line to a pair of seagulls dancing around a discarded bit of breading located a few paces away from her.
“Nice name.” Piece tossed the last bit of fish at the seagulls with a snap of the wrist. “You really missed out. The tavern back there,” he continued to say as he threw his thumb over his shoulder in the direction further down the alleyway, “makes the best fish and chips this side of Old Colt.”
“It certainly does wonders for your breath,” she remarked.
“But it compliments my body odor, right?”
“Something like that. So, tell me, Pierce. How is it living in Old Colt? Does it offer someone like you enough to keep busy?”
“As far as you know.” He crumbled up the empty tray and motioned to toss it out and onto the street until he met the arch of Rahel’s eyebrow. “You know that the seagulls will take care of it.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“Fine. Fine,” he sighs and rolls his eyes. Turning around so his back was to her, he started to walk off in the direction in which he came.
“Oh, have I offended you? I was not aware bandits were so sensitive,” she called after him.
“Nonsense. I’m simply finding a trash can. You are welcome to tag along.”
“You mean, I am welcome to make sure that you don’t attempt to gag a child with a piece of greasy cardboard.” She pulled her dress up so its bottom hem was out of range of a dirty puddle and took wide strides to catch up with him.
“Why aren’t you buying souvenirs with your mother?” he said without looking at her when she started to match pace with him.
“You mean antiques?”
He gave her a sideways glance, and she chuckled a little.
“Fair enough. Souvenirs. Because that is all we ever do when we travel. Any city that can’t offer a bit of themselves to collect dust in a cabinet is not worth visiting as far as my mother is concerned.”
Rahel could see a line of neon lanterns glowing through the fog up ahead. They marked the entrance to a tavern with its name burned into a piece of driftwood nailed above the low arch of the entrance. “Seaweed Oasis” was printed in sharp, blocky lettering.
Before Rahel could notice a trash can, Pierce tossed the crumpled tray towards it. The make-shift ball hit the can’s rim, which was rusted to match the city in general, and bounced onto the street.'
[Not Finished]
