The Storm Creative Writing

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The seat beneath me is made of some broken-down cheap plastic lining that is sapping more and more feeling from my lower body the longer I sit. My watch tells me that two hours have passed since I first sat down, so it’s not much longer now – just another hour to go. I want to get up and walk up and down the aisles, both out of boredom and a need to regain circulation in my legs. But the seatbelt sign is on, flashing a bright, blinding orange. “We’re experiencing some major turbulence,” they had said. “It’s for your safety. The storm is very strong.” I want to tell them: we are encased in an aluminum and carbon-fiber tube thousands of feet in the air. We’re travelling at speeds rivalled by only rocket ships and maybe that roadrunner from those…show more content…
It’s kind of reminds me of a train wreck in front of you that you can’t help but watch every second. The girl is still watching them too. Despite my comment, she sighs as says (probably more to herself than me): “I’ll bet time’s just stopped altogether for the two of them. I’ll bet the outside world doesn’t even exist right now.” I turn away from the scene, and grab my bag before the carousel carries it away from me. I cradle is against my chest for a moment before placing the strap on my shoulder and silently thanking the airline for not losing my luggage. My stomach is curling from the spectacle. “Time doesn’t stop for anyone,” I scoff and close my eyes, “and I doubt it’ll make an exception for them.” I don’t listen to the silence that ensues as the girl tries to think of a response. I don’t feel her eyes on the back of my head as I walk away. Cindy would have scolded me and gushed along with the girl. She was always a romantic. But she’s not here, so I keep my eyes shut and keep…show more content…
The silence is deafening; it makes we want to run around the rooms, screaming, banging pots, or something to banish it. If Cindy were here, she would have run immediately to our room, grabbed her speaker and started playing her music as loud as it could go without inviting the neighbors to pound at our door. She always had terrible taste in music, but I would have grabbed her hand and swung her around to the beat. But she’s not here, so the silence stays and I creep to what we considered our living room as quietly as I can. I roll the urn back and forth in my hands, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall and let it shatter into a million pieces. What do you do with an empty urn, I wonder? Do you display it like a decoration piece on your mantel or hide it so deep in the closet so that it will never be seen again? Do you send it back to the deceased’s mother? Or do you throw it away because the only important thing about it was the ashes that it stored? Do you sell it or give it away, allowing it to be the resting place of the next unlucky sap? In the end, I place the expensive container in the sunniest window in the entire apartment, the one with the little bench in front of it that Cindy used to spend hours sitting on, just watching the world pass by. That’s Cindy’s spot, in life and now in death. If she were here, she would definitely

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