Fiction, Writing101

Day 8 No adverbs

Hues of black and grey flash by as people race pass me in their rush to work. Heads bow, eyes not making contact, bodies pushing by. Legs clad in designer trousers, sheer stockings clumping by; feet in leather boots both male and female navigate their way through the puddles.

The rain had been incessant, creating dirty puddles of uninspiring reflection in the dim light of day. The grey pavement seems never ending, running by skyscrapers and more grey stone buildings. The occasional mutterings of pedestrians as they seek to avoid the umbrellas held too high, too low, just not right; the drips of water from the roof and awnings.

The drone of the traffic punctuated by horns blaring add to the cacophony of noise – from the traffic lights, people speaking and yelling into their mobile phones, the splish-splash of tyres on the road and the shrieks of people getting splashed.

It is grey. Then I see her – a woman of uncertain age strolling unaffected by the weather and her surroundings. An array of colours accompanying her – from her auburn hair, pale face with lips painted deep chocolate, swathed in a deep electric blue mackintosh from under which a satin rose dress hem peaks. Around her neck a lime green scarf sits, without a care. And her shoes, sturdy tan heeled boots made elegant by her regal bearing.

Perhaps on any other woman, these colours may clash but not on her. People turn to stare, and she smiles – a confident knowing smile filled with grace and dare I say, wisdom. Perhaps it is an illusion, yet in this moment, an illusion worth aspiring to.


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