Alyssa Snowden is an average girl, living a slightly unfortunate life, in a world that makes no sense to her. She thinks far more than the average human being, for one, and when she thinks, she comes up with the weirdest things. She comes up with a story, a silly story about a silly thing, but little does she know, the story travels around the world to people she doesn't even know, who uncover the real meaning behind her story, and what she meant by different.
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i. alyssa snowden
For one thing, the person would have no idea how to explain it. People never do. For the first few seconds after your abrupt question, they would just stare at you blankly, holding their venti cappuccino, and perhaps spilling a little down their brand-new white shirt imported from Denmark. Maybe the spilling part is just my imagination, but it would make the situation a whole lot more exciting.
Another reason why is the next few seconds after that. If they spilled their coffee on themselves, they would probably snap out of their awkward silence and immediately leap up, yelling, and snatching fistfuls of paper napkins from the cheap little metal dispensers that you always find at fast-food restaurants and cafÃ©s, and trying to fix their Danish white shirt which they already know is a lost cause. That's a weird thing about people. They linger over things that they know are lost, possibly forever. News of a dead relative is met with grief and disbelief. Staining a brand-new shirt is met with horror and the urge to fix things. They're all the same.
If they happened to be lucky, and their Danish shirt was kept intact and unstained, they would probably skip to the next few seconds after that. They would look at you again, shriek "LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MY SHIRT!" (cause that's what people do, they blame others who aren't to blame, and those others might be simply curious about their view of the world) and perhaps run away and issue a restraining order against you. Moral of the Danish shirt story: Don't ask questions to people in coffee shops, or they'll put restraining orders on you.
I have not experienced this kind of situation before, but this is the kind of stuff my creative mind likes to linger on, and my creative mind was lingering on this particular situation today, at nine forty-five in the evening, while I was waiting impatiently for the plane to take off back to home sweet home from my vacation in this exotic place called New York, U.S.A.
My older brother sat next to me, his thin fingers gripping the armrests and staring straight ahead. His dark hair was hanging limply in front of his face, the result of not showering for two days, the stinky old man. And my dad went and said all bright and happy, "Hey, Alyssa, you get to sit next to your brother for the entire seven hour flight! To New York and back! Yaaaaay!"
My response to that was a scowl and slamming door, which earned me a lecture and a punishment, while the smelly boy who was the cause of my frustration got away scot-free. That's how it always was; my father never liked me much. He'd wanted two boys, and my mum had given him a boy already and GASP! The next little person to come along to the happy family was a girl. Not so happy anymore. Then, my mum had passed away before she could give my father another child, hopefully a boy...
I was debating the chances of him sending me away to boarding school on Antarctica. On one hand, he probably would really like to be rid of me. But there was also the question of money. He probably wouldn't want to spend that much on a useless girl like me. Also, I wasn't even sure if there was boarding school in Antarctica, really...
My written sarcasm probably informs everyone that I really couldn't care less about New York, or the business trip that had taken us, or the Empire State Building and all its boring architecture. The only person who found it interesting was Brandon, who wanted to be an architect or something when he was older. My brother. Even my father was getting a little grumpy by the fiftieth floor.
I popped a piece of caramel hard candy in my mouth and stared out the window at the endless black night. The airport was almost deserted, even in New York City, people didn't pay for flights at ten thirty P.M., except for the occasional psychopath.
The pilot's slightly dreamy voice sounded overhead. "Please buckle your seat-belts for takeoff. Flight attendants please be seated for takeoff."
The rumbly sound of the airplane wheels started getting faster, and faster, and more frantic. I leaned my head against the window, and the quick, jerky bounces made it ache. The pain felt good, even if it was a tiny morsel of what I'd felt before.
And then, I felt myself being tipped back as the top half of the plane lifted into the air... then the second... and we went higher, higher, faster, faster, and I could see the whole city. All the houses, all the buildings, even the skyscrapers couldn't reach us. Even in the dark, I could see them, because of the lights.
They blinked at me, like they were saying goodbye, goodbye and watching me fly, higher and higher and faster and faster and saying goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
The darkness began at the half-point of the city, where the sleepless city fell asleep. It stretched into the buildings in little waves, like it was pulling the lights in with them, welcome to the dark side, we have cookies, and gradually, my city fell asleep, my city was not mine anymore, it was only mine for two mere weeks and until now I had been blind enough not to see the beauty of it all.
We broke the clouds a few seconds later and I could hear my mind sending a message to all my blinking lights goodbye, goodbye, goodbye