The Thoughts of A Disgruntled Writer

Some Stuff I Wrote...

They traipsed around the empty campus without a specific direction in mind, but stumbled drunkenly as if they owned the place. There was no one around, not a soul, and not even a sound to be made—the campus was dead. It was peaceful, and Jim liked the quietness, especially to a place where he least expected it. He lurched from side to side; his body had never handled such a massive amount of alcohol in his life. He was certain that he didn’t have too much to drink; he wasn’t anywhere close from being blacked out, or passed out on the ground somewhere. He was still fully conscious, his mind simply had a buzzed that seemed would never go away, which he didn’t mind at the moment, although he was sure he would pay for it in the morning. However, he walked without a bother in his mind. All the doubt, all the worries—everything that made Jim Harrison into a complete wreck—had just disappeared from him as if they never existed.

Emma was a few paces in front of him. She staggered around much like him, but Jim couldn’t give an accurate assessment as to who was more intoxicated. She babbled about something, a few short comments every ten seconds or so, but Jim didn’t have the faintest idea as to what she alluded to. Her walking pattern was a zigzag, much like the Lusitania as it tried to escape from a U-boat attack. She went side to side from the black top pavement, and with every few feet, she would find herself in the spotlight of a lamppost, which were numerous on each side of them.

The spotlight clarified her features rather predominantly to Jim, who after more drinks found himself even more enamored with her. The vivid scene in front of him gave off the vibe as if Jim was walking the streets of an old city back in the nineteenth century. The only thing that would have made it even better was to see a horse-drawn carriage, but Jim didn’t have to be too drunk to realize that wouldn’t happen.

Every few steps she looked back at him, but he wasn’t ready to keep up pace with her. He was struck by the great view around him. West Eden was of course on a large hill that overlooked a small town a few miles away. Jim had seen it the view when he had first arrived there in the afternoon, but didn’t take too much notice to it. At that time, he had things on his mind, more important things than to take a notice at God’s work. Yet, at the present moment, it was the only thing he kept his eyes on. The small town below lay peacefully in silence and solace. From up above, Jim Harrison felt like more than just a teenager, more than an average person who fought everyday of his life to get the appreciation and acknowledgement of his fellow peers. He was a painter overlooking his work, and before his eyes lay a masterpiece that he had crafted with his own hands.
The streetlights could be seen illuminating the town at the dead of night. A few cars travelled the lonely roads, their lights acted like eyes discovering each new section of pavement as if it was the deep and dark abyss of the ocean. The scene below was serene, not a sound could be heard, and for the first time in awhile, Jim Harrison stopped, closed his eyes, and took in everything that was around him—finally, he was at peace.