Practice Writing
This is an opening scene I just wrote for a short story I've been wanting to write. I'm not sure where I want this to go, but it's been a story that's been replaying and reshaping itself in my mind for the past few years.
---
The line flowed rhythmically in progression towards the lady at the terminal. When they arrived at the counter, it took only a few mere questions before they were whisked away, rushed down the terminals, spurting here or there, only to be faced with another slow, rhythmic line when they got to wherever they were headed. Oliver waited in one of these lines and felt as though he were headed towards a waterfall. As he waited he took to an old hobby that had always entertained yet relaxed him, watching the people around him: The red-faced man at the front of the line arguing about the size of his carry-on, the elderly couple who beamed with fresh tans and renewed smiles, and the woman who kept scolding her son to stand beside her patiently. Oliver watched them all as he waited for his turn.
The knot in his stomach tightened. Dragging his suitcase along, he reached the front terminal.
“Hello, boarding pass please.” ordered the stout lady. Oliver handed over his ticket. “Has your luggage been in your possession the whole time?” she asked. “Has it left your sight?”
“Yes.” he replied.
“It left your sight?” she pressed, jutting her head forward and lowering her brow.
“No no.” Oliver shook his head. “I mean yes the luggage was always with me, and no it hasn’t left my sight.”
“You sure?” she leaned forward and watched him. Oliver nodded in agreement. The lady chuckled to herself, satisfied with his answer. “You sure look nervous.” she teased.
“I am.” was his only reply. And with that, she stamped his ticket and Oliver was carried off by the current of people towards the next line.
---
The line flowed rhythmically in progression towards the lady at the terminal. When they arrived at the counter, it took only a few mere questions before they were whisked away, rushed down the terminals, spurting here or there, only to be faced with another slow, rhythmic line when they got to wherever they were headed. Oliver waited in one of these lines and felt as though he were headed towards a waterfall. As he waited he took to an old hobby that had always entertained yet relaxed him, watching the people around him: The red-faced man at the front of the line arguing about the size of his carry-on, the elderly couple who beamed with fresh tans and renewed smiles, and the woman who kept scolding her son to stand beside her patiently. Oliver watched them all as he waited for his turn.
The knot in his stomach tightened. Dragging his suitcase along, he reached the front terminal.
“Hello, boarding pass please.” ordered the stout lady. Oliver handed over his ticket. “Has your luggage been in your possession the whole time?” she asked. “Has it left your sight?”
“Yes.” he replied.
“It left your sight?” she pressed, jutting her head forward and lowering her brow.
“No no.” Oliver shook his head. “I mean yes the luggage was always with me, and no it hasn’t left my sight.”
“You sure?” she leaned forward and watched him. Oliver nodded in agreement. The lady chuckled to herself, satisfied with his answer. “You sure look nervous.” she teased.
“I am.” was his only reply. And with that, she stamped his ticket and Oliver was carried off by the current of people towards the next line.
