“The sweet memories of youth”

Hey!

hope you’re all having a great Friday. I, personally, can’t wait for the week to end. It’s been a long and a trying one. FGIF!

As I mentioned before, I will use this blog to post some of the stuff that I do for my creative writing class and maybe some short snippets from the book that I’m currently working on.

We know the life goes on. We know we can’t turn back the clock and return to our past. But some times we hope, we would. This piece below was my first home work for my writing class – a flash-fiction on the subject “The sweet memories of youth” (NB: model has nothing to do with the homework, just the picture I thought would fit nice with the subject 😉 )

“The sweet memories of youth”

She stepped down from the bus and looked around. Filling her lungs to the top, she breathed in fresh, so much familiar, but at the same time so very much forgotten air of this green oasis. After all the noise and bustle of central parts of San Fran with all the tourists rushing back and forth and rattling trams, this place was calm and peaceful. It felt like home. She was home.

The street was still the same, the houses were the same, and if it wasn’t for a few extra cars on the road and on the driveways, nothing had changed much. It felt as if some magic hand wound back the clock, taking her to the time when she was just sixteen, when her grandma was still alive.

She closed her eyes and saw herself a young woman prancing down the street in a light summer dress. Wild and care free, as she was, she turned heads of young boys and much older men. She saw her Nan standing on the door steps of their little house, a rolling pin clenched tightly in her hand, reading to scold her for yet another complaint of the neighbours.

“Ah, the sweet memories of youth,” she thought, opening her eyes. “How innocent everything seemed back then.”

Suddenly she felt sad. Whatever memories of the past she cherished, she knew she was a different person now and as one of the ancient folks had said, she couldn’t quite remember who exactly, but there was something about walking into the same river twice.

Forcing down a knot that began to build in her throat, she wiped a lone tear and crossed the road to the other side to wait for the bus that will take her back to the hotel.