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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Prompt : The core of the Apple is not its beginning nor is it its end.

Submitted: May 05, 2017

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Submitted: May 05, 2017

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Today I arrived in New York City, it was raining. The plane took awhile to cruise over so we could disembark. There was the usual mad rush to get their baggage, and I thought to myself, why? is there some free gift outside or maybe the first 100 people who exited gets some vouchers.

Wishful thinking that never bore fruit.

Stepping out of the airport, the rain had already stopped and the sun scorchingly bright despite the 5°C weather. That ball of fire glaring and shining in my face, through my sunglasses. How useless.

Skin peeled.

Rather familiar due to my frequent attachements, I took the bus to my hotel, this pastel yellow building. I seemed to keep getting plonked at the same hotel everytime, I could even call it my humble abode.

Crunch-time.

I settled down in my hotel room, taking out my various gadgets as if I was ready for some cyberwar. iPhone on my right, Macintosh at the centre of the table, iPad on my left. Time to start work. I can't believe they sent me here just to rot in a hotel. I feel the exact same thing every single time.

Tired and forgetten.

And we could call it a day as I walked out into the sub-zero weather watching as the last rays of sunset shone on my hotel building making it look yellowish-brown in its rays.

Accidents.

While I was a out apparently a fire broke out somewhere in town. Afraid I went back to my hotel, only to see that it had crumbled in singes except for the centre block, where I resided for this period of time.

But of course I had made preventive measures to my overseas project. So no one went to the central block. But also where the hotel started out, as a miserable ugly black building that never stood out 'cos it was borne from a rich billionaire who gave the building to me.

The fruits of our labour.


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