Tyrell Waters

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
My friend.

Submitted: March 27, 2012

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Submitted: March 27, 2012

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Tyrell, lankly long-striding yet sturdy and mostly upright, his blonde hair reflects the sunlight onto the glass window of a birdhouse, only to reflect the light back into his eyes, burning and blinding him while displaying beautiful deep and blissful blues that slice the air and pierce the pupil.  Its beautiful really, and it always makes you smile.  Reaching into his pocket he rescues a cigarette from its plastic coffin. Remove the cellophane, it helps them breathe.  Its dark and chilly but the lighter provides warmth as it slowly slides up his left arm, revealing his partially homemade inkwork that represents its owner.  His golden beard sinks along with his cheeks as he puffs and drags.  The crisp air carries the smoke as if on a wire through the triangular shaped gauges that pierce his ears.  The show has only just begun.  Hes holding up the brick wall behind him with his back and quasi-perched right leg, his head grazes periodically and he scratches it thereafter.  The elongated cancerous cylinder half gone now, its ashes faintly fall as the wind begins to rise.  Escaping the gust a few stray ashes tumble lightly to his t-shirt.  Glimpsing the spark he follows its path and changes its form to a black smudge with his finger.  The black against the blue is hardly noticeable yet it adds charm and character.  Seeing his blackened stained finger he thrusts his hand downward, scraping his newly tattered blue jeans as he taints the pocket with those tortured ashes.  On the way back up his large hand grabs his leather belt and adjusts his bulky belt buckle accordingly.  The razor-like mo-hawk that runs across the top of the skull on the buckle is metal and his grip must respect that.  It takes two tugs until he feels confident enough to correct his posture and continue on his way.


© Copyright 2020 Vin Son. All rights reserved.

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