Small feet pitter pattered down the dock. A blond girl, who appeared to be about 4, arrived at her destination. She was with her sister, and together they waited patiently for the boat to pick them up at the edge of the L-shaped dock. As minutes passed they grew ever more silly and started to play on the dock. The young girl tumbled backwards off the dock and began to flail in the water. "Greer help me! Help!!" she cried out in desperation as her blond ringlets sunk below the surface of the lake. As soon as she saw her baby sister's struggle the tall brunette threw herself into the water. She wrapped her arms around her best friend, and her occasional punching bag. They arrive at the sand, the elder was pink and out of breath from her heroic effort to save her sister who was now unconscious on the cool afternoon sand.
Ella- I love this because there is a clear, defined arc of your narrative, despite the fact that it is a short piece. The first sentence is captivating because it implies a sense of innocence and vulnerability, while your story is one of terror. Your piece is full of the description we have been working with, and you have accomplished the narrative focus that we are working on tonight.
The shutter clicks, freezing an orange setting sun in time forever. There is a sharp silhouette describing the dense tree line, leaving only the top half of the sun fully visible. Warm rays slip through the cracks in the foliage, and several seagulls can be made out in the far distance. The glow from the lcd screen lights his face, projecting a satisfactory smirk to the outside world. "That's the one." he says. He continues down the walkway, searching the dark skyline and ocean scenery.
The narrative and description flow together really well! The first sentence does a great job of showing the reader what the setting is without blatantly stating it. The event being described isn't hugely exciting, but the description keeps it interesting and engaging to read without overdoing it.
Isaac, this is an excellent short piece, although it seems like it might fit more logically under our descriptive writing assignment than our narrative writing one. Nonetheless, I enjoyed reading it. I especially like the way you used "foliage" in the third sentence and "searching" in the last sentence. The word searching describes the situation in such a way that the reader feels like they are watching the action of the story themselves
Snow crunches under my boots, and the puppy cradled against my chest wiggles excitedly. I shiver, the December morning air bitterly cold and the first beams of dawn glinting on the thin layer of ice over the snow. The moment I crouch to put the dog down, she leaps out of my arms, using my stomach as a springboard. “Ouch,” I mutter, watching the little black puff of fur struggle through the ankle-deep snow. It’s below 30 degrees, and just before 6 am. The dog needs to pee, and can’t be trusted outside by herself. I wait impatiently for several minutes until she begins to shiver, her tiny frame shaking with cold energy. I zip her inside my jacket and stomp back to the house. She looks up at me, her black nose contrasting sharply with the snow splattered on her face. I return to the house to find her brother scratching at the door, waiting for his turn.
I really like you narrative! What I think is so great about it is that you're able to tell a story, without including some big climax in it. I think you're able to keep the reader engaged in the story without that climax because your descriptions are so good. Also, I love the closing line.
My father once, in college, worked in a restaurant than made the kind of fresh, homemade pasta that you can pile high in a dish, cover in parmesan, and still want more when you’re finished. He would clean sometimes, expedite others, and fight with the owner named Cynthia about whether or not he could stockpile his staff meals or bring them home. Even after he graduated, they stayed friends. She had three small children, and a big family who made excellent food and threw excellent holiday parties. Together, they stretched a wide range of ages but all looked more or less the same, similar faces smiling in a line. On a late June weekend in the early nineties, by father chose to visit this family at there house (compound might be more accurate) in southern Maine, a place he’d visited a couple of times but never when it would be a gathering. He arrived in an old blue Toyota with squeaky breaks, and made his rounds, finally stopping in the old kitchen after letting a five year old drag him around the yard and show him the tricycles. Later that weekend, he received a call from his friend Cynthia that her sister Blanche wanted to go out with him, and that he was going to take her out. He knew her, but only in the vague sense of a sibling of a friend, and knew she was moving to LA at the end of the summer. He protested, but Cynthia not the type to accept cop outs or excuses. Meanwhile, my mother had just ended a turbulent and long-standing relationship and decided to move across the country with little more than her newly minted college degree. She knew the dorky friend of Cynthia’s who used to work in the now defunct pasta shop, and when she received a call saying that David Lyall wanted to go out with her, she flat out refused. A battle of the wills took place. “Well,” my aunt said. “At least let him help you set up your new computer.”
I really enjoyed reading this Louise! The narration was good, very steady; not too hastened. You could clean up the spelling a little, but it's not to die over. Also, in your second paragraph, the final sentence seems cut off a bit. You do a good job of adding in details to supplement the narrative and not bore the reader, but your descriptions could be a bit more numerous. Lastly, I liked the very last sentence that ended with a bright cliffhanger. All in all, a good job!
We are sitting on the ledge, blowing smudged dandelion seed that pauses to hold its breath before sinking into the sea.
A police car, awkward in its thorny silence, pulls up behind the path. Out walks Mr. Blue Suit, gun holstered like a promise, just in case kids like me decide to attack. "He called the police? The police? The real...the real police? Oh-my-god!" "Oh-my-god, Anna...oh-my...oh-my-god...holy..!" At eleven, we are stumpy, sniggering girls who like to point our fingers and whisper. We point our fingers at Mr. Blue Suit, and make fun of his receding hair line.
I can't believe we made fun of a cop's hairline.
Anna grabs my heavy torso, heaving me up. We tango through the ocean grass, socializing with the wild flowers and purple black berry bushes as we make our escape. One foot over the metal gate, hands push, now two feet over. Land. Sprint, and keep sprinting.
Emily, this is a great narrative. Although your description is captivating and present you do a great job of really telling a story. The line "we tango through the ocean grass...." is a perfect example of continuing your narrative while using vivid description! I also love how you used short accent sentences; such as "I can't believe we made fun of a cop's hairline."
Emily-I love the way you take me inside the head of a rebellious, daring 12 year old. Even the dialogue screams preteen (i.e. a plethora of "oh-my-gods"). I love the way you add commentary from today into the middle of the action of many years ago (I'm assuming this is a fact-based story?). Finally, I love how the fear which you express culminates in the rather ridiculous, sparely worded confession in the last line.
Sitting in the backseat of an Old Chinese Woman's car. I was restless. She was jabbering away on a flip-phone, speaking in a tongue entirely unfamiliar to the quaint man-woman pair of narrators I had met briefly in my Traveler's Mandarin. I can only describe The Old Chinese Woman's speech by proposing that a small fruit (such as an orange or perhaps even papaya), tossed two feet in front of her mouth (say by a young, disinterested miscreant), when The Woman was on one of her sharper syllables, would be sliced cleanly in two. I looked out every window of the car, genuinely captivated by the alternating valleys and villages flying past outside. Somewhere inside, however, I was also aware of my own sweet relief that there was something to be captivated by in the opposite direction of TOCW. My passive gazing was interrupted by the fat slap of two inch-thick halves of a Samsung Gusto coming together with triumphant force. I knew my time had come. I had been walking down six feet of wood hovering over open ocean, and my left foot had just wrongly assumed there was room for one more step.
“How come you're going to the Great Wall by yourself?” She asked in the tone denoted above.
“My friends...ummm....lived in Beijing....before....uhh....I lived in Beijing.” Fuck me.
She looked at me in the rearview, and I could've sworn I saw spiderwebs run across it.
“How come you're going to the Great Wall with no friends?” She asked in the tone denoted above.
“I don't have any friends.” Good enough, I thought. Good work Max.
This is an interesting snippet of what I'm sure was a very interesting experience. I love the description of TOCW, it's very short but very memorable, and no more description is necessary to get a clear picture of her. However, the narrative is pretty hard to follow, and the setting is unclear. A couple of clarifying sentences placed strategically can go a long way without taking away the (possibly deliberate?) ambiguity of the piece. Also make sure that you avoid run on sentences— the clever comparison with the fruit is negatively affected because it's all jammed into one sentence. This is a great start, and I'm sure could be a great essay!
I'm back from school, back from eight hours of learning give or take thirty minutes, back from a day with friends and teachers and lunch. There was so much of one of those things. Now which one was it... Whatever the case, there was a whole heck of a lot of learning. As much as you can do in middle school. I saw her in homeroom. Gosh she looks lovely. Homeroom, Eight Fifteen, ten minutes later I'm in my first class, was it social studies? maybe so. She wasn't there so it didn't matter much to me. A balding cliff surrounded with grey shrubbery announces the beginning of class, teaches to us the history of the Civil Rights Movement. He has a pronounced jaw, a rather solid looking head, and a well kept beard that seems it must have been combed that day. He goes on and on, and though I respected him I nevertheless found myself drifting, thoughts flowing down a river of ideas and dreams of a day. The river quickens its haste and before I know it, she's there again on a beach, smiling and glowing in the daylight, vibrant and beautiful... "Alright class, that's all we have time for, remember to finish your current events for tomorrow!" She says. Except it doesn't sound like her. I come back to, shaking the haze from my eyes as I thank my great-bearded Social Studies teacher for his lesson, and walk out onto the next class which I hope might be Algebra or Science. Because the beach isn't the only place I find her.
I like how you carefully constructed the "she" character in this narrative. She weaves in and out of the story so effortlessly that it is almost like you are putting the reader in your shoes- you weren't sure when you would see "her" again, and neither is the reader. It is also nice that you did not reveal many details of her. She is kept mysterious, and much like the last line in this story, the reader is left wanting to know more.
On this day it's all too easy to forget about the other boats that dot the race course. No reason to break away from this state of complete equanimity induced, perhaps, by the light breeze (bearing, as it is a southerly, the tantalizing odor of the fish markets on Commercial), sinking sun, and rhythmic click of my ratchet block, or perhaps by the fact that I am winning. Let all the other boats fuck themselves over at the starting line. I am sailing in clear breeze on the lifted starboard tack to the mark.
And forget about them I do. By the time a wayward shout brings me back to this day, this bay, this windward leg, I have sailed myself into inescapable doldrums on the right side of the course. "Fuck, man. I fucked us over. Gotta tack."
(The 420 is a double-handed, sloop rigged dinghy, 14 feet in length).
The tack is flawless; skipper and crew roll and flatten in perfect harmony and the boat responds with a burst of speed. Having regained our position in the middle of the course I take stock of our place and it don't look pretty. As we approach the weather mark, the boats who stayed to the east of us continue to gain; our lead is dwindling. Still, we hold starboard advantage.
"Starboard, Ellis."
"Starboard."
As collision becomes increasingly imminent the hailing becomes terser and terser.
"Starboard."
Rule 10. When boats are on opposite tacks, a port-tack boat shall keep clear of a starboard-tack boat.
Ellis finally tacks, giving us space to sail a clean line to the mark. Rounding in first we sail high to the east, out of the capricious air created by the fleet. I'm lost in the warm fading sun and tumbling water.
Checking over her shoulder at every possible moment while maintaining her speed, he was still there. His grey hoodie shrouded what seemed to be cold, concrete-gray eyes. There was nothing friendly about his appearance. She was with her friend, so not alone, but certainly still vulnerable Their hearts were in their throats as their flip flops slapped the cracked pavement with every step. She felt his stare from behind her, piercing her body, which was now starting to form a thin film of sweat. This night was meant to be normal, with a trip out of the condo for pizza and fudge, just like always. But unlike always, we found attention from a stranger, watching us for blocks. She glanced over at Sarah, panicked but trying to remain calm. Once turning the corner into the parking lot, the two girls broke from their simple strides into a full sprint. She rounded the shrubbery and slid under a parked silver Subaru, waiting to be found. The sound of heavy steps came closer and closer and she was sure she would be done for in only a few moments. She looked up, and saw painted blue toes, and new she was ok. Sarah pulled her out from under the car and they ran for the elevator, punching hard at the keys to unlock the door. They sat in silence as the elevator rose to the seventh floor, staring at the ground, not wanting to admit what had just happened. They sat on the floor in Sarah's room, nearly in tears, terrified at the sound of anything. Her mom fluttered into the room and announced it was time for dinner.
In and Out of Calvin Klein: A narrative. It was the height of summer, and Freeport was bustling. I walked into Calvin Klein knowing I wouldn’t be able to afford anything, but nevertheless I walked in. I found belts, tunics, sapphire skirts the type that hold your body the way a lover would. I walked through the racks of supermodel-thin jeans and saw a man looking at a pair of gorgeous grey jeans. We shared a smile, and then parted. Anna Wintour describes fashion as wearable art but walking through that store, I just felt poor. Where I had once felt joy and elation at fashion, I left the store with a feeling of resentment where my passion once lay.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteSmall feet pitter pattered down the dock. A blond girl, who appeared to be about 4, arrived at her destination. She was with her sister, and together they waited patiently for the boat to pick them up at the edge of the L-shaped dock. As minutes passed they grew ever more silly and started to play on the dock. The young girl tumbled backwards off the dock and began to flail in the water.
ReplyDelete"Greer help me! Help!!" she cried out in desperation as her blond ringlets sunk below the surface of the lake.
As soon as she saw her baby sister's struggle the tall brunette threw herself into the water. She wrapped her arms around her best friend, and her occasional punching bag.
They arrive at the sand, the elder was pink and out of breath from her heroic effort to save her sister who was now unconscious on the cool afternoon sand.
Ella-
DeleteI love this because there is a clear, defined arc of your narrative, despite the fact that it is a short piece. The first sentence is captivating because it implies a sense of innocence and vulnerability, while your story is one of terror. Your piece is full of the description we have been working with, and you have accomplished the narrative focus that we are working on tonight.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThe shutter clicks, freezing an orange setting sun in time forever. There is a sharp silhouette describing the dense tree line, leaving only the top half of the sun fully visible. Warm rays slip through the cracks in the foliage, and several seagulls can be made out in the far distance. The glow from the lcd screen lights his face, projecting a satisfactory smirk to the outside world. "That's the one." he says. He continues down the walkway, searching the dark skyline and ocean scenery.
ReplyDeleteThe narrative and description flow together really well! The first sentence does a great job of showing the reader what the setting is without blatantly stating it. The event being described isn't hugely exciting, but the description keeps it interesting and engaging to read without overdoing it.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteIsaac, this is an excellent short piece, although it seems like it might fit more logically under our descriptive writing assignment than our narrative writing one. Nonetheless, I enjoyed reading it. I especially like the way you used "foliage" in the third sentence and "searching" in the last sentence. The word searching describes the situation in such a way that the reader feels like they are watching the action of the story themselves
DeleteSnow crunches under my boots, and the puppy cradled against my chest wiggles excitedly. I shiver, the December morning air bitterly cold and the first beams of dawn glinting on the thin layer of ice over the snow. The moment I crouch to put the dog down, she leaps out of my arms, using my stomach as a springboard.
ReplyDelete“Ouch,” I mutter, watching the little black puff of fur struggle through the ankle-deep snow. It’s below 30 degrees, and just before 6 am. The dog needs to pee, and can’t be trusted outside by herself. I wait impatiently for several minutes until she begins to shiver, her tiny frame shaking with cold energy. I zip her inside my jacket and stomp back to the house. She looks up at me, her black nose contrasting sharply with the snow splattered on her face. I return to the house to find her brother scratching at the door, waiting for his turn.
I really like you narrative! What I think is so great about it is that you're able to tell a story, without including some big climax in it. I think you're able to keep the reader engaged in the story without that climax because your descriptions are so good.
DeleteAlso, I love the closing line.
My father once, in college, worked in a restaurant than made the kind of fresh, homemade pasta that you can pile high in a dish, cover in parmesan, and still want more when you’re finished. He would clean sometimes, expedite others, and fight with the owner named Cynthia about whether or not he could stockpile his staff meals or bring them home. Even after he graduated, they stayed friends. She had three small children, and a big family who made excellent food and threw excellent holiday parties. Together, they stretched a wide range of ages but all looked more or less the same, similar faces smiling in a line.
ReplyDeleteOn a late June weekend in the early nineties, by father chose to visit this family at there house (compound might be more accurate) in southern Maine, a place he’d visited a couple of times but never when it would be a gathering. He arrived in an old blue Toyota with squeaky breaks, and made his rounds, finally stopping in the old kitchen after letting a five year old drag him around the yard and show him the tricycles. Later that weekend, he received a call from his friend Cynthia that her sister Blanche wanted to go out with him, and that he was going to take her out. He knew her, but only in the vague sense of a sibling of a friend, and knew she was moving to LA at the end of the summer. He protested, but Cynthia not the type to accept cop outs or excuses.
Meanwhile, my mother had just ended a turbulent and long-standing relationship and decided to move across the country with little more than her newly minted college degree. She knew the dorky friend of Cynthia’s who used to work in the now defunct pasta shop, and when she received a call saying that David Lyall wanted to go out with her, she flat out refused. A battle of the wills took place. “Well,” my aunt said. “At least let him help you set up your new computer.”
I really enjoyed reading this Louise! The narration was good, very steady; not too hastened. You could clean up the spelling a little, but it's not to die over. Also, in your second paragraph, the final sentence seems cut off a bit. You do a good job of adding in details to supplement the narrative and not bore the reader, but your descriptions could be a bit more numerous. Lastly, I liked the very last sentence that ended with a bright cliffhanger. All in all, a good job!
DeleteWe are sitting on the ledge, blowing smudged dandelion seed that pauses to hold its breath before sinking into the sea.
ReplyDeleteA police car, awkward in its thorny silence, pulls up behind the path. Out walks Mr. Blue Suit, gun holstered like a promise, just in case kids like me decide to attack.
"He called the police? The police? The real...the real police? Oh-my-god!"
"Oh-my-god, Anna...oh-my...oh-my-god...holy..!"
At eleven, we are stumpy, sniggering girls who like to point our fingers and whisper.
We point our fingers at Mr. Blue Suit, and make fun of his receding hair line.
I can't believe we made fun of a cop's hairline.
Anna grabs my heavy torso, heaving me up. We tango through the ocean grass, socializing with the wild flowers and purple black berry bushes as we make our escape.
One foot over the metal gate, hands push, now two feet over. Land. Sprint, and keep sprinting.
Maybe next time we won't pee on Mr. Crab's lawn.
Emily, this is a great narrative. Although your description is captivating and present you do a great job of really telling a story. The line "we tango through the ocean grass...." is a perfect example of continuing your narrative while using vivid description! I also love how you used short accent sentences; such as "I can't believe we made fun of a cop's hairline."
DeleteEmily-I love the way you take me inside the head of a rebellious, daring 12 year old. Even the dialogue screams preteen (i.e. a plethora of "oh-my-gods"). I love the way you add commentary from today into the middle of the action of many years ago (I'm assuming this is a fact-based story?). Finally, I love how the fear which you express culminates in the rather ridiculous, sparely worded confession in the last line.
DeleteSitting in the backseat of an Old Chinese Woman's car. I was restless. She was jabbering away on a flip-phone, speaking in a tongue entirely unfamiliar to the quaint man-woman pair of narrators I had met briefly in my Traveler's Mandarin. I can only describe The Old Chinese Woman's speech by proposing that a small fruit (such as an orange or perhaps even papaya), tossed two feet in front of her mouth (say by a young, disinterested miscreant), when The Woman was on one of her sharper syllables, would be sliced cleanly in two. I looked out every window of the car, genuinely captivated by the alternating valleys and villages flying past outside. Somewhere inside, however, I was also aware of my own sweet relief that there was something to be captivated by in the opposite direction of TOCW. My passive gazing was interrupted by the fat slap of two inch-thick halves of a Samsung Gusto coming together with triumphant force. I knew my time had come. I had been walking down six feet of wood hovering over open ocean, and my left foot had just wrongly assumed there was room for one more step.
ReplyDelete“How come you're going to the Great Wall by yourself?” She asked in the tone denoted above.
“My friends...ummm....lived in Beijing....before....uhh....I lived in Beijing.” Fuck me.
She looked at me in the rearview, and I could've sworn I saw spiderwebs run across it.
“How come you're going to the Great Wall with no friends?” She asked in the tone denoted above.
“I don't have any friends.” Good enough, I thought. Good work Max.
This is an interesting snippet of what I'm sure was a very interesting experience. I love the description of TOCW, it's very short but very memorable, and no more description is necessary to get a clear picture of her. However, the narrative is pretty hard to follow, and the setting is unclear. A couple of clarifying sentences placed strategically can go a long way without taking away the (possibly deliberate?) ambiguity of the piece. Also make sure that you avoid run on sentences— the clever comparison with the fruit is negatively affected because it's all jammed into one sentence. This is a great start, and I'm sure could be a great essay!
DeleteI'm back from school, back from eight hours of learning give or take thirty minutes, back from a day with friends and teachers and lunch. There was so much of one of those things. Now which one was it... Whatever the case, there was a whole heck of a lot of learning. As much as you can do in middle school. I saw her in homeroom. Gosh she looks lovely. Homeroom, Eight Fifteen, ten minutes later I'm in my first class, was it social studies? maybe so. She wasn't there so it didn't matter much to me. A balding cliff surrounded with grey shrubbery announces the beginning of class, teaches to us the history of the Civil Rights Movement. He has a pronounced jaw, a rather solid looking head, and a well kept beard that seems it must have been combed that day. He goes on and on, and though I respected him I nevertheless found myself drifting, thoughts flowing down a river of ideas and dreams of a day. The river quickens its haste and before I know it, she's there again on a beach, smiling and glowing in the daylight, vibrant and beautiful... "Alright class, that's all we have time for, remember to finish your current events for tomorrow!" She says. Except it doesn't sound like her. I come back to, shaking the haze from my eyes as I thank my great-bearded Social Studies teacher for his lesson, and walk out onto the next class which I hope might be Algebra or Science. Because the beach isn't the only place I find her.
ReplyDeleteI like how you carefully constructed the "she" character in this narrative. She weaves in and out of the story so effortlessly that it is almost like you are putting the reader in your shoes- you weren't sure when you would see "her" again, and neither is the reader. It is also nice that you did not reveal many details of her. She is kept mysterious, and much like the last line in this story, the reader is left wanting to know more.
DeleteOn this day it's all too easy to forget about the other boats that dot the race course. No reason to break away from this state of complete equanimity induced, perhaps, by the light breeze (bearing, as it is a southerly, the tantalizing odor of the fish markets on Commercial), sinking sun, and rhythmic click of my ratchet block, or perhaps by the fact that I am winning. Let all the other boats fuck themselves over at the starting line. I am sailing in clear breeze on the lifted starboard tack to the mark.
ReplyDeleteAnd forget about them I do. By the time a wayward shout brings me back to this day, this bay, this windward leg, I have sailed myself into inescapable doldrums on the right side of the course.
"Fuck, man. I fucked us over. Gotta tack."
(The 420 is a double-handed, sloop rigged dinghy, 14 feet in length).
The tack is flawless; skipper and crew roll and flatten in perfect harmony and the boat responds with a burst of speed. Having regained our position in the middle of the course I take stock of our place and it don't look pretty. As we approach the weather mark, the boats who stayed to the east of us continue to gain; our lead is dwindling. Still, we hold starboard advantage.
"Starboard, Ellis."
"Starboard."
As collision becomes increasingly imminent the hailing becomes terser and terser.
"Starboard."
Rule 10. When boats are on opposite tacks, a port-tack boat shall keep clear of a starboard-tack boat.
Ellis finally tacks, giving us space to sail a clean line to the mark. Rounding in first we sail high to the east, out of the capricious air created by the fleet. I'm lost in the warm fading sun and tumbling water.
This is fantastic! I think the best part is the poetic sounding repetition of the word "starboard", it gives the piece true character.
DeleteChecking over her shoulder at every possible moment while maintaining her speed, he was still there. His grey hoodie shrouded what seemed to be cold, concrete-gray eyes. There was nothing friendly about his appearance. She was with her friend, so not alone, but certainly still vulnerable Their hearts were in their throats as their flip flops slapped the cracked pavement with every step. She felt his stare from behind her, piercing her body, which was now starting to form a thin film of sweat. This night was meant to be normal, with a trip out of the condo for pizza and fudge, just like always. But unlike always, we found attention from a stranger, watching us for blocks. She glanced over at Sarah, panicked but trying to remain calm. Once turning the corner into the parking lot, the two girls broke from their simple strides into a full sprint. She rounded the shrubbery and slid under a parked silver Subaru, waiting to be found. The sound of heavy steps came closer and closer and she was sure she would be done for in only a few moments. She looked up, and saw painted blue toes, and new she was ok. Sarah pulled her out from under the car and they ran for the elevator, punching hard at the keys to unlock the door. They sat in silence as the elevator rose to the seventh floor, staring at the ground, not wanting to admit what had just happened. They sat on the floor in Sarah's room, nearly in tears, terrified at the sound of anything. Her mom fluttered into the room and announced it was time for dinner.
ReplyDeleteIn and Out of Calvin Klein: A narrative.
ReplyDeleteIt was the height of summer, and Freeport was bustling. I walked into Calvin Klein knowing I wouldn’t be able to afford anything, but nevertheless I walked in. I found belts, tunics, sapphire skirts the type that hold your body the way a lover would. I walked through the racks of supermodel-thin jeans and saw a man looking at a pair of gorgeous grey jeans. We shared a smile, and then parted. Anna Wintour describes fashion as wearable art but walking through that store, I just felt poor. Where I had once felt joy and elation at fashion, I left the store with a feeling of resentment where my passion once lay.