As she arrived at her dingy apartment building from her night excursion to the Tavern, Alana stood and stared at the lit windows and the bland door, remembering how she arrived there four years ago.
She was merely a child with no first-hand experience in a world of dark and dangerous people. The second daughter in a family of five children, Alana was the youngest. She grew up in the deserts of Arabia. In her secluded desert, Alana was considered beautiful and mysterious. Her eyes were all that were seen by anyone other than her family, but they had a piercing thoughtfulness about them. Alana was well-educated and sent to school as a young girl, one of the few women in her tribe to be sent to school ever. Alana's father doted on her and called her "أعين غامضة" or "mysterious eyes." Surrounded by warm sand and fiery eyes, it was a paradise not meant to last.
Upon her arrival in a new complicated place, where her English was far from perfect, Alana wondered how Allah could do this to her. A place where she was expected to live on her father's money that had been left to her after the ferocious fire.
Alana gazed for a moment longer and then ushered the thought from her mind. As she climbed the stairs to the third floor she heard a bottle crash and listened to the unseen man in 300b pace in his room. Alana wondered what the man was doing up at three in the morning and then realized she was up at three am. She made her way to the fifteenth room where she found her keys and entered the calm rustle of voices.
Inside her quaint apartment, where there were little piles of manuscripts, she gazed at the pastel walls and paintings of her youth. The black flowing tail and deep dark portals to a soul that saved her life brought tears to her eyes. She turned away from the portrait and slipped into her bedroom. She let her clothes fall from her slight frame and her thick dark hair fall down her long tanned back. She meandered into her kitchen clad in her pajamas, the thought of her father's expression if he could see her now created a perfect curve in Alana's lips that hadn't been there in days. Her pale yellow kitchen brought warmth to her small apartment, although the food in it was scarce. She did not need much to live off of and she saved most of what she had. The piles of native manuscripts that she had managed to save were a constant comfort for her tormented mind.
The Tavern had become a frequent place for her to visit at night, not to "hit the bottle" as the men did, but to write in her journal and watch the people float through their obviously meaningless lives. She could not blame them for their addictions though. One face always stood out to her when she arrived and she watched him the most. She couldn't help but notice his soft blue eyes and the way he moved inside the Tavern, he seemed to float like the spirits in her room. He lived in her building but Alana did not know where. Her curiosity kept her from ever approaching him, she could not stand to ruin this image she had of him. He was an unknown character in her life as was the man down the hall. The man from room 300b only came out at night to stand on the roof. She saw him leave his room sometimes, but he scared her and she would not look him in the eye. But the man in the Tavern had this air about him that Alana could not resist.
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James Gibson was lost. He had counted the steps right, hadn't he? There were supposed to be exactly 45 steps he had to go up, then he would turn left, open a door, and his apartment would be the sixth one on the right. Here he was, standing at what he thought was his door, but his key wasn't fitting. James was beginning to panic, and he instinctively checked his left arm to make sure his box was snugly fit in his tight grasp. Before James could think of what to do, the door before him wrenched open unexpectedly, and a young girl looked out apprehensively at him. It was obvious this girl had been crying, but she hastedly wiped the few tears left in her swollen eyes, and tried to put on a tough face.
"What do you want?" asked the girl aggresively.
"Sorry......room......wrong....." muttered James incomprehensibly.
"This is room 317, not 311, which I know is where you are looking for, and I suggest you get your crazy ass there now." she exclaimed as she slammed the door in his face.
"311, room 311," James thought to himself over and over. Seeing the faded bronze numbers on his door in the distance, James hastened into a quick trot, which soon turned into an all out sprint, and reached his door. The key was in the lock and turned in a blink of an eye, and James, box, and key dived into the apartment and onto the hard floor, with James gracefully kicking the door shut in mid-air. James got up, put his box in its usual spot on the kitchen counter, and threw a dishtowel over it, because he didn't want anyone who could be spying through his windows to recognize it. Of course they would have a hard time seeing through his windows at all, because all the blinds were down, giving the apartment an eerie, spectral glow, with the only light coming from the fading sun filtered through the blinds. James walked around his apartment, checking every nook and cranny for something, anything that might hurt him or steal his box. After finding nothing, James felt satisfied, and wandered into the kitchen to find something to eat. The kitchen was quite bare, there were only two bowls and three spoons as far as kitchenware went, and a mini-fridge containing one half-gallon jug of milk sat in the corner. James licked his lips hungrily, like a lion smelling the carcass of a dead antelope, and stared down at the counter at his choices of meals. It was an odd numbered day, the 21st in fact, so James would be having Raisin Bran for dinner; the Cheerios would wait until tommorow. After finishing his dinner, James felt full, and decided that he would skip his usual time set aside for thinking, and go straight to bed.
Getting up at exactly 8:30, James rose from his bed, and immediately went to the kitchen to check on his box. It was still there, and as far as James could tell, it hadn't been touched. He checked to make sure the tape was sealed tight, and reminded himself to add a new layer to the tape next month. After his precise, 10 minute cold shower, James got on his theater uniform, and headed toward the door. He double checked his apartment, making sure nothing was out of place, grabbed his box, and headed out the door, locking his apartment behind him. James slowly descended the stairs, counting each one out, and confirmed that it was 45 steps exactly. He came to the conclusion that he must have been distracted when counting the number of doors yesterday, and that was why he had gotten lost. As he reached to open the door from the stair landing to the foyer, it was pulled open from the other side by someone else. James jumped back with a yelp, clutched his box to his chest tightly, and waited to see who came through the door. A young woman walked in, and started up the stairs, but stopped as she saw James in the corner. She smiled at him, obviously trying to be friendly, and gave a faint greeting, hoping for one in return. But James was not listening to her, he was staring at her eyes, her hard, mysterious eyes. They were so familiar, but he had never seen this girl before, her eyes where just like someone elses, a figure from his past. Relizing who he was thinking of, James let out a whimper of fright, and scampered past the girl into the foyer. The girl shook her head and sighed, and said aloud in her thick, foreign accent, "Americans."
With countless thoughts swirling through his head, James almost forgot to step over the big crack in the foyer, and then had to double back and step over it again as he headed back to the mailboxes in the corner. He opened his mailbox slowly, peeking very carefully into it, knowing that no letter would be there, but hoping deep down inside that his father had finally written to him, as James's mom promised he would. Finding nothing inside the mailbox, James slammed the lid shut, and hurried on to work, his thoughts dancing with mysterious eyes, letters, and the ever present dark cracks.
Alana Verdioso
Alana returned to her dingy apartment later than usual, after all it was her 23rd birthday and she wanted to celebrate. The moment the door swung in she could sense the breath of the departed and knew that though her bed was shouting for her, it would be a while before she could sink into its abyss.
She switched on a lamp, and sat down across from the frail frame.
"What do you need?" asked Alana.
"I need to know why I'm still here. What I have done to deserve this." the figure pleaded in hoarse whispers as her body faded into the pattern of her chair.
Alana was too tired to question it imediatly, all she could manage was a swerving line to her bed, and a nagging question of why the girl had to keep her up on her birthday of all days, she already knew the girl had been wandering the building for years.
I like this one better, I can see Alana's character come to life in the dessert and envision her youth without knowing all her secrets. she reamins to be a character of great intrigue and insight. I'm glad you re-worked it!..."Earlier, I left the building hurriedly, brushing past the hunched figure of a girl with rich, dark hair crouched over on the top of the landing of the third floor. Hiding her face against knees pulled up to her chest, hair flowing on all sides of her like a river darkened by a moonless night."
Great description of your characters past and what she comes home to, but I wonder if we'll find out anymore about your characters history. Its interesting, now there appears to be a clearer picture being created of your character. So the question is what does you character find so fascinating about this man with blue eyes, and is she willing to pursue him? I'll be interested to see whether she'll go with what she truly thinks. Anyways I thought you'd like this picture of Sasha that I put up as my profile pick.
Harry shakes his head, sighing, as the man stalks back out of the bookstore. The door slams shut behind him. He checks his watch, and sees that he's been off the clock for the last twenty minutes, and should be long gone. He pulls his sweater on, bids adieu to Mrs. Ryan, and leaves, softly closing the door.
He inhales the fresh, chilly air, and closes his eyes. It smells like winter in the city. It smells like it'll be cold. His eyes open and he sees the neon lights on The Tavern. It's a derelict bar sitting on the corner of the block. He steps towards it, falters, and then continues.
He sits at the bar. "Just... an Amstel Light... please...." The bartender nods, and a few seconds later, there is a cold bottle of beer before him. He holds his nose over the mouth of the bottle, and inhales the crisp scent of his mother. "Ahh," he sighs, and sips deeply from the bottle.
His eyes light on a familiar-looking girl sitting alone in the corner. She scribbles furiously into a noteboook. He stares for a moment, understanding the need for solitude in a crowded place. "Bartender? Send the girl in the corner another of whatever she's having. Put it on my tab."
The girl seems startled when the bartender places another drink before her. Harry cannot hear their interaction but suddenly their eyes meet. He raises his drink to her, finishes it off, and leaves a five and a ten on the bar as he pads back out into the cold air. He wonders about goings-on downtown, and makes his way back to his apartment.
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