The Lamppost Revision 2, or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Accept Change.

I tackled this revision with the hopes of playing up the lamppost and downplaying the existence of the young man excepting the slow death he suffered.

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The Lamppost

The inky black of the side street was broken only by a single light. Its amber glow touched down on the recently disturbed side walk. The concrete had within the circle of light only one tenant, a young man who could barely have stepped foot into his twenties. His solid form created an oasis of shadow contained by the light. The lamppost stood above him, a sentinel in the dark. It was doing its job well.

The lamppost’s warm light fell upon the messy mop of hair that capped the still head of the young man. The light slid deep into his increasingly pale skin, and collected on his cheeks and forearms. He was well lit from above, and not a visible inch of him was outside the reach of the lamppost’s light. The mercury vapor bulb continued to shine. Years of wear had done little to hamper its effectiveness. It was a good lamp; it did its job well.

As the night drew on, the ground beneath the young man continued to darken. This was not by fault of the lamp. The dark spot was fluidic, and flared with the reflected amber light. With deep red hue, the darkness continued to spread. It trailed off beyond the faint boundary of where the light met the dark.

The young man began to stir. Tonight, the constant drone of the lamppost’s bulb was accompanied by a soft gurgling. This could be traced to its source, deep within the lungs of the slumped figure. His tensed shoulders loosened against the grey steel of the lamppost’s supporting pole. It was a very sturdy pole, and it had aided the lamp in its years of hard work. Held aloft by the pole; the lamp shone on in the dark night as it had for years and as it would.

Now the gurgling, caused by the dark hole through his abdomen, slowed. The wound was ragged and deep, and well lit on the surface. The depths of the hole were lost to the pervasive dark. The deep red of his blood seeped into his once white shirt. Perhaps a surgical lamp would have revealed more of the grievous wound, but the lamp had done all it was required to. The lamp was not ambitious, nor was it able to be. It was a good lamp, and it did only the job it was made to do.

The cold sweat of the young dying man slid down from his brow to the end of his sharp nose. Illuminated along its path and reflecting tiny splashes of light across his pale lips and sunken cheeks. His unremarkable brown eyes began to glaze, and the light of dawn swept the sky. His breath rattled once more, a soft vapor caught in the constant illumination. His life left him as the surrounding dark peeled away like an orange, revealing a fresh day. The streetlight fell dark. It was a good lamp; it did its job well, and now that job was done. Now left in the brightening world was a warm corpse against a cold grey lamppost.

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The Lamppost [The Street Lamp Revision 1]

The Lamp Post Rev I

The second draft of an intriguing concept. I wanted to explore a scene where the main character is a Lamppost that does nothing but light the scene to the best of its ability

I feel like I hit it spot on with this revision.

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The Lamppost

The darkness of the side street was broken only by a single light. Its amber glow broke through to the recently disturbed side walk. The concrete had within the circle of light only one tenant, a young man who could barely have broken into his twenties. His dark shadow created an oasis contained by the light. The lamppost stood above him, a sentinel in the dark. It had done its job well.

The lamppost’s warm light fell upon the messy mop of hair that capped the still head of the young man. The light slid deep into his increasingly pale skin, and seemed to collect on his cheeks and forearms. He was well lit from above, and not a visible inch of him was outside the reach of the lamppost’s light. The mercury vapor bulb continued to shine. Years of wear had done little to hamper its effectiveness. It was a good lamp; it did its job well.

As the night drew on, the ground beneath the young man continued to darken. This was not the fault of the lamp. The dark spot flared with the reflected amber light. With deep red hue, the darkness continued to spread. It trailed off beyond the faint boundary of where the light met the dark.

The young man began to stir. His eyes fluttered open; catching the beautiful amber glow. His ragged breathing started to ease, and his tensed shoulders loosened against the grey steel of the lamppost’s supporting pole. It was a very sturdy pole, and it had aided the lamp in its years of hard work. Held aloft by the pole; the lamp shone on in the dark night as it had for years and as it would.

Now his breathing slowed; likely caused by the dark hole through his abdomen. The bullet wound was ragged and deep, and well lit on the surface. The depths of the hole were lost to the pervasive dark. The deep red of his blood seeped into his once white shirt. Perhaps a surgical lamp would have revealed more of the grievous wound, but the lamp had done all it was required to. The lamp was not ambitious, nor was it able to be. It was a good lamp, and it did only the job it was made to do.

The cold sweat of the young dying man slid down from his forehead to the end of his sharp nose. Illuminated along its path and reflecting tiny splashes of light across his pale lips and sunken cheeks. His unremarkable brown eyes began to glaze, and the light of dawn swept the sky. His breath rattled once more, a soft vapor caught in the constant illumination. His life left him as the surrounding dark peeled away like an orange, revealing a fresh day. The streetlight fell dark. It was a good lamp; it did its job well, and now that job was done. Now left in the brightening world was a warm corpse against a cold grey lamppost.

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The street lamp, a conceptual piece about street lamps.

The street lamp, a first draft of an intriguing concept. I wanted to tell the story of a street lamp witnessing a murder, with the street lamp being the most important character.

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The Street Lamp

The inky dark was broken only by a single light. Its amber glow pierced through to the recently disturbed side walk. The concrete had only one tenant, a young man who could barely have broken into his twenties. The lamp post stood above him, a sentinel in the dark. It had done its job well.

The lamp’s amber light fell upon the messy mop of hair that capped the still head of the young man. His increasingly pale skin given life by the glow, but the end was drawing near. He was well lit, not an inch of the boy was outside the reach of the street lamp’s light. Its mercury vapor bulb continued to shine. Years of wear had done little to hamper its effectiveness. It was a good lamp; it did its job well.

As the night drew on, the ground beneath the boy darkened. This was not the fault of the lamp. The new dark spot shone and sparkled with reflected light. A deep red hue, the darkness continued to spread. The boy began to stir.

His eyes fluttered open, catching the beautiful amber glow. His ragged breathing started to ease, and his tensed shoulders loosened against the grey steel of the lamp post’s supporting pole. It was a very sturdy pole, and it had aided the lamp in its years of hard work. Held aloft by the pole, the lamp shone on in the dark night.

Now his breathing slowed; likely caused by the dark hole through his abdomen. The bullet wound was ragged and deep, and well lit on the surface. The depths of the hole were lost to the pervasive dark. The deep red of his blood had begun to dry to a crusty brown. Perhaps a surgical lamp would have revealed more of the grievous wound, but the lamp had done enough.
 

The cold sweat of a dying man slid down to the end of his sharp nose. His unremarkable brown eyes began to glaze, and the light of dawn tinged the sky. His breath rattled once more, and his life left him as the surrounding dark peeled away like an orange, revealing a fresh day, a fruit ripe and tender. The streetlight fell dark. It was a good lamp; it did its job well, and now that job was done. Now left in the brightening world was a cold corpse against an equally cold grey street light.

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