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.
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.
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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