It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s appearance, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into the eye hole an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, dropplets sitting in his beard, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can and out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, his heart was pounding. He had never been fond of insects or bugs as a child, but the years of loneliness left him numb to hear childhood fears. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Draft 2 Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s appearance, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, he stayed calm. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, he stayed calm. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Monday, October 13, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Draft 1 Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s unavailing, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were sizzled onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at a skull (air brushed to perfection), he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a severed human hand! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s dirty, stubby fingers. The hand crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the hand, walking around on it’s fingers, he stayed calm. The hand, a spider not so nimble, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the hand was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the severed hand. “Come,’ Joe said, and the hand sheepishly stepped onto the hand that looked quite like it’s self. The hand needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were sizzled onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at a skull (air brushed to perfection), he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a severed human hand! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s dirty, stubby fingers. The hand crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the hand, walking around on it’s fingers, he stayed calm. The hand, a spider not so nimble, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the hand was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the severed hand. “Come,’ Joe said, and the hand sheepishly stepped onto the hand that looked quite like it’s self. The hand needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
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