I am finding things I wrote a while ago, all fiction. I am posting bits and pieces of it.
The picture of Emily was actually inspired by a character from a movie that I rather like.
Emily
He bowed his head in the direction of the blasting wind, staring perfunctorily at the pathway made to resemble brick as he did so. His arms were shoved tightly in the pockets of his beat-up bomber and an old red scarf was wrapped snugly around his neck, but the persistent wind pierced his layers and froze his skin. Though his bag leaned heavily against his back, his was grateful for the release from the cold it provided. He was used to the North Carolina mountain winters, but this winter had been particularly cruel. He reached forward and his glove-less fingers grasped the handle of the glass door and roughly pulled it open.
She shivered and leaned against the cold tile of the wall by the doorway. Her chin-length scarlet hair was in disarray from blowing in the wind and she ran her electric blue polished nails through the blood red tangle. She wore purple velvet pants and a tight pink tank top with blue straps that matched her nails. Because it was December, she bundled up in a forest green corduroy coat with a fuzzy lining. Leaning against the drab green tile she stood out as a burst of eccentric colors found only in the big box of Crayolas. As he passed her in the doorway, she made quick eye contact. Her eyes were an intense blue, though not as electric as her nails, they were lined in a similarly electric color. He nodded at her and shoved his hands back into his pockets. He continued to walk past her, but his foot caught and he stumbled. An old leather messenger back lay slouched on the floor beside her and in the strap was his entangled foot. He shook the leather strap off his foot and gathered his dignity to continue on his way. Her electric eyes followed him with the curiosity of a child. He slowed to a stop by one of the doors on the long hallway. He turned to look at her. She tilted her head slightly and continued to gaze with wide eyes, her mouth pulled into a mysterious shape that was not quite a smile and not quite a smirk. He walked in and sat down, pulling out a notebook and pen. The professor walked in the classroom and glanced at the clock. He took a gulp from his coffee, placed the cup down and, frowning as if he had forgotten something terribly important, walked out with a purpose. As he walked out, she walked in with the same childish curiosity on her face. She, with the graceful swiftness of a dancer that he could not see in her, placed herself at the seat in front of him. She pulled out a sticker covered clipboard and a red pen. She held up the red pen, looked at it for a while, then turned and placed it on his notebook. She looked where he had written the date and his name.
"Do you like red, Liam," she asked in an altogether American way. He looked up, confused. "It's so aggressive," she said, with wide eyes that gave way to her mischievous half-grin. She turned and placed the pen on her clipboard. "I'm sorry about my bag, Liam. Though, it was your fault."
"My fault? It was sprawled in the walkway," he teasingly protested.
"Well, you should watch where you're going," she countered. The professor then walked into the classroom with a sheaf of papers.
"Alright, class, lets begin in the traditional way..."
His voice was drowned out in Liam's mind as his eyes focused on the scarlet hair in front of him. Her incredibly intrigue was matched with the face of an angel and he wasn't quite sure what to make of all of it.
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