Writing Practice, May 6 2015
Jamie stood on both feet, his back arched, his neck cranked, looking way up, his focus on a balcony the floors up jutting out from a thirty story apartment building. Jamie wanted a response. He had no other way in but to yell.
“I want my money,” he said to the air above, in the hopes it would carry.
Jamie felt the cool breeze old the end of a storm. The concrete beneath him was still that darker, muddy grey. The building was forty years old, made of unaffordable materials today, heavy brick and premium plasters. Out was a ruin of optimism. If they put a nice building here, the neighborhood will improve. But Jamie knew the second he confirmed the address that had been given to him (that he had taken) that nobody’s money was in this building.