New England Rooftops

April 17, 2010

Small piece of writing that’s been sitting on my computer for over a year now. I wrote it on the train ride from Boston to Philly.

The New England rooftops were black with soot and salt. At least that’s what they looked like to him. He was trapped in a fishing town, pungent with the smell of scales and slime that was so appealing to most people. Most people marveled at the quaint, puritanical structure of the region, where everyone was safe in their cottages with white enameled sideboards and geometrically angular points facing up towards heaven or space or God. He knew better. He saw a rotting ancestry that Hawthorne and Miller had warned him against. He didn’t mind sullying one’s hands in sin as long as it was straightforward, sophisticated and not at all hypocritical. Look at all of these simple people, thinking they are the epicenter of America, as if Jamestown was located right where they stood. The beauty escaped him; he could not understand why she brought him here to this fishing village, where the freckles of the sun caught the tips of the triangular waves and bounced back in his eyes. It burned and he resented being able to see color. Too bad life wasn’t in shades of grey, then maybe he could let his guard down.

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