This is a collection of what I have written in response to writing exercises. A bit strange, I know, but oh well. You don't have to review; they're more practice than real writing.

This was written in response to the following prompt: You are sitting in a waiting room. Describe the people sitting near you by their feet.


The chairs in the waiting room are hard plastic. The yellow paint has worn off in some places, and the bald spots seem to radiate cold. I can't seem to move my eyes from the tiled floor, and the only thing telling me that there are still living, breathing people sitting around me are the movement of their feet and legs.

Closest to me is a woman in faded pink pumps. The veins on her feet are vivid, and the pants on her suit are a little too short. She restlessly crosses and uncrosses her legs, tapping her feet and jiggling her knee.

Next to her is a little girl in Mary Janes. Her shoes are a shiny, polished black; I can see my exhausted reflection in them. The buckles are sparkling silver, and she taps them on the floor to some unknown beat every once in awhile.

Across from her is a man, wearing brown leather shoes. They have that stiff, not yet broken-in appearance of new shoes. His foot jumps a little when he coughs, which he does quite often. Every time he moves, the new shoes let out a little squeak.

Farthest from me is a lady with bright red, sparkly stilettos on. Her nails are painted such a shockingly bright pink that it's almost offensive, and her skin is that fake-tan orange color that I see so often at the mall. Every once in a while, she taps her feet together, three times. I smile at this; it makes me think of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home.

Oh, god, how I just want to go home.

The last set of feet is completely still. They are covered by a pair of worn in sneakers, drawn on in white-out with mismatched laces. The cuffs of equally as decorated jeans partially cover them. In all of the movement of every one else's legs and feet, they sit, perfectly still, defeated. The owner does not move. She is not restless like pink pumps lady, not over-confidently vulnerable like red stilettos girl. She isn't brand new like the little girl or the man. Her shoes match her personality—one that used to be so unique and vibrant, but is now just worn out and jaded.

As I stare down at them, I distantly hear the doctor call my last name. The shoes move, for the first time since I sat down, and I find them carrying me towards the swinging door. I step through, numb, and all I can think about is the stifling sound of silence behind me. As if the door were a barrier, I can no longer hear all of the shuffling movement of everyone else's feet. Only of my own, as I make my way down the hall.