Black Umbrellas

Hello. After realizing my tendency to write in the present, I decided I needed practice writing in other tenses. I wrote the following story partly to practice writing in the past. I'm not a polished writer by any means...so I apologize for the many faults you will probably find. Since I started this blog mainly to practice writing, let me know what you think. Any critique or criticism is welcomed. Enjoy (I hope).

ALSO...this story is NOT about me. It is just written in the first person.


Short Story: Black Umbrellas

Overcast, gloomy, and cold. A perfect description for the drizzly, gray autumn morning. I escaped the bleak outdoors and entered the nice, warm school building closest to the parking lot, the student center. I scarfed down the remains of my spinach bagel and slowly chugged my chocolate milk and all its gloriously useless 380 calories. My 8 AM class would start in thirty minutes, so I opened The New York Times and began to read—my early morning ritual. Unfortunately I only had time enough to read maybe a couple articles. As I skimmed the black & white pages I saw the normal “gloom and doom” headlines. Well, that figures. What did I expect—world peace?

I checked my watch and realized class would start in a few short minutes. Lethargically I stood up and pulled on my black jacket. My class was in another building so I would have to leave the student center’s warmth and face the bleak outdoors. Luckily my class was on the other side of the courtyard separating the two buildings. I walked toward the two large wooden doors at the entrance of the student center. I gripped the handle and pulled the door open, allowing a rush of cold wind to hit me. As I exited the student center, I was not surprised to see rain hitting the pavement. I wished I had brought my umbrella. I walked down the steps flanking the façade of the building and kept my eyes glued to the pavement, away from the icy, cold rain.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, I looked up to get my bearings. I was distracted when my gaze hit a sea of black umbrellas. Black umbrellas. Everywhere. Moving slowly—blocking the rain. I searched the faces of the black-umbrella carriers. Gloomy, dark, dreary, cold—the faces echoed the bleak outdoors. Some of the expressions were transparent as if their innermost thoughts were scrawled across their foreheads, while others were dark and mysterious. Deciphering those faces was like trying to walk through a wall—impossible.

I was curious—what were the stories behind the somber faces? Were the desolate expressions an effect of the weather or vice versa? It seemed even the heavens would revolt against such downcast expressions. And why on Earth were they all carrying black umbrellas? Black. Black. Over, and over, and over...

The sea of black umbrellas kept coming, washing over me with the despondent faces. Grief hit me—grief for a world lacking color, vibrancy, uniqueness. Grief for this world in which the black umbrella was a pretense, a mere shield against the deluge. How soon would it be until I also carried a black umbrella? I was suddenly thankful to not have an umbrella today. I was grateful to feel the ice-cold rain drops trickle down my face and neck. I turned my face towards the sky letting the wind whip around my cheeks, and I blissfully welcomed every crash of thunder. Looking down, I was affronted by my black jacket. I vowed to change the moment I arrived home. And never, never would I buy a black umbrella.