Flowers for the Dead

Kimberly has a love interest, and he's breathing.

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:: Zayn's pov ::

The roar of cars filled Zayn's ear while he walked down the lengthy downtown block. Stopping every few minutes to consume the variety of street art plastered strategically alongside building, that were only seen and understood by artistic minds such as himself.

Art was something that he'd often find himself conversing about. The way artist manipulated lines and mixed colors by simply changing their stroking technique. It called for a nimble hand, a hand in which Zayn possessed.

Pride swelled deep within his solid chest as he reminisced about the evening that a piece of his artwork had found it's way inside of an art galley for up-and-coming street artist. It was, in retrospect, the happiest day of his life.

Pulling out of the delightful memory of his small success, Zayn quickened his leisure pace. He couldn't afford to be late to work once again, Cathrine, the book stores manger hated tardiness with a passion. The elderly woman believed in punctualness or she would dock you of a cents pay for every second that you were late.

Eleanor's Bookshop was located a block off of Madison's street. The dainty looking establishment didn't quite blend in with the sleek, futuristic exterior of the neighboring buildings. Wedged between a busy Starbucks and some sort of fancy bank, Eleanor's Bookshop was made completely out of vibrant red and black bricks with huge pink trimmed showcasing windows.

With a tired sigh, Zayn shuffled across a busy Chicago intersection.

The tiny gold bell attached to the front door of the bookstore jiggled gaving off a barely audible noise, but Zayn still rolled his brown eyes in irritation.

Clocking in on time with a minute to spare Zayn trudged over towards the checkout counter.

The hours seemed to zip by with little to no customers entering the store. Zayn wasn't complaining though, eight hours of doing whatever he pleased and still getting paid sounded nice to him. A sketchbook teeming with looseleaf paper usually sat on the countertop waiting for Zayn to flick threw it's oil pages.

Surveying the bustling street for any likely consumers, Zayn hopped from around the countertop with the sketchbook in hand.

The odor of aging ink on weathering sheets of thick paper, engulfed Zayn's nose. The air was musty near the bookshelves, it was refreshing. A flicker of a content smile fall across his dry lips as he sunk into the comfortable leather chair.

A noise caused Zayn to stop drawing the outline of his new picture. It sounded like a petite footfall. Glancing back at one of the empty aisle, he noticed that nothing was out of place but continued to look, scrutinizingly.


His shoulder sagged and he turned around muttering to himself.




The great city of Chicago!

Any who there's a chance that this "chapter" won't be up for long. A tired person has a foggy brain and a foggy brain can't write! Also I need an editor.... So yeah..

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