I was originally going to reuse a piece (Shells, to which I unashamedly direct the reader) written a few days ago, for Friday Fictioneers (to which I also unashamedly direct the reader), however I decided that really I should write something original.
I have not written a piece like this before, so criticisms and comments are welcomed:
Home to work. A lifetime in less than an hour, and this is just one day.
Dog walking person or person walking dog. The same each day. A vertical triangle: human, lead and ground, an apex of white fur and claws. Going nowhere, going everywhere.
Pavements and alleyways. They walk side by side, man and dog. Companion, confidant and friend. All purpose, a place to start, a place to end.
Trendy cafes, the boardwalk. A dog shaped accessory, perfect accompaniment to the morning latte. Newspaper, headphones music, perfect isolation.
No dogs, just concrete and skyscrapers. A throng converging, a human conveyor belt. Funnelling into offices, shops and restaurants. Destination reached.
It is all part of my home, my city and my life. I am proud.
The word is home
a : a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment; also :the focus of one's domestic attention <home is where the heart is>
b : habitat