Short Stories

Descriptive Writing - A Busy Place

The pavement was invisible under the endless waves of shoes that walked back and forth regularly. The large amount of people made it almost impossible to find your way around the high street, with such a big crowd it was hard not to get lost in the sea of unknown faces, especially if you were travelling as a group. One minute you would be walking alongside your best friend, the next they'd be half a mile away from you.

Not only was it crowded, but it was also loud. While the chatter of the strangers around you filled your ears, they would be silenced to nothing more than background noise as stall owners did the impossible and shouted above the roaring noise of the townsfolk, silencing many conversations. Stall after stall stood row after row, each stall owner louder than the next  as they frantically grabbed the attention of passers-by with their nets of words, baiting the buyers. If you were lucky you could hear the tweeting birds that had gathered themselves above, hung aloft in the sky on the unstable cables that wobbled in the wind. Occasionally there would be a central point to the madness where you could find a seat and the singing voice of a busker hoping for their next meal.

The stalls contained various regular and rare items. Food stalls grew more common during meal times, the evident sizzling of ingredients increasing as did the smell of freshly cooked food. Meal times caused a break in the seemingly endless noise, that engulfed the high street at dawn and left late in the evening.

During school days and rush hours the high street reached an all new level of crowded and busy. The never ending people becoming more varied as students and workaholics mixed in with the daily customers. The laughter of students mixed with the smell of gum or chocolate appeared briefly before it ran away again, the sudden burst of energy startling the street momentarily before it continued with its routine.

The workaholics were the people, who like the students, had more life and energy than the people they walked by, if you could call it that. They grabbed at items, carelessly dropped them onto the till, paid, and left. Not even bothering to get their change because it would take too long to go back for it and get to work on time.
When it became late afternoon and workaholics appeared again in the 'going home' rush hour they seemed to have a contrasting personality to what they had previously. Their rushed walks were now a slow wander, the desperate eyes which quickly scanned each stall, stuck to each item like glue, gazing aimlessly at it for a few minutes. They became indecisive and were the main victims to the walls of people standing, that pushed and bumped into those who could not keep up.

Often during the afternoon there were some sirens that zipped past, increasing the intensity of the rushed atmosphere. Children would cry at the deafening noise, bystanders would take a quick glance at the lights passing, hoping their recipient was okay, and stall owners would sigh at the loss of another possible customer.

The road also became surprisingly busy on market days. Cars pushed at their boundaries as drivers grew impatient with the accumulating traffic jam, that had frozen the road like ice, while people on the pavement moved swiftly with their freedom. The noise of car horns were like a crescendo as you moved further into the town, the frequent beeping and honking a strong contender against the noise of stall owners and public chatter.

As night fell upon the town, silence crept in with the shadows as the town became empty and dead. The clouds above darkened and the faint glimmer of stars pierced through the black air, watching over from the sky with eternal lids apart.