The Walk.

Originally written for York University’s Department of Film (Screenwriting) Supplementary Application Form. Too long to submit. Shame, really.

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Anthony peered out the window of his dimly lit classroom. His head rested on a fist and his other hand held a pen, tapping against the wooden desk. He stared down at the paper in front of him for a brief moment, and looked once again out the bright, white window.

He could see flakes of snow melt on contact and the blanket of white covering the pavement and cars parked along the grassy field beyond. He followed streaks of water race down the windowpane until they reached the edge. Some droplets would meld together and fall slowly down until he could see more snow piling upon the bottom of the frame. He pressed his hand against the window, and could feel the cold, crisp sensation run up his arm.

His trance was broken by a piercing, rhythmic bell. The ambience of classmates talking and jostling movements of those around him came back into focus. He could now hear chairs scraping behind him and footsteps begin to fill the hallways outside his classroom. One final look out the window revealed cars piling into the school driveway, windshield wipers scratching off snow, or tops of cars blanketed with white, much like the pavement outside.

Anthony followed his classmates out of the room and into the crowded, busy hallway. Thick jackets and wool hats bobbed up and down as he pushed his way towards the main atrium, and up the stairs. The first three tries to open his locker were unsuccessful, but the fourth allowed him to breathe a sigh of relief. He put on his own wool scarf, soft and warm over his neck, and slipped his hands into wool gloves, instantly providing a sensation opposite to touching a hand upon a cold, crisp window, but feeling all the same.

It was warm, and it was reassuring. It was the reward for another day completed. He wondered when he would begin counting the days, much like he counted the minutes before the end of each period. As he exited the school doors, the first few flakes of snow fell upon his face, and he smiled lightly.

He didn’t know why, but he enjoyed it. The endless historical dates, math equations, and scientific terminology to remember seemed to exit his head, if only temporarily. It was replaced by the snow sitting on his nose and fingers, and the cold breeze going over his cheek. His scarf waved slightly at his waist. And he began walking down the road.

His walk home was simple. Down the street. One left. Towards the cul-de-sac. Another left. Second house, on the left. It was routine. It was a habit. It was etched in his brain, like the water droplets he remembered that drooped down the window.

Each step he took; each crunch he heard beneath his feet of snow or gravel compressing under the soles of his shoes was a rhythm he always followed. Sometimes he would listen to music, other times he would think. Most of the time he did the two together; the beat of each song matching the steps he took, like a metronome that kept the tempo of his mind, freeing it and guiding it as he made his way back home.

What he thought about wasn’t clear, nor was it always the same. But it was vivid, and it was true. Walking home was a chance, an adventure, a peace. Walking home was a method of freedom, one which he savoured every single day. Despite the fact that he might have failed a test, stumbled during a presentation, or received a bad final. Between the footprints he left in the snow, the flakes falling onto his dark, thick hair, or the cold breeze that blew past him, it was an opportunity to not care.

It was an opportunity to think. Think about what lay in between the bare trees, fallen or taller than the highest houses, what went on inside the homes he would always pass by, and just how many steps it took to get where he was going. He thought about things that couldn’t matter to anybody but himself, and people who he couldn’t possibly matter to. He saw birds fly above him and pondered about their destination, or saw an elderly couple walking up the hill, and wondered how beautiful their experiences must have been.

Most importantly, he thought about stories. The ways in which people told them, imagined them and changed them. How stories can end, but leave beginnings to be opened just as quickly. He thought about his story, and how he didn’t know what chapter it was on, or who was narrating, or what kind of story it would be.

Anthony kept smiling as he walked down that road towards home, and he figured out why he was. Walking home wasn’t just a habit, or a chore, or a routine.

It was a ritual; of mind and spirit, imagination and knowledge, wonder and discovery. It wasn’t a choice. Walking home was a way of life.