Light glares up at the spinning blades and, as the windmill grinds around, it casts a flickering shadow on the bruised sky.
A little girl looking at Barbies in Super WalMart in Council Bluffs, IA tries to keep her balance in her high heels, but her ankles wobble like a losing game of Jenga.
Classic nerd, high cut pleated khakis, held up by a black belt cinched two inces above the belly button, L.A. Gears, short sleeved button down shirt, plaid of course, smoking a cigarrette.
The steady tear of paper as it separates from the perferated edges of the notebook and followed by the slow squeek of fingers creasing it into a fold.
Tired, struggling to keep her eyes open, they cross, and she tries to force them back into place but they fight her, throwing a tantrum, shaking and seizing.
I hear a low growl that sounds like someone is sleeping every day in Britisth Lit, breathing heavily over sandpaper, but when I look around I can't ever see who it is.
The cafeteria doesn't serve any meat on Ash Wednesday or Fridays, which shouldn't bother me because it gives me more options as a vegetarian, but I do because I can't stand that sharp smell of fried fish in a basket.
The air by the cafeteria smells fruity, like the Revlon Outrageous Shampoo in the trendy black and red bottle I used in 7th grade, and thick sappy scent sticks on my lungs as I dance my way back to Junior high parties.
By the doors of the student center I smelt cow manure, I'm sure it was, it was thick and dirty, but at the same time clean, the fresh smell of country in downtown Omaha, but where do they keep the cows?