You don’t actually know me and I know how strange that must seem since you are receiving a letter from me. My name is Isabella Van Diz and I cannot ever thank you enough for what you have done for me and my family. I understand that you were the one whom stayed with my Zachariah after his accident. Although Zia was never one to write letters, I know that he was grateful for your presence, and I wanted to tell you that. He talks about you and that in itself tells me he is thankful. He seemed somehow different after meeting you. Zia told me that you taught him something, but he wont say what. All I know is that he definitely appreciates whatever it is you have done for him. And, if he appreciates it, I surely do too.
Zia mentioned that you knew that we were going to have a child and this is why I write this letter. Our son was born about a week ago. His name is Jeremiah and he is such a joy; a gorgeous little boy. Without you, though, he may not have had a father. This is what I am grateful for. The doctors said that you did a good thing for him, staying with him and keeping him awake and alert after the accident. I don’t know why he was being so reckless, but it seems that you managed to talk some sense into him. Heh. Maybe Fatherhood is helping him too, he’s very careful now. When he holds Aya, its as if he’s afraid he will break him, but its so very endearing.
I know that you live a little ways from us, but I really wanted to extend an invitation to you. I would love very much to meet you and be able to thank you in person. And I would love for you to be able to meet our Jeremiah. I am so very grateful for the fact that you were there that day. Not many people would stop and stay with someone who has such ungrateful tendencies as Zia does. Please consider my offer, it would mean the world to us.
The other assignment was to help make the setting concrete in your own mind in a paragraph or two. You were supposed to choose your words carefully and do as much showing as you could. I am not sure if I did it right, but I kind of like it. Its not my normal writing style.
On a muggy Wednesday afternoon the cars move leisurely, their windows shut securely to cast out the heat of the midday sun. For the drivers there is the promise of a quick and peaceful journey from point A to their final destination. The hills roll on either side of the four lanes and act as a picturesque slideshow to any that bother to take a look. The concrete median looks merely out of place dividing the lanes of this scenic landscape, but not displeasingly so. Screeching tires tear the eyes of drivers from various distractions and the scent of burnt rubber snakes it way through air vents. A collective gasp is shared by shocked onlookers, whom cannot hear one another through their metal barriers, and doors click open in an attempt to sate curiosity.
Not many take this rural path as its speed limit is considerably less then that of other roads, but stopped, it appears to hold the congestions of a modern freeway. Those in front crowd around the unconscious form of a young man but cannot tear their eyes away from the fresh color that the accident has added to the bland hues of the road; red, black, and blue paint in new interest. Accompanied by the small feeble moans of the youth on the ground, the murmurs of the people rise in chorus; slowly at first and then becoming a dull roar. The curiosity, wonder, and disgust weigh heavily, but the knowledge that the man lives, gives hopefulness to the tone.