Snippet #974934

It was a quiet night in Portsview, another quiet night inside her father's photography shop. The heavy rain lightened its assault on the few citizens outside, and sprinkled peacefully down, no longer drowning out the solitary sweeping noise of the broom against the wooden floor. Elvira paused her work and gazed outside the window into the darkness as she noticed the pounding on the rooftops stop. Across the street a young blond boy, no more than 13, lit a street lamp and continued quickly onto the next, hoping to get his duties done and return home as soon as possible.
Usually Elvira had the samething in mind every night as the boy had. But this time her mind wandered to all the different possibilities that nightlife in the capitol provided. Repetitiveness was mind-numbing and tragically was what many people ended up falling in too. By no means did she think consistency was a bad thing, a consistent amount of variety in action and thought was necessary she believed to live a full life. But repetitiveness in routine and thought, she observed tended to stunt one's mental growth.
She stopped sweeping and put the broom back in the cleaning closet, then grabbed her petti-coat and small black umbrella and closed the shop up early. No one would notice she had closed up early or would care to come back in the dreary weather anyways. Once out of the shop, she walked in the opposite direction of her home and meandered down the walkway thinking of a destination as she went along.
To dampen her adventerous mood though came the rain again after just a few blocks. Despite her open umbrella, the bottom of her blue skirt became soaked and droplets whipped into her face from the wind. She took shelter underneather an awning to think temporarily where she might go and to fix her hair in a barely intact bun. As her eyes wandered over the street, she saw across the way a familiar Inn. It was an infamous inn, known for its not-so-secret opium trade and booze, as well as free-thinkers, activitists, and namely "The Stock". The sort of place she would go if she were only man enough. Which she wasn't a man. Presumably any woman who walked into an inn or bar by herself was in some sort of shady business. But taboos were meant to be broken, and she would put these free-thinkers to the test.
She finished tying her bun back up and marched over to the Inn, swinging open the door boldly with a wind following her in.