Vignettes from a 16-year-old Writer

The city streets of Florence, Italy feel like canyons. They are deep, cobbled trenches, dug out of a sea of red roofs. From the top of the cathedral, gazing out over the city, we had seen the shingled waves and ripples of dull red, a layer of rooftops. But deep, straight gouges in this landscape sprawl outwards from the cathedral plaza, a network of narrow streets. We stroll along the canyon floor, over the smooth cobblestones, each one like a scale on the back of a fish. The towering Italian architecture squeezes the sky into a thin stripe, three stories above us. The slim sliver of blue slowly fades to dark velvet, the color of a night sky polluted by city lights.  Our destination slides into view on the side of the street: a gelato shop. The dull yellow glow from street lamps that shine a pale hue on the glossy cobblestones is replaced by bright white lights and blinding walls as we step into the shop. A crisp smell of cream and freezers meets my nostrils as I glance across the flav