thread starter patsaccount Jul 23 2010
+ PM | QUOTE | PERMALINK | REPORT
| So...this one really kind of transformed on me as I was writing it. Not what I initially planned to write, but I think it turned out alright. Enjoy. Pacific The nightly showers were a calming presence as she wrote into the early hours of the morning. The constant patter of water hitting the roof of her moderately sized home, the offbeat dripping of droplets from the house hitting the pavement outside, and the occasional crash of thunder all contributed to the orchestra that was serenity. During the day it was hot as death, and the humidity had one sweating the instant he left the indoors. It was clear that this summer was a bad one. The nights, however, left room for celebration, for it was at night that it cooled down, the humidity seemed only a commodity, and the moonlight could hardly be considered inciting next to the summer daylight. And so it was during the day that she slept, and during the night that she came alive. Though now she only wrote, she would occasionally leave her place at her desk and go to the glass door to her backyard. From there she would, without any lights on, peer outside into the forest of water. She would open the door and feel a rush of refreshing cool air, breathe slowly in and out, shut the door, and continue her work. She wrote about the trees, the wildlife, and most of all the flowing of waters. One might come across her writing and note the peculiarity with which she wrote about water. It wouldn�t be considered to the utmost oddity, but only strange. She wrote about wildlife and landscape as she would about mundane and lifeless pebbles on an unpaved road, but she would write about a rapid as if it were a divine being, transcending the livelihood of a puppy or even a toddler; she wrote of waterfalls as if they were a screaming train of teens during their first rollercoaster drop; and of rivers as if they were a story an old man never knew how to end. She never wrote about the oceans, however. Though it would be unlikely that anyone even noticed. She found oceans to be too vast and whole to even attempt to contain, for it was the oceans with which all rapids, waterfalls, and rivers ended. Oceans were the end of the line, but also the beginning of it all as well. Oceans to her were a whole separate world, they deserved reverence, and she chose to respect that. And rain continued to fall all night long; she put down her work and decided just to take in the orchestra. The pattering rain, the dripping drops, and the booming thunder. Her work was far from what she considered complete, but any man might pay for it. She made it known that even the most still of waters were not silent in the least, but this was rarely remembered by anyone who read her work. She wrote of only the pure, not of saltwater, and it was perhaps because of this fact that nothing stuck. She knew it was because of this, in fact, but she found it heart wrenching to illuminate the ugly. It�s only through sweat and tears that we may make a mark on soc |
My Characters: IVlEDlC - 71 Mardia Priest