Creative Writing @ MindSay 
writing
The place where I bike frequently is surrounded by standing water because of the wet spring we have been having. I love riding by early in the morning and watching the dim light from the sky reflect of the surface of these miniature ponds. Yesterday when I went my usual route I saw three ducks. Their green wings were more beautiful than any emerald I have ever seen. If I could capture green like that into a stone I would have it for my wedding ring.
At any rate, all of this thought about color and water reminded me of a piece I wrote for my creative writing class and I decided to post it here. It is a practice in descriptive writing.
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The Sea
A constant pressure racked upon me, like being at the bottom of the ocean. The heaviness was not suffocating or crushing, rather just a strange constancy of my surroundings. A clinical feel was everywhere except for in the smell of this peculiar place, in the coolness of the air, the tidiness in every detail of the surroundings, and the smooth touch to every surface: nothing abrasive. Inhaling, I found the most clarifying scent such as that smell of clean air after a rain, but without the smell of precipitation. Looking out at the water, the sea of pale silvery black, I could see the reflection of the “ship” on its randomized mirror surface.
The entire structure was made of a wood colored a deep brown, almost black; I wondered at what kind of stain could produce such a color, but soon found out that wood itself excreted a sap that hardened into this luminescent glaze after the wood is cut and dried. There were no outlandish baubles or garnishes to the floating home. All of the detailing of the ship was done in simple wood carvings mimicking the shape of the waves. Leather covered soft poufs sat singularly and in groups and could be easily arranged to produce any seating arrangement one wished to have on the deck. Most of the time, however, three or four of us would curl up on the largest one set near the rear of the boat and watch the water we were racing away from rise and fall in its flow.
Though only a visitor to this sea and a passenger on this boat, I wore the same clothing as its inhabitants. The earthy-red pants and brown tunics were thick enough for those who lived there to feel comfortable in the cool environment, but I wrapped myself in sarong style with cloth of the same reddish tone. When I would fall asleep curled up in the cloth, I would awake to the scent of strange fibers, their natural and unprocessed smell. Even though the poufs were soft and luxurious, I still awoke with odd muscle cramps from sleeping rolled up in a ball. There were no beds to stretch out on, as the people who built the boat did not build it with the intent of sleeping: at most a nap of less than an hour. The hours of the day past half as fast as they do here, and yet these people would simply rest for a few moments if at all.
There were only two scheduled events a day: the meal and the song. Our meal consisted of a silver bowls with the same designs as the ships carvings full of the shimmering water of the sea. There was no need for further sustenance. Maybe it was the pressure of the air that kept the feeling of fullness all the time; but no matter what it was, there was never a physical hunger felt neither by the inhabitants of the ship nor by visitors of their sea. Fulfillment did not come in sandwich; it wasn’t scooped up with a spoon. Snuggling next to a warm friend, my fellow travelers, and just resting. That was the fulfillment one found on this boat, a resting, warm, oneness with the sea.
(c) M. E. Koenig
Perhaps I shall let it sit for a few days without glancing at it, rather than continuing with a daily perusal.
Or, send it to a pair of eyes I trust to suggest further reductions.
Or, delete entirely a scene in Hyde Park...
Decisions, decisions...
She drove a BMW 335i, painted in a splashy red shade that shouted, "I am worth watching!" Most days, a boy was with her. The watcher judged the boy to be about nine or ten, and he wore a collared shirt. Probably, he guessed, a school uniform. The woman herself had hair the color of sunshine and small hands. That was all he ever really saw of her.
Excepting her smile. He saw her smile. Every day.
She and the boy -- her son? likely -- were always in the throes of conversation whenever he saw them. Both of them had infectious grins and once, he had heard her laugh. Such a laugh. Enthusiastic, rich, vibrant. It was such a laugh! Almost enough for him to leave the comfortable anonymity of his bistro table in front of the coffee shop to jog to her car, offer his card, and just introduce himself before the light changed.
Once, the woman and her son were not laughing. Their faces were serious as they stopped at the traffic signal. Talking, yes, but serious. It was so rare that he noticed and wondered about it, making all kinds of stories in his head about them, as he often did. The next day, though, their usual hilarity had returned and he chuckled himself, into his coffee cup.
Thus it went for months. Through the holidays, when the sunshine-haired woman had piled presents behind her. Into spring, when her windows were rolled down and her laughter was audible once more.
One day in late April, he saw her car in a parking lot. The lot of the local hospital. He was going there himself to visit friends and their child, who had been injured in a crash. He wondered if the smiling woman was visiting friends, too, and he felt a strange anticipation that she might be, and he might get to introduce himself. In his mind, he tried out different ways of saying hello that would not make him sound like a stalker.
On the floor where his friends' son was staying, he saw her. The hair, her hands. Walking into a room.
"Mom?"
"I'm here, honey. Mom's here."
The voices were subdued. Low. Broken. Raspy.
The watcher's eyes misted over all at once and he had to lean against the wall to compose himself before striding down the hall to see his friends and their injured son -- they were expecting him. The son would be fine, the doctor had said, so the visit was pleasant. Just making sure, keeping him overnight. He'd be back home in 48 hours, tops.
Encouraged, he said all the right things and, at length, left the hospital room.
The door on the smiling woman's son's room was closed.
He didn't see her again for a few weeks, though he did keep an eye open for the flashy red 335i from his usual table. May was in full swing and looking forward to June when he next saw the car.
But now, the passenger seat was empty. The sunshine-hair was laced with a black ribbon, and the woman's smile was gone. Though he watched and waited, he never saw it again.
(c) 2007 by Sandi Layne
At just shy of sixteen thousand words, however, I have far exceeded my wishes! In the past two days alone, I have written seven thousand words. In less than forty-eight hours!
Far too many words. Far too many.
So, I'll attack this tale with a battle-ax at first, to chop away chunks of prose I feel the story can still live without. Then, delicate surgery with a scalpel to carve an excess adjective here, a verbose adverb there...
And then, hopefully, after all this surgery... I'll be down to something more like what I was anticipating creating.
However! I shall keep all the spare parts in a file so that if...by some strange, strange happenstance...I wish to turn this novella into a novel...I can perhaps do so with some enhancements.
Plastic surgery for prose. It's what I do.
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