dominique012 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dominique012) wrote2006-08-12 10:27 pm
dominique012) wrote2006-08-12 10:27 pm
Entry tags:
writing
It's been a while since I've written anything not work-related. I'm very keen to write and post some fic, but I wanted to 'warm up' a little first. So I got some totally random prompts, and took them for a spin. This writing is not fandom related, just random. I really enjoyed just writing again, I'd forgotten how much fun it can be. I can't wait to write some more and share.
Fisherman
When she wakes, the first thing she notices is the curtain fluttering in the window. The window has no pane, no glass, no screen. It's a square hole, cut into the thick white wall. The curtain hangs from a rod above the window. The pattern is green leaves against a red background.
She pushes back her side of the blanket, rearranging it against him as she stands. He sleeps. He always looks like a child when he sleeps.
She leans, arms folded against the window sill. She catches her breath in the breeze, and gazes across the scene. The day is bright. In front of her, the road winds down towards the water. She can see an old man, a fisherman, leaning against the rail on the jetty, his fishing rod held loosely in one brown hand and a pipe dangling from his lips.
Behind her, he shifts, and as she turns to look at him he wakes. Her expression is blank, unreadable as she watches him slowly sit up, rub his eye, see her framed by the window.
They watch each other for a moment.
Train
He hears the washing machine. His room is at the end of the hall, next to the laundry, and Saturday morning is washing time.
It switches from filling to washing. He squeezes his eyes shut, not really minding the sound, but not wanting to wake up. It's a train, he thinks. Swish-Chuga, Swish-Chuga, Chuga, Chuga, Chuga.
He stumbles down the narrow carriage walkway, peering out the window at the rural landscape as the train sways and rumbles. He bumps into a beautiful blonde, and offers her what he hopes is a cheeky grin.
In the dining car, he accepts a cool glass of something from the waiter, and sits down at the end table...Chuga, Chuga, Chuga. Unlike some, he doesn’t find the sound of the train soothing, but he likes the quirky, old fashioned, mechanical sound anyway. It's not very sophisticated. Rather like me, he thinks.
By the time the machine begins its rinse cycle, he's awake again, staring at the ceiling.
Tree
It's a willow, but only a sapling, planted in the memory of a young woman. An older woman sits under it now, legs curled under her. Sipping tea from a dented old thermos, she stares at the river, leaves and twigs rushing and swirling down.
She waits.
It's not a long period that passes, not when there are so many memories to sort through in her mind. She relishes the inactivity, lingers in every second.
When they arrive, she hears them before she sees them. A frantic buzzing and an occasional squeal and shout. And then, around the bend, it's a swarm of long arms and legs, baskets and blankets, balls and bats.
When they see her, they rush over, nattering, explanations and exclamations, plans, laughing.
The young woman is gone, but the other branches and leaves of her family still go there, together, to remember and embrace.
Fisherman
When she wakes, the first thing she notices is the curtain fluttering in the window. The window has no pane, no glass, no screen. It's a square hole, cut into the thick white wall. The curtain hangs from a rod above the window. The pattern is green leaves against a red background.
She pushes back her side of the blanket, rearranging it against him as she stands. He sleeps. He always looks like a child when he sleeps.
She leans, arms folded against the window sill. She catches her breath in the breeze, and gazes across the scene. The day is bright. In front of her, the road winds down towards the water. She can see an old man, a fisherman, leaning against the rail on the jetty, his fishing rod held loosely in one brown hand and a pipe dangling from his lips.
Behind her, he shifts, and as she turns to look at him he wakes. Her expression is blank, unreadable as she watches him slowly sit up, rub his eye, see her framed by the window.
They watch each other for a moment.
Train
He hears the washing machine. His room is at the end of the hall, next to the laundry, and Saturday morning is washing time.
It switches from filling to washing. He squeezes his eyes shut, not really minding the sound, but not wanting to wake up. It's a train, he thinks. Swish-Chuga, Swish-Chuga, Chuga, Chuga, Chuga.
He stumbles down the narrow carriage walkway, peering out the window at the rural landscape as the train sways and rumbles. He bumps into a beautiful blonde, and offers her what he hopes is a cheeky grin.
In the dining car, he accepts a cool glass of something from the waiter, and sits down at the end table...Chuga, Chuga, Chuga. Unlike some, he doesn’t find the sound of the train soothing, but he likes the quirky, old fashioned, mechanical sound anyway. It's not very sophisticated. Rather like me, he thinks.
By the time the machine begins its rinse cycle, he's awake again, staring at the ceiling.
Tree
It's a willow, but only a sapling, planted in the memory of a young woman. An older woman sits under it now, legs curled under her. Sipping tea from a dented old thermos, she stares at the river, leaves and twigs rushing and swirling down.
She waits.
It's not a long period that passes, not when there are so many memories to sort through in her mind. She relishes the inactivity, lingers in every second.
When they arrive, she hears them before she sees them. A frantic buzzing and an occasional squeal and shout. And then, around the bend, it's a swarm of long arms and legs, baskets and blankets, balls and bats.
When they see her, they rush over, nattering, explanations and exclamations, plans, laughing.
The young woman is gone, but the other branches and leaves of her family still go there, together, to remember and embrace.
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