graydaisy
New Member
This is a snippet that i wrote for a class a few years ago. i am a little worried because i have never shared my work with anyone except a couple of professors, but i trust you all to be gentle. 
She walked along the asphalt path on the other side of the murky pond. She walked among the shadows of the freshly budded maples. Occasionally, her new white sneakers would step into a stain of sunlight. The warmth would tease the delicate white skin of her face. The whiteness of the daisy twirling between her fingers would become temporarily brilliant.
He sketched her casual stroll around the pond. He captured the light green grass, the diverse infant flowers, the fuzzy goslings floating behind their black-beaked parents among the reflections of clouds, through shadows of budding trees, dispersing the thin layer of pollen clinging to the delicate membrane of the water. His hand moved the charcoal pencil with furious accuracy although he did not look down once. His eyes soaked in the moisture of her candy pink lipshine as she smiled genuinely at the two small boys that ran in front of her throwing handfuls of soft grass at each other.
When she saw him sitting amongst the groomed wildflowers on the edge of the murky water, her pace quickened. The smile on her thick lips became an excited, wide grin. When she stepped off the designated path onto the plush softness of the natural median, he put his sketchbook down. They smiled giddily at each other as she made her descent toward him until she reached him and quickly sat next to him to kiss him on the lips, staining his own with her moist pink lipshine. But, her determined thumb wiped it off for him, so that he did not do it himself.
Her deep brown eyes wandered through his. His powerful hand stroked her delicate one and she stifled a shiver that began in her lower back. He leaned forward and their foreheads touched.
“Hi,” he whispered into her open mouth. His soft, wonderful index finger stroked the tender outline of her cheek down to her chin. The pad of his thumb slid smoothly across her shiny bottom lip. He dropped his hand and wiped a shimmering pink fingerprint on the cover of his full sketchbook.
She puts the brown covered sketchbook with the pink smear on it back into the bottom drawer of his dresser; back under the others where she found it. She wants desperately to leave it on the top, but that would only change things temporarily. And, when she would think back about the small gesture, she probably would have felt like a hypocrite. At least, that’s how she pictures it now, as she closes the yellowed drawer with full hands grasped around the small gold trimmed knobs.
“It’s been a long time,” Dan softly states from the open bedroom doorway. She swings around quickly. He stands there, arms crossed, leaning patiently against the frame.
“Yes, it, it has.” She speaks slowly, shaking her head.
“Do you want me to stay home again today?” His stance is unchanged. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“No. I’m fine, really. Besides, we need the money.”
“What are you gonna do today? Do you want to come with me?”
“No. I might go and do some laundry, of just sit outside for a little while. I feel like I haven’t felt the wind in years.”
“Alright. I’ll call you. Bring your beeper if you go the laundromat.”
“Okay, bye.” She watches him leave his post until he is out of sight. His arms never uncross. She listens for the car to pull out of the driveway. She glares at the unmanned open doorway. The car pulls out and picks up speed. She hears it shift into second gear.
Her heart races as she lingers in the moment, staring at the now blurry doorway. She reaches for the familiar black bound notebook. Her hand knows the way, under the dresser, behind the empty boxes of Gabriel Pro Ryder Gas Shocks, which now support Dan’s ’63 Ford Galaxie. She and her book walk through the doorway and make their way out the back door of the small brick ranch, where the wind caresses her and the sun scolds her and the spying crows laugh at her from their bald perches.
She sits on the peeling wooden picnic bench on the patio which is just down the block from the main highway, which, if taken west, would carry her all the way to the big city. She opens the black bound notebook to a fresh page. The white paper glows with all the power of the bright white sun, forcing her to look away, but lighting up her face with a stage-like quality. If only she were in a play.
She sees the little black cat running playfully. He jumps in the tall grass, leaping for some flying bug that he really does not want to get. He runs through the high blades and giant weeds like a wild animal, picking up enormous speed, his rear legs actually landing ahead of his front paws like a cheetah. He leaps over small stumps, wild mushrooms, barely making it around the tall naked oak tree. She feels what he feels. The whippings of dandelions that have gone to seed, the small feathery seeds dispersing in air, scattering, floating; his heart racing, his heavy breathing. It is the memory of her short dream of freedom.
The little black cat rolls furiously in the dirt and then proceeds to clean himself. She slowly unfurls the bandages from each of her wrists, one at a time, and rests them on her book. The black stitches mock her like the crows and the white page is smug with binding torture.
She walked along the asphalt path on the other side of the murky pond. She walked among the shadows of the freshly budded maples. Occasionally, her new white sneakers would step into a stain of sunlight. The warmth would tease the delicate white skin of her face. The whiteness of the daisy twirling between her fingers would become temporarily brilliant.
He sketched her casual stroll around the pond. He captured the light green grass, the diverse infant flowers, the fuzzy goslings floating behind their black-beaked parents among the reflections of clouds, through shadows of budding trees, dispersing the thin layer of pollen clinging to the delicate membrane of the water. His hand moved the charcoal pencil with furious accuracy although he did not look down once. His eyes soaked in the moisture of her candy pink lipshine as she smiled genuinely at the two small boys that ran in front of her throwing handfuls of soft grass at each other.
When she saw him sitting amongst the groomed wildflowers on the edge of the murky water, her pace quickened. The smile on her thick lips became an excited, wide grin. When she stepped off the designated path onto the plush softness of the natural median, he put his sketchbook down. They smiled giddily at each other as she made her descent toward him until she reached him and quickly sat next to him to kiss him on the lips, staining his own with her moist pink lipshine. But, her determined thumb wiped it off for him, so that he did not do it himself.
Her deep brown eyes wandered through his. His powerful hand stroked her delicate one and she stifled a shiver that began in her lower back. He leaned forward and their foreheads touched.
“Hi,” he whispered into her open mouth. His soft, wonderful index finger stroked the tender outline of her cheek down to her chin. The pad of his thumb slid smoothly across her shiny bottom lip. He dropped his hand and wiped a shimmering pink fingerprint on the cover of his full sketchbook.
She puts the brown covered sketchbook with the pink smear on it back into the bottom drawer of his dresser; back under the others where she found it. She wants desperately to leave it on the top, but that would only change things temporarily. And, when she would think back about the small gesture, she probably would have felt like a hypocrite. At least, that’s how she pictures it now, as she closes the yellowed drawer with full hands grasped around the small gold trimmed knobs.
“It’s been a long time,” Dan softly states from the open bedroom doorway. She swings around quickly. He stands there, arms crossed, leaning patiently against the frame.
“Yes, it, it has.” She speaks slowly, shaking her head.
“Do you want me to stay home again today?” His stance is unchanged. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“No. I’m fine, really. Besides, we need the money.”
“What are you gonna do today? Do you want to come with me?”
“No. I might go and do some laundry, of just sit outside for a little while. I feel like I haven’t felt the wind in years.”
“Alright. I’ll call you. Bring your beeper if you go the laundromat.”
“Okay, bye.” She watches him leave his post until he is out of sight. His arms never uncross. She listens for the car to pull out of the driveway. She glares at the unmanned open doorway. The car pulls out and picks up speed. She hears it shift into second gear.
Her heart races as she lingers in the moment, staring at the now blurry doorway. She reaches for the familiar black bound notebook. Her hand knows the way, under the dresser, behind the empty boxes of Gabriel Pro Ryder Gas Shocks, which now support Dan’s ’63 Ford Galaxie. She and her book walk through the doorway and make their way out the back door of the small brick ranch, where the wind caresses her and the sun scolds her and the spying crows laugh at her from their bald perches.
She sits on the peeling wooden picnic bench on the patio which is just down the block from the main highway, which, if taken west, would carry her all the way to the big city. She opens the black bound notebook to a fresh page. The white paper glows with all the power of the bright white sun, forcing her to look away, but lighting up her face with a stage-like quality. If only she were in a play.
She sees the little black cat running playfully. He jumps in the tall grass, leaping for some flying bug that he really does not want to get. He runs through the high blades and giant weeds like a wild animal, picking up enormous speed, his rear legs actually landing ahead of his front paws like a cheetah. He leaps over small stumps, wild mushrooms, barely making it around the tall naked oak tree. She feels what he feels. The whippings of dandelions that have gone to seed, the small feathery seeds dispersing in air, scattering, floating; his heart racing, his heavy breathing. It is the memory of her short dream of freedom.
The little black cat rolls furiously in the dirt and then proceeds to clean himself. She slowly unfurls the bandages from each of her wrists, one at a time, and rests them on her book. The black stitches mock her like the crows and the white page is smug with binding torture.
