Write One Leaf: Rain

I think it might rain later. The fog and mist have rolled off the ocean and crept onto campus. The wind bears the promise of a change in the weather and the palm trees sway their testimonial agreement.

Speaking of palm trees, I've noticed something curious about them. They tend to grow best in dry places, but when the wind brushes through their branches, the whisper of it sounds like water. A few weeks ago I was sitting on the Bluff and looked around thinking there was rain coming or a water feature I had yet to discover, only to find it was simply the palm trees being loved by the breeze. It was a magical sound.

I don't love the rain the way I used to. I still love it, though. Maybe it's a sign of maturity? Growing up? Perhaps. I used to love the concept of the sky crying. Now I'm more enamored with the cleansing aspect of rain. The air, the streets - everything is cleaner after the rain.

There's also jumping in puddles, warm pots of tea, reading by the window... Going to the movies or having a movie marathon is a great rainy day pastime. So are good conversations.

Oh, my. I just looked out the windo and the wind has kicked up and one can actually observe the mist being blown about, ushered into every space available on campus. Eery and beautiful.

What do you do when it rains?

"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby."
~Langston Hughes

Peace,
Willow

Write One Leaf: "Lost & Found"

Prompt: "Write One Leaf about something you've lost (and where you think it might be)."

I've lost so many things over the last two years: many of my "best friends", a boyfriend I honestly believed was The One, my mind. . . Most importantly (or devastating), I think, I've lost my joie de vivre, my energy - my spark.

It took a long time after I was hospitalized for me to laugh again. It took a long time to look in the mirror and do something other than contemplate peeling away my skin in search of the girl I used to be. The truth is, I haven't been "that girl" for years.

This self-loss started so gradually, it was almost imperceptible. I started isolating myself, sleeping too much, pushing people away... and here I am. Hiding. She started showing herself more lately, though. I can put on clothes and my makeup in the morning, explore a new town, smile and flirt with the boys at the movie theater and even write again. My confidence has increased and so has my sense of self-worth.

There are people and situations I have to avoid, but... I can deal with that. I'm rediscovering myself in the streets of this old city, in rosebushes and dappled sunlight. I can taste faint traces of my inner flame when I cook or watch movies. When I bike through town with my iPod at full volume or mix drinks with my aunt I catch myself grinning and soaking up life. I'm making a comeback.

I lost myself once when I fell down the rabbit hole and into darkness. Crawling back out again took every ounce of what little energy I had left, but I can see the sky again - and oh, how beautiful it is. I might slip a little on occasion as I scrabble for the last few feet and get out completely, but I am not letting go and I'm never falling through again. I've fought tooth and nail for this life over the last six months and dammit, I'm going to LIVE.

Write One Leaf: "Lace & Chiffon"

I wrote this after walking past a Victoria's Secret and wondering what chiffon felt like. This is what happened....

"Lace & Chiffon"

The fabric draped her body so delicately that it barely touched her skin and certainly didn't hide anything. She wore a silk dressing gown to keep her shoulders warm but did not bother with covering herself. She knew why I had come.

"Charlotte," I said. I knew it wasn't her real name, but it was the only one I knew. It tasted thick and heavy on my tongue.

"You must be Jane." She looked up at me from her crowded vanity table and rose to shake my hand. I ignored her in favor of wonder at the shiver of her nightclothes. They shifted and whispered against her soft, white skin so gently as she moved. It was in that moment that I came to hate her.

"So he told you my name, did he?" I tried to laugh but choked instead. "It's amazing you two ever even spoke at all. God, look at you." I gestured to the swell of her breasts, the curve of her ass and lithe limbs half-covered in the early light.

"Yes, he spoke of you often," she said, softly, as if I were a wounded animal. I suppose I was. "He told me so much I feel we could be - might be - great friends if you knew me as well." She smiled. I felt sick.

"Friends!?" I spluttered. "How could we be friends? You stole from me, you destroyed my life and everything I cherished. Everyone knows and I'm ashamed to show my face in public." I breathed in, swallowing the scent of her perfume and (surprisingly) clean sheets. The oxygen cleared my head so I could continue. "But you should be the ashamed one." I reached a hand into my purse.

"Jane," she began. "Jane, I'm so sorry. He should have told you sooner and had no right to let you find out the way he did. I never meant for you to get hurt, he said - "

"I don't want to hear what he said!" I screamed and pointed the gun at her perfect, shocked mouth. "Now, Charlotte," I said calmly. "I want you to give me one good reason why I shouldn't do the women of the world a service and kill you right now."

She walked to her nightstand and pulled a cigarette case from a drawer, then lit one with shaky hands. She looked at me for a moment, then let her robe cascade to the floor in a silken puddle leaving her dressed only in lace and chiffon.

"Because," she said, taking a drag, "if was just business between Dan and me and you know that; because he really loves you as much as you love him; and because if you kill me, you won't have anyone to hate but yourself for feeling the way that you do." Charlotte took two, fateful steps toward me, drifting in a cloud of smoke. "Because you're intoxicated by me, Jane, no matter how sick it makes you feel."

I dropped the gun and felt the shivery whisper and gentle brush of lace and chiffon drift past my skin, and I cried.

Tips on Writing

Courtesy of Tumblr.com from Write One Leaf:

To the young poet or to anybody, my advice on writing a short story is to write it. Don’t go in search of too much advice on writing it before you write it because in the end this will only keep you from writing it.

Once you have written it, try not to be too attached to it. It is a thing you have done, but it is not you. So seek out a person you can trust, a person with a kind and generous soul, a person who is not your mother or your spouse or your pet and share what you’ve written with that person. (It helps if this person knows something about stories, about how they are constructed and how they can be improved, but it is not absolutely essential.)

Make changes to this story if you can, or if you must, or if you want. Show it to more people. Try to have it published. Publish it yourself. Read it out loud to a group of strangers.

At some point, write another. And another. And do not be afraid. This is not brain surgery. If you slip? Nobody dies.

Write one leaf in which you describe something that scares you.

The last 2 paragraphs mean the most to me. "Read it out loud to a group of strangers. ... Do not be afraid. This is not brain surgery." I love it. Pure genius.

“The very impulse to write, I think, springs from an inner chaos crying for order, for meaning, and that meaning must be discovered in the process of writing or the work lies dead as it is finished.” ~Arthur Miller

~Willow