Creative Writing Reflection


Part A: You, the Writer

I feel like I write from the heart. I try not to use large words and a broad vocabulary because it distracts the simplest form of what I’m trying to say or show. Stylistically I like writing stories and description. I try to delve into details, but I find it hard to write uniquely and more off the grid. My brain automatically chooses the typical story and I try to work with it as best I can. I honestly don’t know how to improve much more from my present. I can write decently, but finding the twist on a topic or prompt stresses me to hell. My voice I suppose can be anything I’m trying to portray, whether it be sad or happy. Literally I just write to write. I don’t know how I write it just comes out; then I edit mistakes and leave it at that. I prefer to write a story read it over a few times and see where it gets me. I don’t know how to do better. I just do, what I believe I am supposed to do. Mustering up some sort of paper trying to leave a deeper meaning up to the reader. It’s funny that I struggle to find creativity with the writing, yet I find some sort of creativity in art easier.

Part B: You, the Blogger

Art is basically my blog, I mean the whole background picture is ink flowing in water. You can’t get more art-y than that. I also try to choose pictures for my blog that are crisp, detailed, fit with the piece and are either art or nature. I feel like my blog represents me more than the content in it. I write the pieces, but I feel like they are the typical, average voice. I can’t tell what differs my writing from others, except the fact that theirs always turns out better than mine. It’s simple, I love the blog, not the writing. After this creative writing course, I now know how to actually use the systems within it and add things on to my posts. When this semester closes I will probably keep my blogs until the end of the year. Just in case I need to blog more for other courses. Nonetheless, I will probably delete it when I have graduated. I feel like after high school I need a clean, fresh start. No strings attached. The only other blog I will follow obviously is Matt’s, unless he decides to delete his too.

Part C: You, the Student

Writing on the blog has been going smoothly after the first month of school. All thanks to Mrs. Hunnisett for teaching us how to post properly. I also like her style of teaching and how laid back everything is. I enjoyed being able to go for walks when it was nice and warm out; not blizzard snow. It was a great way to start the course and keep me relaxed. Writing in my notebook was also memorable, but I’m not much into sharing my writing. At all. I don’t mind giving it to teachers because they are the best judge. When I write in the lab I also feel awkward if people look at my writing, therefore, I prefer to work at home. Seminars were great to kick back and have classmates teach you about their writer. Not as much fun doing it myself though… As a reader I believe I have improved. I read a whole book! Which is actually a major accomplishment for me. It was nice to be able to read something I actually wanted to read. I plan to read “The Clan of the Cave Bear,” which I’m already part way through. The next book, I have no idea. I have accomplished quite a bit as a writer as well; as far as content that is. Writing a lot has been great, but I have not seemed to move anywhere based on quality or voice. Still the same old me, just with more pieces written. I plan to continue writing poems for myself and essays required in L.A. class next semester.


Part D: You, the Critic of Your Work

Looking back at my pieces of writing is hilarious to put it lightly. Half the time I wonder what the heck I was thinking. Anyways, one of my favorite pieces of writing to complete was my very first post, named appropriately, “Those 6-Word Short Stories.” The title is intended to be sarcastic about how our whole class had to try this short story making method out. From drivers and teacups, to mothers and troubles, there are plenty of stories out there, just epitomize. The purpose of the short stories was to use idioms, incorporate some rhyming and a dash of amusement. My audience was to those who have heard these idioms before, as well as those who can relate to the situations I tried to depict in six words. What inspired me was one of the exemplars shown on the day the exercise was introduced, which also happened to use an idiom. The style is basically the purpose of this piece. I also have different stories connecting to one another but creating different situations. For example, stories 1 & 2 are linked by drivers, 3 & 4 by teacups, 5 & 6 by mothers. The challenge I faced was obviously keeping the stories within the six word parameter. Grammar, spelling, punctuation, etc. were really easy because each story is literally only one sentence. I think I could’ve made more, but I believe at the time I was rather busy.  I am content with these and glad that this post was not as dark as my others. These are also a great way to create a thesis and therefore have made creating one less stressful in my opinion.

Continuing on with short stories, “A Honey’s Journey” was another cute one of mine. As the title partially explains the story is about honey, but it is not only a short story, it is also a metaphor for a character’s personality. Honey forms from a bee and its honeycomb, only to be eaten atop a piece of bread. Honey is meant to bring sweetness to the world, just like some people are meant to, disposition dependent of course. The purpose of this story was designed to be a short and loving summary of a honey’s life from nectar to toast, to sink or stomach and back again up the roots of its origins. The delicacy of honey makes people feel good with its creamy sweetness. This can be a character’s personality as well; which character I have yet to decide. My audience for this story is anyone really unless they get bored with wordy description. The inspiration for this short story was Mrs. Hunnisett and also honey in general because it tastes so good! The style choices are deep description and chronological order. A bit of rhyming also took place in this piece such as, “…make bread sweet; make hearts beat.” The whole story itself displays order from the start of honey to the end. I tried to create a slight personification of the honey in presenting the beginning as a baby’s would be. I chose the place the idea of a stork carrying as a bee carrying the elements of honey; “…carried off in a bundle of leg fuzz.” In the process of writing I did not achieve any epiphanies just a nice, delicate story.

My most recent short story is “I’m A Little Mug; Chipped & Cracked.” This one is extremely similar to my honey story, but is actually an emulation from “There Will Come Soft Rains,” by Ray Bradbury. A mug goes through many unfortunate events with abusive kitchen-mate relationships, when finally it breaks. The purpose of this piece is to try to shed light on the trials and tribulations of an average mug. It is intended to be a story of tragedy, yet ironic because it is about a mug which has no feelings. My audience for this piece is someone who likes a twist on everyday events or someone who is a fan of Ray Bradbury and his story. Kudos to Spencer and his presentation on Ray Bradbury. If we hadn’t practiced the emulation in class this post would have never been created. This poem is meant to personify all characters within it because they are all kitchen items. For example: tea, kettle and mug. Again, this story is supposed to have descriptive detail of the situations to form imagery for the reader. In order to make this story long enough I had to add new characters and incorporate them to make them work with the plot. Overall I think this short story turned out okay, though it is a little sadder than my honey one.

The last work of mine is my spoken word poem, “Swallowed Hole.” The importance of the title is to hint at our society’s consumerism. After reading the poem it is apparent that the earth is really the one being “swallowed hole.” When we are the ones who caused the destruction we pretend we didn’t know the whole time. The point I was trying to get across in this poem is that we should step up and stop ignoring the desolation that our planet finds itself in. Instead we should make ethical choices, before it’s too late. My audience; everyone. I’ll be honest that I used to be that person who ate what they wanted, bought what they wanted and never really looked at the facts. Now I am completely changed after all of the stories of destruction, modified food and cruelty towards animals as well as people. The world is not doing its best to fix things. The irony of it is that it will come back to hurt us, yet we choose to do nothing. In this poem I tried my best to get the point across in a short, abrupt manner. It is not your typical poem in that it does not rhyme. Then again it is spoken word and this is just how it came from my head. I styled it so it was short and choppy. I attempted to leave the most important words at the end of each line so it would be emphasized with a pause afterwards. As an example, “No one feels — the urge to heal, — nor kneel — and thank nature for what it has given us. — These actions will be lasting impressions — in your heart.” This poem is simply what came from my thoughts and feelings on the topic I chose. I decided to do environmental change because I didn’t want to present something negative about school. This idea just happened to be the next best choice because I’m passionate about the issue.  I’m alright with this piece and think it gets the concept across.

Part E: You, the Fan

Getting to learn about other authors has been an eye-opening experience. Learning about the way the author wrote stuck with me more than anything else. Doing emulations seemed to help get a flow of ideas down on the page and was good practice. It is also during these seminars when you realize which author and books you want to read and whether or not they fit your style. I believe it has changed my writing slightly, in that I write with better detail and more of it. I chose to write this final piece as straight from the heart as possible and exactly what I think when I read the prompts. Whatever springs to mind really. I and Matt’s writer was Ernest Hemingway. We chose to do Hemingway because we thought he was an interesting writer. For me when I think of a writer I think of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, J.K. Rowling, Ernest Hemingway and Edgar Allen Poe. It wasn’t until after our research that we realized he was more than just a writer; he was “the man.” Ernest tends to write novels relating to his previous or present life situations, such as bullfighting, marlin fishing and war. We learned from Hemingway to write a story as straight-forward as possible with no extra fluff. I try to write in this way, but I also like to give detail. He has also taught us to create unity in our writing by correcting as we go along. Then when we go back to it the next day we read it over and correct again. This way we know if it has solidarity by seeing it with fresh eyes. I did the same with my emulation from “Advice to a Son,” by him. I feel inspired again now by J.R.R. Tolkien for his great description, easy readability and fantasy. I have always liked the Lord of the Rings movies, but I’ve actually never gotten around to reading the books. I will most likely read them later in life because they are so long; for me anyways. I would like to read one of his shorter works though. Preferably one that isn’t a movie; I always want to watch the movie then. I learned that he was friends with C.S. Lewis which may have inspired his fiction writing. Using one of his poems as an emulation really displays his use of simple words in a unique style. He also invented his characters fantasy languages all on his own, which I find extremely fascinating. I intend to read his novel “Roverandom.”


Images: , ,

My 6-Word Non-Fiction Stories

1) Now camera-shy, I wasn’t always.

2) Dinos in bushes; I’m gonna die.

3) Sat atop stairs; he pushed me.

4) In a kennel; born a human.

5) My superhero name was Captain Obvious.

Description for #5 “Easter Shambles”:

Yes, my superhero name was Captain Obvious. No, I didn’t know about this, but I know that’s what my parents thought all the time. When I was watching old, home videos of my family, I would always point out evident things. The best example of this is when it was Easter day. I was going about my business collecting chocolate eggs around the house. When the task was finally complete I rewarded myself with a few and was then asked by my mother to sit down at the kitchen table. Out came the real eggs, dip dyes and stickers. Next step was to grab four cups of water, dropping one different food colour tablet into each. Flamingo pink, royal yellow, emerald green and sky blue. Placing an egg into each glass very delicately I waited patiently for a few moments. Then grabbing my spoon I would hoist them out like a fish from a lake. They were then left to dry on freshly purchased newspaper with that inky musk. One after another, eggs were fed through the childhood production line, until the entire dozen was complete. Soon the stickers were stripped from their wax and adhered to the shell. Nearly half were placed on the first and the rest had and average of two to three. I placed all my decorated eggs in one baby blue ribboned basket to shine in their glory. To my dismay the room was left a muck, with all the paint drips from the table to the floor and stickers from the newspaper to the fridge. Confused as to how it had come to such a state, which I truly thought I had not caused, I frowned, “It’s messy in here.” Now this story may not seem funny to all, but seriously it’s all in the way I said it. You know with that childhood slurred speech alongside mispronounced letters. I tried my best. “Come on Emma, lets clean up.”



Spoken Word Poem

Swallowed Hole

With every stroke the ink formed a line,

bleeding out across the page.

If you press hard and drag

it will leave a hole.

If you press light it will leave

only a mark;

to form into words

that will be lasting impressions in your heart.

This is how we must think of the earth.

The lighter the mark the prettier the picture,

yet we choose to scratch and rip,

forming a neverending sinkhole.

Now if we all did that, the earth

would soon fall into itself,

reverting into nothing but a speck

in the universe.

With no life to give.

Like when the moon gets sucked

into the vast

clouds of the night.

It would take 4.4 earths to sustain a world

full of people,

filled with consumerist ideals.

No one feels

the urge to heal,

nor kneel

and thank nature for what it has given us.

These actions will be lasting impressions

in your heart.

More like confessions; that you were the one

who made the earth fall apart.

We will never understand what we had

until its gone.

But in this life we don’t get

a second chance

to cure this great expanse.

This poem is supposed to bring to light the subtle actions that are killing our planet. Some examples are: logging of forests; burning of fossil fuels; first-world consumerism; industrialization and mass species extinction. It is important to realize the everyday basics we take for granted such as food and housing are actually destroying the earth. We have a choice, however, to make informed and healthy decisions in our lives regarding these matters. Granted, some people only make poor choices because they are forced into it by limits of money. This poem is specifically reaching out to those who have the money, but don’t spend it wisely and act naive to the fact that, what they buy or their lifestyle could have such a great impact. In this day and age, with the neverending internet access, the true facts and information are at our fingertips. It is an obligation and our responsibility to research ways to lead a sustainable life. In relationships with others we have the opportunity to be forgiven and leave the past behind; start fresh. When in comes to our earth, on the hand, we only have one chance to fix our ways before its too late to restore it.


Writer Seminar Emulation: Ernest Hemingway

My version for Advice to a Son:

Advice to A Mortal

Never trust the dark place,
Never kill the ghost,
Never sign the lease,
Never rent the house.
Don’t do work with others;
Nor search the closets bare;
Never write down dates;
Never scratch your lives.
Always fear the silence,
Don’t believe in lies,
Keep yourself both clean and clear,
Never call that home.
Never pay the landlord,
Never open doors,
Never trust the neighbourhood,
Or you’ll sleep on clouds.
All your friends will leave you
All your friends will die
So lead the cold, transparent life
And join them in their hell.

-Analysis + Explanation-

  • (Line 1) The dark place is referring to the house itself.
  • (Line 2) Don’t kill the ghost that already lives in the house or you will die.
  • (Line 3) Never sign the contract to renting the house.
  • (Line 4) Never rent the house in the first place.
  • (Line 5) If you then choose to rent the house, only work alone so others won’t die.
  • (Line 6) When you clean the house only clean the open spaces never closets or rooms with doors already closed.
  • (Line 7) Never write down due dates or activities on the calendar, otherwise they will become torture dates.
  • (Line 8) If you succumb to paranoia don’t write days on the wall or those will count your nine lives to death.
  • (Line 9) The ghost is the silence and you must never disturb it.
  • (Line 10) Don’t believe people when they say that ghosts are not real because they are.
  • (Line 11) The ghost is clean and bare, therefore, you must be also.
  • (Line 12) Never call the house you now rent a home because the ghost owns it.
  • (Line 13) Never pay the ghost your monthly rent.
  • (Line 14) Never leave the house or open the ones closed inside.
  • (Line 15 & 16) If you let your neighbours help you you’ll go to heaven. (The ghost is saying “never trust” because it wants you to come with it).
  • (Lines 17 & 18) Stating the inevitable.
  • (Line 19 & 20) So sacrifice yourself and become a ghost so the one who inhabits your house doesn’t have to live alone in hell.


I’m A Little Mug; Chipped & Cracked


A kettle whined; spitting on the kitchen counter. The embossed, cream mug recognized the alarm and rolled over, until its handle clanked the ledge. The mug was once exquisitely painted, but now pale in complexion, chipped and cracked. It skuttled across the marble, tracking last night’s tea remnants with its warped foot. Following it buzzed angry mice, angry at having to lick up the bitter stains, angry at inconvenience. By the time they had finished polishing, the poor mug had reached its dictator. Kettle now hissed with fury. Boiling water spewed out, burning the porcelain glaze. Flakes of rainbow paint floated amongst the steam. Open popped the pantry and out ran the green tea. It waddled, one corner in front of the other. Wrapping its “Lipton” label around the handle of mug like a grappling hook, green tea hoisted himself up the string and down into the water. His attention deficit hyperactive disorder diffused through the heat. When green tea had soaked he crawled out onto the counter forming a green, cold puddle. The creamer and sugar jumped out from behind the coffee pot. Creamer poured one tablespoon, although sugar shook exactly two. The drawer beneath the countertop sprung open, causing an earthquake to ripple through the floor. A baby spoon, sparkling in the light, lept up to coffee pot and waltzed to the mug. Baby spoon bashed and crashed, stirring the up the concoction of tea. The routine was all done and mug was relieved shuffling away; but soon she felt herself fly above the counter, surrounded by the humid air of the kitchen. Saliva dripped across her rim, making her shiver in fear. One sip and it was over. No longer was mug; just a heap of exposed clay, porcelain, glaze and paint. No longer will she be dominanted by kettle, green tea or lips; but no longer will she ever be washed, rinsed or dried.


Tea, glorious tea…you’re anxious to try it
Three types a day, our favorite drink!
Just picture a chai: black, creamed or sugared
Oh, tea, wonderful tea, marvelous tea, glorious tea!
Tea, glorious tea,
Peach flavour served hot,
Froth made from cream,
Or sweetness from sugar,
Why should we be fated to,
Do nothing but brew,
With tea, magical tea, wonderful tea, marvelous tea?,
Tea, glorious tea,
Fresh picked off the bush,
Iced, hot, or lukewarm,
Soon, we’ll be the calm ones!
Just thinking of steaming tea
Puts us in a mood for
tea, glorious tea, marvelous tea, fabulous tea, beautiful tea,
Magical tea,
Glorious tea!

Song Lyrics from: Ice Age: The Meltdown’s – Food, Glorious Food by John Powell


Conscience in a Dreamcatcher


The dancer upstairs sleeps,

with dreamcatchers floating above her head.

The queen of dreams recalls the wedding in December,

on that broken ground in the forgotten garden.

But the imagination is just the perfect storm of illusions,

so sleep my sweet beauty.

Let’s pretend this never happened.


Inspired by Spine Poems.

Books included are: “The Dancer Upstairs” by Nicholas Shakespeare, “Dreamcatcher” by Stephen King, “The Queen of Dreams” by Peter F. Hamilton, “A Wedding In December” by Anita Shreve, “Broken Ground” by John Keeble, “The Forgotten Garden” by Kate Morton, “Illusions” by Aprilynne Pike, “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened” by Jenny Lawson.

This poem is simply about a dancer who is teleported back to the dream of her wedding in December through her dreamcatcher. The broken ground represents the failed marriage and present divorce. The forgotten garden, however, represents the happy love-life they had when they were dating. When they got married things were much different living together; each others’ minor annoyances got the better of them. A once passionate relationship crumbles. In order to forget this sad tale the dreamcatcher tells her to sleep. It inevitably forces her memory to disappear.

->The dreamcatcher represents her conscience and memory. It is the driving force for her to continue to sleep rather than wake up from her dream.

->The dancer is a dreamer and uses her dreams as foreshadowing and guidance. Her dreams take over her mind and predicts the emotions she will feel when she wakes up. She has always been a dreamer since she was little and it will never stop.

->The wedding is the root of the poem and the issue because it is not known what fully happened.

->The imagination is also a driving force for her reactions. Not only is she a dreamer she also has a great imagination. Therefore, it is not know whether she is imagining it or if the situation is real.

->”My sweet beauty” also represents the fact that maybe it was more the husband’s fault than the wife but again it is not known.

My intent was to leave this poem open to the reader’s imagination as to what happened, but short enough that you could read and interpret it quickly.



Distant Train

Fog Train by PsihoDrill

Fog hovered over the damp concrete road as Phil continued to drive, not being able to see the destination.

“Leaving is not my decision,” Mariah anxiously whispered, “I have to take this job, otherwise I will never be able to support myself.” Her boyfriend flooded the car with an eerie silence; his emotions still fumigating off his skin. The murky fog dissipated as they reached the Manchester train station. Pulling into the white-outlined slot closest to the entrance, he parked the car and rapidly turned off the ignition. Shooting a piercing, violent glance right through her sparkling grey eyes, he grasps the inside door handle tightly. Hands turned as white as snow in a deep winter, with a yellow tint like a sun’s rays. Opening the door slowly he stepped out into a large puddle of water from yesterday’s rainstorm. Walking around the car trudging through the mix of gasoline and rain drops he gracefully opens the door for his girlfriend. Mariah gets out; finding herself in front of him she wraps her arms around his black, faux fur-lined hoodie. Phil was stiff-armed and frustrated, yet relaxed and apologetic.  Her hand floats down to meet his; together they walk up the rubber stripped steps to the internal are of the station. “May I have one ticket to London please?” She asks the teller. A ticket slips through a gap at the bottom of the scratched plastic screen. As she spins around her hand directly reaches out for his; they progress to the covered platform exposed to the thick humid air.

“Can’t you work at the branch right down the road from my house?”

“It’s not that simple. They don’t think I’m good enough and never will. I have to leave or face bankruptcy.”

“I can support you until you find a job you enjoy in town.”

“But I need to make my own way in the world… You deserve that money and not spending it on me. I’m not worth it.”

Phil whispered over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bright lights shone through the morning haze accompanied by a loud, muffled whistle. The train came barreling down the oiled tracks; halting right in front of us. Smoke poured over the sides like a waterfall over slate. Mariah squeezed Phil’s hand until it turned that same kind of white. Kissing him on the cheek she ran her hands through his dark brown hair.

“Bye,” she spoke with a raspy throat, trying not to cry, “Stay in touch, won’t you.” No words could flow out of his mouth; he nodded. Mariah stepped up the stairs into the cabin as her light blonde hair turned a darker shade inside. She would not look at him for she felt not worthy. The conductor’s assistant hollered, “Let’s head off!” Phil chased down the train as it took off in a heavy jolt. He tried to look at the train through flooded eyes; not being able to focus the blurred image of the distant train. That was the last Phil saw of Mariah; shouting, “But I forgave you for the affair!” up to the expansive grey sky.



A Honey’s Journey

I am sweet; I am soft. I’m the one who melts your heart. I was conceived by the pollen of a daisy and the nectar of a larkspur. With the help of the bee, I was carried off in a bundle of leg fuzz. When I reached the hive my long journey began. Combined with bee spit I was finally able to walk. I could flow wherever I wanted. Just as I wandered too far from home and dripped onto the edge of the hive I could see the light of the world shining against my beautiful sugar. Blocked by a shadow all goes dark as I’m forced into a cramped, solitary container. After a few hours I hear the cracking of the ceiling and a bright stream is shone, piercing the sky. A cold, bitter piece of metal pokes and stokes me. Eventually I’m hoisted up and hastily lowered 6 inches to a hard, grainy, but pleasant surface. From that day on I have never looked back. What I was meant to do in life had finally come clear; make bread sweet; make hearts beat.

I gradually run from crust to crust; enjoying the bread I meet from day to day. There’s the odd time I get to meet a bagel but he would’ve rather spent time with cream cheese. When I make my way down the sides of the plate to the big counter I feel like I’ve been dunked in a cup of tea. Slowly disappearing and becoming invisible in a sea of flavours. At the end of it all I am washed away to make the trickling waters sweet. The rest of my soul is cleansed by the warmth of the lips and mouth where I rest, but make others enjoy the sweetness I have left. It becomes night as I make my way back home on the hot, humid systems. At home I am greeted with some more refreshing water, and my emotions flow with the wave of a brisk bath. As my senses are filtered back all into love, I am sucked into bed by the pull of its tissues. Dreams fly round and round; up and down. Soon enough I am awoken by the luminosity of the sun and the vivid, deep navy petals of the Larkspur. I am sweet; I am small. I’m the one who brightens your day.



Othello Review


“Othello” by The Shakespeare Company blew me out of the water. After so many plays and movies of Romeo & Juliet that were sub-par as well as confusing, this performance was above and beyond the best play I have ever seen. Barely five minutes into the play the Shakespearean language sounded like Old English, but understandable and relatable. In addition the hand gestures and body language flowed so smoothly with the dialogue. Even without studying and analyzing through a book, the play completely made sense the whole way through. It was extremely easy to follow and understand.

Transition changes between scenes were flawless and seemed so effortless. One of my favourite  scenes was when Iago described the fight of drunken Cassio and all the actors replayed the previous fight scene in slow motion. Absolutely amazing. It was entirely the on point; stunning. Another great part was the scene change from the soldier’s beds to the lover’s bed. The speed at which the change happened and how Iago and Desdemona jumped completely in sync was breathtaking. I was completely taken aback. I also think the actors who were set for their roles enacted their characters superbly. It was utterly genuine and real; you felt truly a part of the play. I also appreciated that the actors engaged the whole audience and not just one section. It definitely makes you feel like your watching over the play and all they can see is an imagined scene of the era.

Additionally the costumes completed the feel and emotion of the show. They perfectly suited the time period and style of Italy. It was easy to identify and know what a person’s role was simply based off their attire. I also liked the stylistic choice that was made by Desdemona wearing the riding outfit and an extravagant white dress. The riding outfit made her seem more brave and truly her own person. While she was more pronounced as a main character because of the elegant dresses. Especially when compared to Emilia’s maid-like dress. I also like the background and I think it suited the Shakespearean tragedy with chain link fencing and military sandbag walls. The entire play was executed perfectly and has left its mark on me emotionally. I am so happy and grateful we were able to experience “Othello” with the school and I will forever remember this amazing day!



A River Day Portrayal

An infinite ashen sky commences to rain resulting in the paper becoming sodden, limp mulch. Ebony ink fades as the tip of the pen slips over it; in the process, dragging shreds of fibers into a clump causing bleeding into the next page of the notebook. Distant rippling distracts the clutched hand away from the journal as the river flows over the beaten rocks.

Construction’s incessant jack-hammering blocks all thoughts and brings a veil to the mind. A wish for a still land seeps out from the brain; pounding and beating ensuing. How satisfying it would be to go outside leaving the constant reminder of a chaotic society looming overhead? Retreating to the visions of the water crashing up against the bridge’s pillars, creating white caps in contrast to the transparent yet teal tinted streams, is the best the imagination can do.

The sand that lines the river’s edge resists forming the typical powder when wind blows through it, for humidity lingers in the air. Upon the opposing shoreline three Mallard ducks float in an effortless straight line; in sync with one another as well as the current of the river. When the gravity of the water becomes too great a synchronized dive initiates. Soon after all ascend, coming up for breath. A quest for shelter and somewhere to rest begins. Swimming on out of view, they remain in a constant state of searching for just the right spot.

Back atop the hill where shore blends into blooming undergrowth, the tags of a dog’s collar jingle and chime as it struts along the bridge beside its elderly owner. Just as they retreat to the forest a helicopter rapidly spins its blades as it flies overhead. Accompanied by the distant, repetitive ringing of a police car and ambulance. Uncertainty of life emerges. Would someone be saved and get to experience the beauty of this river once more, or pass away with only a bare memory of it?