Sound and Fury

There are more senses to be described than just the one...

As writers, we tend to rely heavily on sight to describe our narrative. But we have four other senses which often go woefully underused. This was a writing exercise we did to try to practise using all five senses in description.
Using all five senses, describe the first time you fell in love...

Note: I wrote not about the first time I fell in love, but one instant where I realized just how deeply in love I was.



I looked down at him, and I felt explosions in my chest. There's something inside, something bubbly and sunny, just overflowing in me.I have to laugh, have to let it all out.
There are tears in the corners of my eyes, and my vision is blurring; the impossible happiness is leaking out He looks up at me, and his eyes, his startling, baby blue eyes, they came alive. So many shades of blue! He smiles at me, and I can see each tiny little tooth, and all the gaps between them. His teeth are so white, his lips and tongue stained pink fro the watermelon. His smile is so big, it seems it can't fit on his face. It sets off more explosions of happiness in me.
He offers me the piece of watermelon in his small, chubby hand, still smiling that perfect, toothy smile. I grin back, lean forward, and take a bite. It is the sweetest watermelon I have ever tasted... wet, delicious watermelon, dancing on my tongue.
He takes another small, child-sized bite, and offers it to me again. We share he whole piece together, one bite after another. The music is playing in the background, I know it, but I don't hear it. I only hear him -- his faint breath, his little giggles, the small way he hummed "mmm mmm!" when he took a bite.
Finally, we finish the chunk of watermelon. He looks at me again, and I am amazed he is still smiling. He never stops smiling! I grin back at him, and he turns to study his plate, as though looking for something else to share. My fingers are wet and sticky, but I touch his little hand. His skin is so soft, his hand so tiny.
I lean closer, breathing in the sweet, gentle smell of baby -- shampoo, baby skin, and the sweet, soft scent of youth.
"Honey," I whispered, "can I have a smooch?"
He turned his face towards me, upwards, lips pursed. I kissed him gently, the sweet, lingering taste of watermelon, just a hint, stuck to his lips.
He smiled at me. I smiled back, still exploding with joy.
"I love you, Noah."
"Looo!"


Marina Reid

Good writing comes from asking questions about our world.

This exercise, done in class, had us generate ten different questions (following the model of "I want to know why...?") and choose one to free write about. Note that the ideal question does not deal with any large issues (I want to know why we're here), but rather is more specific (I want to know why the cashier at the grocery store never looks me in the eye).
So with no further ado...



I Want to Know Why...

I want to know why that Dancing Dan guy started dancing. I mean, who wakes up one morning and thinks, "hey, I think I'll find some street corner and dance for the stopped traffic"? It doesn't make sense.

He must have had some reason to chose dancing. I mean, why not mime at the side of the road, or perform Hamlet's soliloquies for the passing cars? But no, he picked dancing. Maybe he took dance for 8 years when he was younger. Maybe his mom was some famous burlesque dancer who was always teaching her kid to groove. Maybe he went to one of those hippy schools that made him express his inner feelings through interpretive dance. Or, well, maybe he just likes to dance.

But what made him decide to dance at the street corner? Could it be that he wanted people to make the obvious jokes? Maybe he feels strongly about road rage and wants to do his part to fight it by providing road-side entertainment. Or perhaps he suffered from serious abandonment issues as a child, and as a result found in adult self a pathological need for attention and validation from total strangers. Of course, maybe he just likes to dance.

My cousin thinks he's an idiot, that his sudden jumps and spins are dangerously distracting, and she's glad he got that stunting ticket. My mom thinks he's fantastic, and loves driving by him. She says nothing cheers her up more, and was so happy when that radio station paid his ticket for him.

Me? I'm not sure what I think of him. No, that's not true. I think he was at the corner, one day, listening to his music as he waited to cross, and he just started dancing. I think he had so much fun, he didn't cross the street, but stayed there dancing all day, and came back again the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that.


Marina Reid

More Tales from Creative Writing...

What follows is another assignment from Creative Writing class... a free writing exercise in which you simply write non-stop, no thinking or editing, for a short length of time.
Observe...


I couldn't breath -- it hurt too much. Have you ever been in so much pain you can't even breath anymore? It's not fun. You lie there, staring up, wondering if it's ever going to go away, that huge pain on your chest, that giant sadness stalking you. You lie there, staring up, in so much pain you can't think, can't react, can't even breath. But you can feel. Oh god, you sure can feel.

You feel the unending weight of just going on. You feel the sadness wrapping around you, almost tenderly, moving itself around you so you cannot escape it's grip. And you hurt. Oh, you hurt so much -- you feel that pain, that awful, endless pain, so much you can't even keep breathing, can't even keep going...

And then, just when your head starts to get fuzzy and the little spots start showing up over your eyes -- then, when you think the pain and the sadness and the continual, awful breathing is finally done... then your body pulls a fast one on you and takes the goddamn breath whether you want it to or not and it starts all over again...



Marina Reid