The exercise:
Write about: wings.
Had a mostly quiet morning to myself to rest and recover from the last four days. Spent the afternoon with the boys so that Kat could do the same.
It's been much cooler the last few days, which has been an appreciated change. As the days grow shorter heading toward fall the length of the hottest portion of the day grow shorter as well.
Generally it's just a whole lot nicer than those days of 40 plus degrees, and I am clearly looking forward to fall already.
Mine:
My muscles ache, unused to the demands that I must now make of them. I know they will grow stronger, adjust to the new movements and additional weight, but it will take time.
Patience as well, but I have precious little of that resource to begin with.
It is an honor; I must keep reminding myself of that. I have earned these wings. Through the sweat of hard work and whatever blood shed was required. Those born with wings on their backs have not paid the same price.
But they were born this way, and as such have had a lifetime to grow accustomed to them. To push their limits. Discover their secrets.
I am well behind them now, but I will make up ground quickly. Through hard work, of course. And blood shed?
Yes, almost certainly.
2 comments:
It's planning to rain in Kiev today and it's cooler because of that, and also slightly nicer -- though we've not been as hot as you have. It sounds like a good way to start your weekend: some time to recuperate, then some time with the boys :)
I think I've mentioned this before, but there's a gentle theme of corrupted innocence and people resorting to violence in your writing these days: there's always a reason given for it, but there's a definite study of what it takes to push someone to the next step. Today's piece is no exception, and there are lots of interesting details there that beg for more back-story: who is born with these wings, who isn't, and why are there these differences?
Wings
The beach was stony; seaweed lay around in grey and brown patches slowly drying out, but it did nothing to soften the landscape. Instead it looked as though the beach was cracking apart and something alien was reaching through with lobed and tentacled appendages. The sky above was grey and cloudy, small white clouds scudded across a background of heavier grey ones, and the wind that pushed them raised small white waves across the water. They broke on the shore with an insistent slapping sound that provided a background to the honking of wild geese.
A fisherman's boat bobbed at anchor twenty metres from the shore. The land's edge was stepped here, a shallow decline from the beach that suddenly dropped down five metres, and then dropped down again further out still. This was as far out as he could safely anchor the boat. It was far enough: the nets he cast still caught fish, though it took hours, and the crab- and lobster-pots fell deep enough to haul up a catch every two days.
The honking of the wild geese made him raise his head: they sounded angry like one day seven years ago. He looked up into the sky but couldn't see them: they would blend in against the promise of storms too well anyway. He returned to his catch, but then something caught his attention at the corner of his eye.
A woman was standing on the beach. She was wearing a red hooded cloak and staring out towards him. She was holding something limp and long in her hand, perhaps a blanket or sheet of some kind. Perhaps... something else.
He shook his head and bend over the catch again, picking up shiny fish and gutting them with a sharp, curved knife he kept for this. Slimy innards slipped free from his cuts and he scooped them up and tossed them overboard. Something would eat them, and no doubt he would catch and eat that at some point too.
The boat rocked two minutes later and he looked up again to find the woman stepping into his boat. Words died unspoken in his throat at the impossibility of what had just happened.
"My name is Miss Hood," said the woman. She pulled her hood back to reveal a mass of blonde hair that demanded sunlight to do it justice. Her face though was pale, narrow, and her eyes were darkened as though she had missed too many nights' sleep. "I think you know the Goose Girl."
"Dead," grunted the fisherman, and the honking of the wild geese seemed louder in his ears all of a sudden.
Miss Hood held up the thing in her hand and he recognised it: the enchanted cloak that the geese wore when they wanted to pass as humans.
"There's another one loose," she said. "And you're the only man, it's said, who's survived an encounter with them."
His laugh was so short it could have been a bark.
"I married her," he said, and he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "I married her and lived with her for three years before it happened. You couldn't find a bigger fool if you tried!"
"A better expert," said Miss Hood with kindness, but he could see the light in her eyes.
"The only one," he said heavily. "Fool or not."
Greg - thanks! I think I shall have to revisit this and bring out more of what I was thinking about while writing it.
God damn, what an opening description. That's fantastic work, sir. And the initial appearance and subsequent arrival of Miss Hood is perfectly handled. Look forward to this continuing, as I'm sure you couldn't just leave it here.
Well, mostly sure.
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