Overnight I’ve been challenged to write in a particular manner. I’m not above taking requests—or demands—for certain types of writing. I had not expected my armchair quaterbacking to take on such an obscure angle. However, I not ready to go there just yet. Later this week you’ll discover me rocking the subjunctive.
Wikipedia’s entry on that mood is rather helpful despite being linguistically dry.
Today I’m going to throw out some warm exercises since my time is short. Instead of the water sketches I’ve done in the past I’ll move on to another elemental: air.
Fall arrived among the Ponderosas of Northern New Mexico yesterday afternoon. The leaves haven’t changed because conifers don’t and aspens go late. The calendars haven’t called the earth to it’s autumnal equinox. The thermometers haven’t trended down or widened the gap between their day and night markings. The low to the ground, blustery, and often still Summer winds have risen—altitude and pitch—to the treetops and a near hissing rush. I can’t touch them nor them me, but we hear each other and heed.
A demi-god of open fields snatched the diamond of paper and sticks from Thomas’ frail grip. The boy’s heart surged into the heavens with the kite like a dragon on a string. His heart hiccoughed to a halt then sagged limply. The slain kite bled joy into the grass and twitched like a broken thing.
“Hold still. Don’t close your eys all the way but let them relax.” Mela told her then leaned close. She could sense his substance, feel his bodies heat, like her eyes were open and she was seeing him. Never had her other senses been as robust as they were with him near. His scent was raw and moist and lush like freshly turned soil resting in the shade. His was not a sophisticated smell. It was decidedly base.
She gripped his warm hands tighter with her cold, but wanted to melt. She wanted not to be who she knew she was. He smoothed the cool skin of her palms with his thumbs without looking and breathed a puff of air into her eye to catch up the strayed lash.
His warmth spread from the friction of his thumbs to the blush of his breath on her face.
Think I’ll wrap there instead of going to the other two. Air/wind is tough.