It was our monthly Writer's Circle meeting last night and we had a 'write beforehand' exercise that we then shared and critiqued. The theme was waking from a dream, and everything has changed. We had an extremely disturbing sci fi story, a ghost tale, a wonderful story about 'shoulder people' (from a truly stunning writer) to name but a few. As ever we had a fun night with much laughter and some excellent writing. Here's my contribution:
My mind tossed in dreams like clouds in a whirlwind. The day
before was hurting, tomorrow was a chill wind, brown was a circle and the sound
of traffic became a warm touch. My skin
went cold and the prickles rose and grew - I saw a forest sprout from them and
flood into a valley that sang. Although
asleep I knew that my world was changing.
The sound of birdsong, struggling to invade the cocoon of consciousness
that kept me in that strange world, translated as the worn surface of an
ancient oak chest.
Finally awake, I opened my eyes. Last night I had slept
poorly – a broken heart makes a difficult bedfellow. Strands of dream tugged at my memory briefly
as I slapped my phone in an effort to silence the brittle alarm.
I lay in my bed for a moment, feeling the cool sheets on my
bare skin. It felt… like chocolate. As
the night fog cleared from my brain I swung my legs over the edge of the bed to
place them on the cold parquet floor. The wood seemed to suck warmth from my
soles and sent a jolt like lightning up my legs. It felt as if every hair on
them had been commanded to stand to attention, and a snatch of the vision of a
forest growing before me briefly distracted my arousal into consciousness.
I stood and headed for the bathroom, my head spinning
slightly. The bathroom window,
unshielded by curtain or blind, spilled white light into the room that felt
like diamonds scraped across slate. Squinting, I looked at myself in the
mirror. I was still me, hollow eyed and wan with sorrow, yet something had
changed. There was a brightness in my
eyes that looked back at me with a challenge. There was a new dimension to what
I saw, what I heard, what I felt.
Bravely I squirted paste onto my toothbrush and had the
strange sensation of a white hare running on heather. I looked at the brush, at
my face in the mirror, and started to brush my teeth. Everything was normal and yet it was
completely different – as if as an adult this was the first time I had done any
of these things … waking, walking, touching, seeing. The brush in my mouth was Tuesday’s meeting,
my spit in the bowl was block and tackle, rope twisted and shining.
With the whole world evolving weirdly around me, I continued
to get dressed and experienced everything on a different level. My mind was desperately trying to assimilate
new sensations attached to old experiences. I wasn’t sure how I’d get through
the day. Surely this disorientation would pass?
Dressed, ready for work, I went downstairs and prepared
breakfast – where a landscape painting, soft silk and ball bearings all
contributed to the experience of eating cereal. Everything looked normal, and
tasted normal, yet everything had a new dimension too.
I left the house, thoughts of the unceremonious dumping by
my boyfriend, and the tumult of three days before – had Tuesday only been three
days ago? – disappearing as I tackled the walk to the tube and negotiated my
short commute with a world of new senses invading every single experience. Could I continue like this?
I exited at Tower Bridge, and joined the throng towards our
office. Glass, like a lambs bleat. Concrete, smoke over water. The roar of traffic, flames on an open log
fire. My phone buzzed – and the strong sense of purple was almost shocking. I
looked at the message – from Aunt Emilia. Aunt Emilia, who could not say
certain words because they felt like bricks in her throat. Aunt Emilia who was
sensitive and fey, and yet the most creative, loving and extraordinary person I
knew. Aunt Emilia, who – suddenly – I realised I understood. I thought this was
a gift, or a curse, from birth. But it seemed for me, that a broken heart (and
the smell of old wet paper pervaded) had triggered the condition.
I swung through the doors into the office and thought about
James, his corduroy callousness, and a river of leather swept past. I thought of how I would like to feel –
happy, free, loved, and the painted wooden door of an old stone cottage swung
shut in the breeze. I started to choose
how I felt and different images, sensations, tastes and smells pervaded my
every step as I climbed the single flight of stairs and into our open plan
office. “Good morning!” I looked around
and saw colour, tasted new and familiar things, the air was tangy with orange
and pebbles. A new day had truly begun.
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Image (C) Royston Writer's Circle
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