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Dec. 9th, 2005 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
commotiocordisRandom writing excercises I did really late on Wednesday/really early on Thursday. Both 300 words, excluding the title. No fandom or anything, could be considered original fiction, but it's more autobiographical.
Snow.
It’s supposed to snow in the morning. She loves snow. It has its own smell. That crisp,
pure scent of something so exquisitely natural. Yet frozen. By nature. By life. The hardness of
it, the sharp edges of the crystals, the sting of each one as it touches her face, the striking
difference of the snowflakes that seems to shock the monotony of the air. It all excites her.
She steps outside and the fragrance of winter is already in the air. Looking up at the sky,
she spins around as her eyes dance along the darkness of the horizon. The clouds are already
there. The looming promise of that which she desires. But promises are broken. It might snow,
and it might not. She’s learned not to count on anything, anyone but herself. And sometimes she
doesn’t trust herself either.
As she looks at the clouds once again, her pessimistic side kicks in. The snow will fall too
late; she’ll be gone before it begins and it will have melted before she returns. The ground is too
warm for it to stick. It’s moving too fast, it’ll fall to the east.
She’s been hurt before. The clouds betrayed her, keeping her trapped with a promise they
never intended to deliver. But the snow hasn’t.
Sitting on the ground, she watches the sky. Her watch sends a short tone into the silence
of the night, signaling the invisible transformation into what she would call the morning, though
no one is awake.
If she squints, she thinks she can make out a single snowflake falling in the distance. And
she smiles. Because in each snowflake, a flash of colder in a cold environment, a glimpse of white
in a land of clear, she sees herself.
Dark.
The dark has never frightened her. As a child, she was too rational to believe that
anything could exist in the dark that didn’t in the light. She didn’t fear anything in the daytime, so
why should she in the night? She supposes she was abnormal in that matter. All her friends were
afraid of storms, afraid of spiders, afraid of being alone. She was apathetic to it all. The day, the
night, there was no difference to her.
But now the dark is enticing. It’s the lover she never had. The only friend that never
betrayed her. The mystery of what is to come and what could have come to pass. What will
happen tomorrow and how today has influenced the rest of her life.
It’s the mystique. The intrigue. The secrets wrapped in a shroud of darkness.
And it’s the reality. The only time that when she closes her eyes and when she opens
them, she sees the same things. When her view of the world is completely synonymous with that
of everyone else. She doesn’t care about such things as conformity, of course, but it’s the simple
recognition that people everywhere are seeing exactly what she is. They’re united by the simple
phenomena of darkness.
People have always associated nighttime, darkness, blackness with death. The fear of
darkness leads to a fear of death, which leads to a fear of darkness . . . But she never has. Or
perhaps she does associate the two, for she has never been afraid of dying either.
She pulls the blackness around her and settles in. She loves the dark. If only for the
simple fact that the stark difference between what goes on in her mind and what goes on in reality
is muted. For a while.
Snow.
It’s supposed to snow in the morning. She loves snow. It has its own smell. That crisp,
pure scent of something so exquisitely natural. Yet frozen. By nature. By life. The hardness of
it, the sharp edges of the crystals, the sting of each one as it touches her face, the striking
difference of the snowflakes that seems to shock the monotony of the air. It all excites her.
She steps outside and the fragrance of winter is already in the air. Looking up at the sky,
she spins around as her eyes dance along the darkness of the horizon. The clouds are already
there. The looming promise of that which she desires. But promises are broken. It might snow,
and it might not. She’s learned not to count on anything, anyone but herself. And sometimes she
doesn’t trust herself either.
As she looks at the clouds once again, her pessimistic side kicks in. The snow will fall too
late; she’ll be gone before it begins and it will have melted before she returns. The ground is too
warm for it to stick. It’s moving too fast, it’ll fall to the east.
She’s been hurt before. The clouds betrayed her, keeping her trapped with a promise they
never intended to deliver. But the snow hasn’t.
Sitting on the ground, she watches the sky. Her watch sends a short tone into the silence
of the night, signaling the invisible transformation into what she would call the morning, though
no one is awake.
If she squints, she thinks she can make out a single snowflake falling in the distance. And
she smiles. Because in each snowflake, a flash of colder in a cold environment, a glimpse of white
in a land of clear, she sees herself.
Dark.
The dark has never frightened her. As a child, she was too rational to believe that
anything could exist in the dark that didn’t in the light. She didn’t fear anything in the daytime, so
why should she in the night? She supposes she was abnormal in that matter. All her friends were
afraid of storms, afraid of spiders, afraid of being alone. She was apathetic to it all. The day, the
night, there was no difference to her.
But now the dark is enticing. It’s the lover she never had. The only friend that never
betrayed her. The mystery of what is to come and what could have come to pass. What will
happen tomorrow and how today has influenced the rest of her life.
It’s the mystique. The intrigue. The secrets wrapped in a shroud of darkness.
And it’s the reality. The only time that when she closes her eyes and when she opens
them, she sees the same things. When her view of the world is completely synonymous with that
of everyone else. She doesn’t care about such things as conformity, of course, but it’s the simple
recognition that people everywhere are seeing exactly what she is. They’re united by the simple
phenomena of darkness.
People have always associated nighttime, darkness, blackness with death. The fear of
darkness leads to a fear of death, which leads to a fear of darkness . . . But she never has. Or
perhaps she does associate the two, for she has never been afraid of dying either.
She pulls the blackness around her and settles in. She loves the dark. If only for the
simple fact that the stark difference between what goes on in her mind and what goes on in reality
is muted. For a while.
