PRACTICE
Write about the darkness of morning.
Write for fifteen minutes. Post your practice in the comments when finished.
And if you post, make sure to comment on a few other Practitioners' posts.
Good luck!
Photo by Per Ola Wiberg
Here's my practice:
His eyes snapped open before dawn from a long restlessness. He had fought for too many hours to stay dreaming, and he knew there was nothing left to do but get up. He got up, turned off his alarm to spare his sleeping wife the sound, and stumbled into the living room, where he stood in front of the window for several minutes, scratching his bare belly.
It was dark. He couldn't remember the last morning he woke to darkness. Behind the bare trees he could see an aircraft warning tower flashing its livid red lights. He thought it an odd thing. Why have a light tower in the middle of the country? Are planes in danger of hitting the oaks? He had never noticed it before.
He went outside. The cold wasn't the biting but the slow seeping kind. He wished he had brought his slippers, but he didn't want to go back to his room to get them. He felt he was doing something important, surveying the land, taking in something he saw only a few times per year: the darkness before dawn.
It was different than nighttime. Night's darkness is a winding down, meant to tell you your world is getting smaller, more stiff with cold, meant to lead you to your bedroom and to sleep. But this darkness that seeped into his bones, that glared livid like the red flashing light tower, seemed full of potential, as if he could reach out and grab it from the sky and form it into a small ball of darkness, make something magical out of it, a jewel maybe or maybe it was like a lump of clay to turn into a small bowl. What he meant was that this darkness felt more like light.
Beyond the darkness were the trees and they were shrouded in it, wore darkness like great cloaks, and before the trees was a field full of dark colored grass. He could not see the grass, though. He just knew it was there like he knew the trees were there and like he knew his wife lay sleeping inside and knew nerves lay underneath his skin and cold was seeping through them and into his bones. Like he knew he must go inside soon.
But there, beyond the trees, stood that red glaring light tower he did not know. It flashed on and off. He looked into it and he did not know why it was there or why the darkness seemed to gather around it as moths gather around light even though they're beaten back again and again by the heat. Yes, the dark was darkest around that red light and he couldn't go inside but just stared into the darkness, trying to memorize its shape.
He stood until the sky let out enough light that the tower he hadn't known was there was gone again and he went in.
Don't forget to enter into our writing contest for February. The theme is love stories, but I'm sure you can figure out a way to keep it as cheese-less and Valentines-Day-free as possible.
The alarm blared. I groggily stagger to the dresser to push the button. Just a few more minutes. The same tired shuffle until I collapse onto the bed.
It’s never enough, for the alarm blares again. This time I have to open my eyes to find the shut off button.
Monday morning bleariness: what a way to start the week.
I shuffle to the kitchen, the cold tile on my feet begins to wake me as I prepare the elixer of life. A quick prayer of thanks is offered for the creation of coffee. Stretching I return down the hall. Stopping at each door to wake the rest of the crew my efforts are met with grunts and other noises.
I let the robe fall in a puddle in the floor as I step into the shower. Jets of hot water massage my skin and scalp as I begin to wake. Slowly, I begin to come alive again. I can’t remember the last time I woke on my own in the morning, when it actually was morning.
It’s still dark and will be for another hour. In my mind, the morning darkness should be for sleeping and burrowing deeper under the covers. It wouldn’t be such an issue if I were actually a morning person. My muse visits me late into the night, causing furious episodes of working while the inspiration is there. Last night was one of those nights.
A smile gently plays at the corner of my mouth, the days are getting longer now and the sun is rising earlier. Simple things are worth smiling about.
Ten minutes later, I’m fully awake. The hustle and bustle of the morning routine is like a frenzied dance that is well choreographed. It works until somebody misses a step. It’s my job to keep them on task, focused, and moving.
By the time everyone is taken care of; the kids on the bus, the husband’s lunch packed and on his way, it’s now time for my day to begin in earnest.
A refill of coffee is the all important ingredient as I settle in at my desk, and fire up the beast. The first rays of sunlight stream through the glass of the front door, streaming audio playing, it’s going to be a grand day!
I roll my shoulders and begin. After the obligatory staring at the screen period, I eventually find my groove as I pour myself into the current project.
I always think I’ll get a nap later, but it never happens. It will be full dark before I even think about sleep, then the cycle will begin again.
This is a good description of morning and especially of coffee, the only morning companion you mention in detail. The coffee almost has a personality.
I like this a lot, Ellie, don’t stop contributing. I smiled several times while reading, sometimes at content, other times at how your phrased it. I loved this blunt line with no explanation of what you were working on (I don’t think it needed one) “Last night was one of those nights.” Loved “fire up the beast” and how you “roll your shoulders to begin.” I actually found myself rolling my shoulders to get into the same groove you describe, except it’s the end of my day and I’m rolling them to get ready the other “beast” — family time. Nice work.
I loved this, Ellie. Loved the description, the dailyness of it all and the commitment to your own good work and how that carries your through from dark to dark. Well done.
Why is it that when I set my fingerts to keys; I always think “Theirs is so much better than mine?” Does anyone else do that to themselves? Not a very descriptive attempt but more of a get the bones down contribution. I loved yours, and wanted to just like a skip posting. BUT,it’s part of my plan this year to challenge myself, so I posted.
Good for you, Ellie. Comparison is a trick of the Resistance. It will kill your creativity (and maybe even your soul). Way to overcome it.
My cell rang one, two, three times. Damn alarm… I turn it off and stumble to the bathroom. I turn on the hot water and get in. My eyes are still closed. I shower in darkness. Only when I get out and turn to the sink to brush my teeth that I open them. I brush my teeth, floss and comb my hair.
I enter my room and turn on the lights. It’s like a cave in here, the way I like it. I put on my clothes and my make up. I do my hair up, after all it’s Thursday already, I might have a drink or two after work. Yes, that’d be nice. Maybe I’ll try that new pub on Carlson Street. I wonder if Nick will join me.
Still thinking about Nick I walk to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. Maybe I’ll have toast this morning. I eat my breakfast in silence. Thinking about nothing. God, I’m so sleepy today.
As I walk back to the living room I notice. Why it’s still dark? I turn around and walk back to the kitchen. For the first time I look at the clock in the wall.
Damn it. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning.
I’m so tired that I can’t even get mad. I just walk to my room, strip from my clothes and reset the alarm clock. Good night.
Ha! I’ve done that but I never got completely ready before I figured out what was going on. It’s awful when that happens but it’s funny too. Thanks
Nicely done. It really conveys the whole sense of being on automatic pilot very well.
Oooh, nice twist! thank you.
This is beautiful Joe. As an insomniac, I often see the early hours of morning before dawn. It’s almost shiny sometimes, luminous, magical as you said. I like the lines about the trees wearing cloaks and “The cold wasn’t the biting, but the slow creeping kind.” not just because I like that description of cold but because of the way the sentence is constructed. It sounds good. Also your description of the difference between the quality of the night’s darkness in the morning, as opposed to in the evening it interesting, lyrical and memorable. What more could you want from writing?
Yes, luminous and pregnant with the potential of the day. You’re great. Thanks for the critique!
Mrs. Dalloway would approve of the potential of the day I think. ; )
Hi,
This is my second post here (but I think I everyone missed my first post, on last Monday’s thread, because I was two days late posting).
I wake up suddenly. 7:25. Five minutes before the alarm, as usual. I don’t know why I even set it. I turn it off, walk quietly to the kitchen, turn on the coffee maker. Head to the washroom, relieve myself and splash cold water on my face. Back to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee. My routine so ingrained I do it in the dark.
The house is so peaceful with the boys still asleep. I stare out the kitchen window at the darkness, broken only by the streetlights. Still an hour till sunrise. I hate these short winter days. I rarely see the sunlight, the sun rising and setting while I’m stuck in my office.
Still, the darkness has its own beauty. Hoarfrost covers the trees and bushes from an overnight ice fog, tiny crystal daggers glinting, giving the trees near the streetlights a ghostly glow. But I can already feel the chill in my bones, knowing that I have to go out into the cold, scrape the ice from the car windows, sit in the ice-cold seat, driving for several minutes before the car finally warms up. Winter is beautiful when you can stay inside. Not so much when you have to go out.
I sit in front of my SAD light, waiting for the bright light to fool my brain that it’s summer, giving me the energy to go about my day. Without it I would probably just crawl back into bed. I dream of the real summer sun, rising before I do, the bright light already shining through the bedroom window when I awake. My time is up. I go to wake the rest of the family.
I too enjoy the solutude of being the first to wake in the morning. You captured that feeling very well.
I can see the trees with that kind of glinting halo they get near the streetlights now. I like how you move though the story with action, but have enough description that I can “see” what going on.
Hey R.E., Welcome back! i just checked out your first post…so you can go back there and know it wasn’t lost in the sea of comments 🙂
This piece is very cool. I love how you use everyday, common language to describe your routine (no fancy adjectives here), and then LET LOOSE when you shift to describing the darkness! Tiny crystal daggers glinting. Fantastic. I can see them without even having to squint.
I wonder if you could stretch this part out a smidge…i’d love to luxuriate in the visuals of the darkness for just a few moments more before having to sit in the ice-cold seat. 🙂
Well, again — so glad you’ve joined us! Will look for you in upcoming posts!!
What a “quiet” piece you’ve written, exactly typifying the experience the charact is having. There seems to be an incongruity, however. You say that winter is beautiful inside, but then describe the use of the SAD light. I understand what you mean, but you might want to make it clearer. Nice work. My wife and I REALLY enjoy the short time we have in the morning before the boys wake up and become the center of our existence.
Morning comes with the blinds pulled and the day, the outside world, not quite real yet. The remnants of a dream dissolve in the buzz buzz buzz of the alarm. There are so many things to do. So many obligations to meet. But you lie still in the dark dawn listening to the cat purr and watching a thin line of creeping sunlight move slowly across the room.
“Move,” you say. A command. A wish. The floor is cold; the winter chill coming up through the foundation and stealing the strength from your bones. The cat stretches and curls up without a care next to the pillows in the warmth your body has left there. You walk stiffly to the window; turn the blinds to see only the weak, just rising sun barely glint through the heavy clouds.
Dark days. January through March covered in frost or rain or the endless grey that presses on your heart like a nearly forgotten sorrow. No course to take except continue to get ready for the day because the minutes start ticking to the hours that won’t be your own. So much to do and it is all the same every day.
Your story really set a mood. I can remember those cold morning when the only thing that made you move was the fear of eviction.
Nicely done, I like the way you use description.
I like this and especially like that it is short, as if you had to quickly leave the exercise “because the minutes start ticking to the hours that won’t be your own.”
I like this image: “…the endless grey that presses on your heart like a nearly forgotten sorrow.”
thanks for sharing your work.
Not just your description but the whole tone of this is gray and weary, a workday morning, very sad. I like this “Presses on your heart like a nearly forgotten sorrow”.
Exactly. A mood piece – beautifully captured feeling of dark, both in the environment and in your own spirit. Winter can be like that…
The bed creaked as I lifted myself from the warm cocoon of blankets. I hadn’t taken off my jeans when I went to bed last night, so I stepped into my shoes and stood listening to my wife’s rhythmic breathing. I tiptoed out of the bedroom and gently closed the door behind me. In the kitchen I poured a cup of coffee into my travel mug and walked to the front door, then stepped out into the early morning darkness.
I settled in behind the steering wheel and turned the key, the engine sounded loud as it groaned to life in the suburban quiet. Gravel crunched under the wheels as I eased down the driveway and pulled out onto the paved road. I turned to car toward the lake high up in the mountains. The Tennessee Valley Authority had created the lake when it built the dams used to generate cheap electricity. It was one of the most beautiful lakes I had ever seen.
I pulled in along the side of the road and turned off the engine. I sat there listening to my breathing, the engine ticked as it cooled. I put the cup in the holder and opened the door and stepped out into cool air. I walked to the edge of the lake and sat on a fallen tree and looked out onto the placid water. Looking east I saw a sliver of light on the horizon. A invisible jet engine growled in an inky sky pricked with lights of diamond. My thoughts returned to last night and what happened just as my shift was ending at midnight.
The call came in over the radio, her voice filled with static. An armed robbery had just occurred and the suspect fled in a red Mustang. The dispatcher was still speaking as a red Mustang drove past me at high speed. Before I had a chance to reply to dispatch I pulled out and accelerating after the car. That time of night left very little traffic on the road so I was able to catch up to the suspect car quickly.
The car suddenly pulled to the side of the road and the driver jumped out and ran. I stopped and chased the dark figure as it ran. As I rounded a corner I saw him and froze. He was only ten feet away and he had a gun aimed at me. I dropped to my knees as I withdrew my weapon and fired, three times, and then watched him fall back and go down. It was a clean incident, one for which I was sure I’d be cleared of making a wrong decision, even when it was learned that the suspects gun wasn’t real.
The lake surface became a mirror as the sun broke above the horizon and turned the sky pink and grey. In the dim light, it was difficult to know where the mountain began and where the reflection ended. I sat back and turned my eyes to the lightening sky and thought about the man I had killed. Kill or be killed? Many people think it’s that simple, but I learned that it isn’t simple at all. He was dead and I was left to think about it.
What a story! You packed a lot into a very little bit of space and it makes sense. I like it. I wish the other guy hadn’t had a toy gun though. Bummer! to put it mildly.
It’s never a good idea to point a gun at a police officer, real or not. But it happens quite often. There is something called, “Suicide by cop,” where a person who lacks the courage to kill themselves will put themselves in a situation where a police officer will have to shoot.
Either way, it can have the same effect on a policeman.
Angelo, love this story. I especially like this graf: “Looking east I saw a sliver of light on the horizon. An invisible jet engine growled in an inky sky pricked with lights of diamond. My thoughts returned to last night and what happened just as my shift was ending at midnight.”
I like the thin psychological line you’ve created between doing what’s necessary and doing what can be psychologically traumatic. Very nicely crafted.
The psychological trauma is often missed when a police officer is involved in a shooting, although police departments are beginning to recognize the phenomenon.
Wow…While reading this, I could see it like I was there, and I could feel what he was feeling. You are very talented at describing the details, Angelo. I, too, wish the other guy didn’t have a toy gun.
Was NOT expecting that. And I sure that are those times when you must just have some space and some quiet to reflect on those parts of the job that are the very toughest. You went somewhere bordering on deep with this one. I would encourage you to take this out and write more, reworking, rethinking. If this really happened to you, not only would it be good for your writing skills, but it could be good for your soul, too. Therapy in your fingertips.
My heart started beating faster when I read the action part. Whew! Your use of words like “froze” and “fled” made it so effective.
And boy, I love the description in your last para. It’s like a sort of contrast after the action.
Joe, you turned the darkness into a living, breathing entity in your story.
I can’t take too much credit, Angelo. We’ll blame it on my muse. But thank you for the compliment 🙂
Her heard his wife moving about in the house, coming up from the basement, walking though the dining room, and onto the porch. He looked at the clock’s square illuminated dial. It was five o’cock. He decided to go ahead and get up.
She worried him when she walked around at night just before dawn, and then lay down to sleep as the sun rose. She knew that and tried to act like she didn’t get up like she just needed to sleep a lot now that she was older, but he heard her after twelve, running water to make tea, turning on the fan, typing. He started down the steps and sure enough, he heard her shut the porch door and hurry to the basement where she slept. She would be pretending to be asleep if he followed her. Such an odd woman he thought fondly, how did he wind up married to her.
As he entered the dining room, he heard something moving about on the porch. It sounded like it was pulling out a porch chair, or maybe getting ready to open the door. He went to the closet grabbed his rifle, and rushed back to the porch, but rather than throw open the door and shoot the intruder, he felt it prudent to take a look out there first.
There in the odd darkness of early morning in Virginia, he saw what appeared to be a huge fat old dog moving about on the porch. But no, it wasn’t a dog, it was a raccoon, a vector for rabies. He checked his rifle to see if it was loaded, started to open the door, and then heard her behind him.
“Don’t shoot Ralph,” she said. He felt her leaning against him, warm and soft in her housedress, taking nervous rapid breaths.
“It’s a raccoon. Raccoons carry rabies,” he said, and even to him, his voice sounded too loud, strident.
“Please don’t hurt him. I opened the door. He looked so sad, you know how they look.” He saw how sad she was and waited for her to add a word or two about how the raccoon’s world was being wrecked by humans, but she didn’t mention that, just stood their, her hair messy, her face childlike, anxious.
“Let’s just let him get off the porch before we go out and keep the door locked,” He said in a gentler but still exasperated voice. They watched as Ralph, who seemed to get the idea that he should leave, slowly sauntered off the porch not looking back.
“Okay, I’m going to bed now,” she said.
He’d hoped for a cup of coffee with her but she’d probably been up most of the night. He made himself a cup and took it to the porch. The sky was still dark but had a glow that meant dawn was coming. He sat in the quiet and smoked. As the dawn lifted and a grayish light moved over the porch, he saw something shining on the floor near the table. He leaned forward to see a dish, with just a little bit of peach preserves clinging to it, and just beyond that on the other side of the screen was a face with a dark mask surrounding luminous eyes, glow in the dark eyes.
“So Ralph, you’re who she’s eating breakfast with now-a-days,” he said.
Marianne, I like your story. Using a raccoon was a great idea. They look like miniature bandits, but they’re cute. But they carry rabbies. You gave your reader lots to think about. Leave him alone, feed him because he’s cute? Or shoot him because he carries a dangerous disease?
Good job.
Thanks Angelo. I used the raccoon because I used to work at a state hospital, had to go in one night, parked by the building only to see a huge raccoon cracking acorns on the sidewalk in front of the building. I had heard they were rabid and was afraid to go past him. I had to honk my horn until one of the aides came out and yelled “Git coon!” I kid you not. That’s exactly what she said. Bless her heart. The raccoon heeded her, shuffled off and I went in. After asking around about how fat this raccoon was, I heard that one of the aides had been feeding it cat food, so it was getting that in addition to the acorns, and whatever else it could find. It just worries me when people make pets of them because they are vectors of rabies. I’m from the city but have lived where I am now for 25 years, and I love the wildlife but it worries me a lot too.
A number of years ago my family and I went camping in the Florida Keys. The raccoon’s were everywhere. At night you could hear them getting into people’s coolers and they actually popped the tops of soda and beer cans.
They not only look live thieves, they are thieves.
What a great little vignette of a story. I’m left wondering so much more – about their marriage, about the area where they live. Way to draw the reader in. (And I’m with you, they may be cute looking, but racoons are wild creatures and need to be respected as such. And they can be scary, sometimes, too.)
“Morning darkness” is an oxymoron. Morning belongs to the sun. Vampires vanish in the morning. Criminals hide. Workers wake.
This morning, however, Trevor slip-slod to the window, swooshing aside with his right foot a tee-shirt and then a pair of underwear with his left. He cracked open the blind. It was dark, but his clock shown 7:13. What was wrong? Where was the light? Were there nefarious beings up to no-good? Aliens in need of a sun who possibly lassoed our hallowed yellow ball and hauled it to a distant galaxy, or at least a few light years past the dwarf planet Pluto?
Trevor’s left hand instinctively scrunched into his left eye socket, deeply rubbing out the confusion he felt. His right hand did the same to its symmetrical visual partner. Still, the darkness reigned.
At the bureau, Trevor flicked on the TV. Large smiling heads seemed to bob up and down, albeit blurry, rambling about stuff that didn’t quite filter through Trevor’s cortextual understanding. But, he thought, this means it’s morning. So where is the sun?
Out to the kitchen, the somnambulant Trevor could smell the coffee brewing. Again, he peaked out the window. It seemed darker than before. What were those lights in between the trees? The bushes? The cars? There seemed to be little twinkling lights, as if the very atoms of matter were visible. These blinkering mirages didn’t seem to give off light, but they were light nonetheless.
“Hey,” he said into his phone. “What time is it?”
Gabe, on the other end, obliged the request. “7:21, why?”
“Where’s the light?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The light outside. Where is it?”
“Where are you, Trevor? Are you okay?”
“I’m in my house. Just woke up and it’s as dark as sin outside, and inside come to think of it, and I want to know where the light is.”
There was a long pause. Trevor blinked out the window again, seemingly dodging the flashing blinkering lights that were everywhere.
“Trevor, are you feeling okay? There’s plenty of light where I am. How do you feel? Do you have a headache? Were you out late last night? What’s going on?”
Trevor dropped the phone. He ran to the bathroom, flicked on the light, but there was no difference. He continued flicking the light switch on and off, on and off, on and off. But there was no difference in his visual perception.
Did he go blind?
I don’t know. My 15 minutes were up.
LOVE this answer. Hope you find out one day!
Ha! I know the feeling, my characters are either getting away with murder, or suffering alone, or who knows what else, now-a-days because I can’t keep my eye on them. I do love the timer though, it makes me not as paralyzed and overly analytical. Thanks for a good story anyway, I will just have to decide for myself what happened to him, I guess that’s the way life really is anyway. ; )
nothing wrong with a cheesy cliche love story.
Wow, Marianne, I really like this story. Full of surprises and humanity, and something perhaps “extra” humanity.
Thanks Chris
Barely awake, but a commitment pulls me between warm sheets. It is a commitment to meet seven or more friends for that early morning walk. Some of the ladies like Ginny, Florence and Cissie have walked together for many years and thirty or more have joined them, but most of the larger group have decided walking at the crack of dawn is not for now.
I’m fairly new to some in the group and as I turn to my side and lower my legs I, too, am not sure that I am one who can keep the commitment for jaunts beginning in the dark and yet, I know the expectations and so I begin the day.
From habit I quickly pull up the bed covers and place the pillows on top making sure of the neatness. Bed making when half asleep was something that I learned early in life when I lived back in the mountains of North Carolina. Mother had taught that a bed made up is the first responsibility of growing up and growing up meant assuming responsibility and no daughter of hers would be a slacker. My second responsibility growing up was to quickly brush teeth, don clothes for school and a good warm coat, a scarf and mittens, go out the front door and out to the road and up the hill to the Scott’s mini farm. They had fresh raw milk and eggs and monthly my Dad paid the milk bill. I remembered that I hated that early morning walk.
The woods on either side of the road were dark. The snow and rocks on the road crunched under my feet. The wind blew hard making trees swish and sway and throw down straggly leaves. Occasionally Bozo my dog would bark and head off into the woods and my imagination would go wild in the semi-darkness. I walked quickly and I pray for God’s protection.
The gate lock into the Scott’s yard creaked but the kitchen light sent rays to the steps so up I stepped up, opening the screen door and before I knew it Mrs. Scott had two bottles of milk in my arms and had turned me around to face the walk home still in the semi darkness.
My eight year old heart raced as booted feet quickly walked down the snowy hill eager to see the light on the front porch and happy when I was back at the kitchen table where fried bacon, scrambled eggs, apples slices had been fried with just enough brown sugar added to made them sweet. Hot thin buttered biscuits slithered with butter and a cold glass of Mrs. Scott’s milk then made the awful walk worthwhile in the warmness and brightness of my Mother’s kitchen.
Sixty years later, a recent widow, who for forty-six years had enjoyed a dependable and loving husband crawling out of bed, making the hot coffee, filling the carafe and returning to my side of the bed he put the carafe on the night table, bent over and gave me a kiss. All was a glorious habit and love received. I had to make the decision whether I would get up and get my own coffee. For some reason I couldn’t. It wasn’t delivered with loving attention so the taste wasn’t the same.
It was something that I simply gave up. So with an aching heart I walk to the bathroom, brush teeth, wash my face squinting into the mirror I see wrinkles but hair still brown. I add some silky-smooth face cream, a little make-up and slip from gown to warm ups and then a jacket, grab gloves and turn on the alarm system I walk to meet the women.
Stepping into the semi-darkness again the trees sway but they don’t bother me and my imagination doesn’t work overtime. I again take the time to pray as I feel the cold air on my face.
It is dark in this flatland far from the North Carolina mountains. But the glow from a lamp in the window of my friend’s house, an unlocked door with the understanding that one simply opens it plus the smell of hot coffee and a warm welcome draws one in from the darkness into the light.
Fifteen minutes later warmed with the hot beverage all are out the door and soon in the darkness we walk the sidewalks that wind through the country club golf course. As daylight approaches we see that the greens are perfectly manicured, the trimmed trees are beginning to leaf and here and there a dogwood is beginning to bud. Walking over the humpback bridges we enjoy the awakening of life. It might be doves cooing, or the rushing brook or a distant bark of a dog. In the semi-darkness aloneness has been shattered by togetherness
Every morning is different but usually advice sought and given has been received, the concerns of hearts have been listened to and the assurance that one is never really alone has been experienced. The day began in the darkness, but now it is light and there is day ahead.
.
Peggy
That’s so well described that I felt like I was not watching a movie, but was there as I read it.
I wasn’t sure what time it was.
How long had I been asleep?
My dream woke me in a panic.
My heart raced.
I felt paralyzed as small streaks of light came through the dark window.
I slowly got out of bed and tip-toed around the squeaky floor boards.
I went down the stairs and breathed a sigh of relief.
I can do this.
I know I can.
I pulled out my brown canvas bag.
I reached inside and pulled out my notebook.
I flipped through the pages.
So many ideas already in there.
“I don’t need to write anymore today,” I thought to myself.
My heart beat faster at this thought.
I pulled out my pen and started to mark on the page.
“I’m not giving in today,” I told myself.
I’m a writer, so I write.
Jim, i can totally see the action of pulling out your notebook…something so pedestrian as a brown canvas bag, and the verbs that accompany it: reaching in, pulling out, flipping through the pages.
i’d love to know more about the dream. is there any way to tie in the content? something that wakes you in a panic — seems like a perfect “hook”, and would be so awesome if you could bring it back somehow at the end. or keep it as a theme throughout the piece.
i know what you mean, when there are so many ideas already logged in, it seems almost fruitless to add more. but not giving in is key. thanks for the reminder!
Thanks Kati! I don’t remember the dream, so it is hard to tell you more about that 😉 Glad I can offer a reminder to keep working!
I like the interesting way that this is arranged, the halter-skelter of morning, and that thought of not needing to write in quotation marks. It catches that idea that I, and I imagine most of us who want to write have, that maybe it can be put off, and then the kind of anxiety that comes with that thought “My heart beat faster at this thought”. I wonder if you might make the source of the anxiety more apparent. I think I know it’s the “I need to write” anxiety but I’m not sure. This is really good Jim and join Kati with a “thanks for the reminder”.
Thanks, I’ll think about your suggestions and see how it hits me when I write more later 🙂 Thank you so much for the kind words, I’m glad you liked it.
“Good morning,” I tell myself. I’m so tired. It’s not quite light yet and the warm covers steal me back to dreamland.
My alarm yells at me. Again. I groan, press snooze, and snuggle up to my husband on my left while my Doberman mix sneaks up on the right side.
This happens every morning. Paisley, the dog, hears my alarm and gently comes sneaking on my bed. She noses under the covers and rests her warm head on my stomach, sighs, and sits still. All 50 pounds of her are against my right side, all 220 pounds of my warm husband on my left. So warm. So happy. So quiet. So perfect.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
My eyes snap open for the third time. I groan, slip up to the tip-top of the bed so I don’t disturb the over-sized sleepers that have officially blocked me under the covers and get up.
Paisley slips out of the covers with me, her desire to be by my side more important than sleep. She whines quietly and wags her stub. “Good morning!” it says.
I smile, although I hate crawling out of bed, I just realize that I’m secretly a morning person. Lying awake next to quiet beings who love unconditionally reminds me that in a few hours the hectic day will take over and that part of snuggle time will be over.
The details here create a clear picture. Being the one who’s always asleep I like to know what it looks like to the ones who get up early, and make the coffee, make morning inviting for us night people. I envy you that moment, which means even in fifteen minute, you’ve created something visceral. Thanks
Aw, thanks! Don’t give me too much credit. I do love those early morning hours, but only until I have to slip out of bed! Thank you for thanking me. I’m never really sure about my writing. 🙂
GO:
Four-thirty. Yes, that’s what it said. Shaking her head as she rolled over, she remembered: market day. Stifling a sigh, she sat up, rubbed her eyes and headed for the bathroom. Clothes laid out the night before were pulled on grudgingly – teeth brushed, hair combed, sleep washed from eyes. All of it quietly done, so that her husband could doze until a more normal rousing time.
Mornings were not part of her routine, especially dark mornings. But she had signed on for the whole enchilada when she opened her business, so down the stairs she went. Backing carefully out of the narrow driveway, she headed down the silent street, wondering if anyone else was aware of how very dark it got before the light made its morning debut.
Sailing easily onto the freeway, she headed her car towards downtown Los Angeles. No competition for lane space today, even on that granddaddy of all freeways, the 110, heading toward the interchange. Impossibly narrow lanes seemed wider in the crowdless dark, and the car seemed to steer itself round every bend.
Exiting at Hill Street, she wound her way through Skid Row to Sixth, pulling into the ramp for the parking structure. It was now 5:00 a.m. and parking was at a premium. Hanging her badge around her neck, she locked the car and rode the escalator into another world. This one was brightly lit and noisy, filled with the hustle of vendors and buyers, each wanting to make the deal of the day. But it was the smell that brought her fully awake: the sweet scent of lilies, the spicy aroma of carnations, the ripe, growing smell of greens, all kind of greens.
Grabbing a cart, she began her usual circle, finding bargain roses in the corner, interesting newer breeds along the narrow hallways. “Have you got any scabiosa today?” she asked, still somewhat amazed that something could be so delicate with a name like that. “How about freesia? No, not fully open – have you got some still in buds?”
Slowly, the cart filled with newspaper wrapped bundles. There were two weddings this weekend and a graduation party. And she always liked fresh flowers around her own house – the best advertising in the world and so cheap! When her cart was full and her list checked off, she lugged them all to the car and locked them away.
Then it was time for the supplies. A large warehouse on the floor between the parking and the flowers was filled to the rafters with the stuff of dreams. Designer ribbons, boxes of Oasis, floral tape – anything and everything she needed to make her clients happy. The list was short this week, and soon the shopping was done. Now it was time for breakfast.
This was often the best time of these mornings – fried eggs over rice and char siu pork at the greasy diner next door to the flower mart. Each table filled with shoppers like herself, with a few vendors to liven things up. Lots of hot tea, lots of eavesdropping on conversations, lots of people-watching. Yes, this is what capped off the morning best.
Except, of course, for the ride back home. She knew there would be hard work to do once she got there. The flowers needed to be unwrapped, re-trimmed, set in buckets filled with tepid water and plant food. They needed to harden off for several hours before any arrangements could be assembled. But until then, for the next thirty minutes of so, she had the joy of the rid. With the sun just peeking over the horizon, coloring the California sky with pinks, peaches, lilacs. she could imagine that anything was possible. Anything.
STOP
What a beautiful morning from the empty freeway in early morning darkness (reminds me of the one ride on the DC and Baltimore expressways during which I felt almost safe), to the busy shopping, to the breakfast (that sounds so nice and fattening) to the ride home into that sunrise. Well done.
The truth is, she was afraid of the dark, always had been ever since she was little. As a five-year-old, she would lay in her bed, clutching her teddy bear close to her body, covers pulled all the way up to her chin, ready to use them as a sheild at any moment against a nighttime invader. The darkness was dangerous; it brought hideous unnamed monsters out from inside her closet and under her bed.
And even now, when she was all grown up, it was no different. The terrors had merely changed. She’d never admit it to anyone, but the darkness of night still frightened her. It changed her, turned her into an entirely different person. It was during the darkness of night that her demons crept back to her, and she was forced to fight them off. It was only in the hours of the early morning, when the nighttime darkness slowly gave way to morning darkness that she could truly rest easy.
The morning darkness was different than at night. At night, when the sun set and dark came all it brought was more darkness, more black which promised to creep into your thoughts. The darkness of morning was different; she knew its promise was not of more dark, but of light. It promised to chase away the monsters.
Even as an adult, she lay in bed, covers pulled up to her chin, waiting. Waiting for the darkness of morning to come, to give way to dawn, when she could finally rest easy.
She slowly opened her eyes. Waking up this morning wasn’t the usual rude jolt that rocked her out of restfulness. It was more like the gentle coaxing of Mother’s tender voice, lulling her awake with fond crooning.
The room was still dark, her sleepy brain slowly realized. The deep blue shadows of the fading night lingered around the folds of the curtains. There was that tinge of gathering light that made the darkness somehow, comfortable and cosy. She yawned lazily and rolled over. It was too early to get up. She lay there, not willing to remember the anguish of the night before, wanting only to enjoy the quiet moments of restfulness before the sun awoke the rest of world and demanded that everyone get back into their crazy schedules.
She savoured the quietness, the happy, comfortable silence that afforded her a sort of safety. The taunting, the rejection, the whispers behind her back, the sarcastic grins the others exchanged with each other could not find her here, warmly snuggled down under her downy blanket. Here she could rest, and feel like she fit perfectly. She sighed softly, a sigh that was not solely sadness and longing, but one of settled resignation. She had accepted life as it was. There was nothing to do now, but to face it and live above it.
A quiet smile played gently across her young solemn face, adding a hint of the spirit that sparkled in her character. Even in her sad moments, the natural cheerfulness of personality would not be suppressed for long. Yes, she would live above it. She would show herself and others that she was made of nobler stuff than low back-biting and petty resentment.
The darkness was almost gone now. She lay listlessly, waiting for her alarm to sound to signal the start of another hard day. There it was now. As if on cue, her muscles involuntarily tightened. She slowly sat up.
It was time to give life to the resolutions born in the morning darkness.
Alarm. Jerked rudely out of sleep. Lie for a minute. CAN’T STAND IT. Jump up. Whack snooze button. Collaspe into bed.
-9 minutes later-
Alarm. Repeat above.
-9 minutes later-
Alarm. Think nasty words. Smash snooze. On second thought, turn off altogether and force self to get out of bed. Begin thinking in coherent sentences. Well, mostly.
I cover my eyes against the blinding hallway light and walk to the bathroom. Bathroom door. Slam shut. Put paper on the filthy dorm toilet seat. Begin to nod off while performing bodily functions…
…and remember that there’s something important due in Art History today…
Shit. I flush, wash hands, return to room, gather shower paraphernalia, return to bathroom. Doze off slightly in the shower as well. I use conditioner this morning as an excuse to just stand there for a minute, bare skin reddening under the hot water. Wasting water. Killing the environment. Idly, I contemplate drowning myself in the bath, or just slitting my wrists with the razor. Then I rinse out the conditioner, step out of the shower, towel off.
Wrap towel around self. Feel slightly awkward passing another towel-wrapped person in the other direction. Escape to room. Dither over what to wear. Dress to fit mood: oldest, ugliest jeans; random t-shirt; sneakers. I could stuff a sock down my throat to suffocate, but I should probably just blow-dry my hair. I do that. Don’t bother with makeup.
Books — packed. Homework — done. Breakfast — missed it. Coffee — not enough time to make. I hear taking in too much caffeine can kill you. I wonder if anyone’s ever done it on purpose before. Some poor, overworked secretary or boss, probably. Class in fifteen minutes.
If I leave now I can make it, easy. If I fell down the stairs, I could be dead before my roommate woke up. But there’s that homework due. Eh, I still have five minutes til I absolutely have to leave. There’s a large vein in the neck that’ll leave you dead in two minutes flat.
Too tired to find the razor. Too tired to move. I lie back on the bed. I have slept but I have not rested.
Don’t sleep. Lose all track of time, lost in contemplation of the ceiling cracks. The sun has been up for hours, but my morning is dark with potential.