This is the result of a writing exercise I found in internet. Unfortunately, I can’t give credit to the author of the exercise. I don’t remember neither the name of the author nor the name of the website and it’s clearly more difficult to find something out of the advertisement displayed by Voogle when searching what it used to be.
The exercise is to write based on the thoughts that might come out of listening to a song. Any song. The name of the song I chose is <<Oró, ‘Sé do Bheatha ‘Bhaile”>>. You can find it in Metube. I chose it cause it is in a language I don’t understand at all and there was no way I could cheat by knowing the lyrics. Any other song in my play list would have been cheating cause in most cases (not all), even if I don’t speak Japanese, Hebrew, Arabic or French, I check the lyrics up. The point was to write following the feeling of the song only.
Then, this is nonsense and, if you like nonsense; why to keep it only for yourself? Go and share. Or go and share what a horror of writing this is. Any word out there is good.
Oró, ‘Sé do Bheatha ‘Bhaile”
She looks behind, her track on the black sand won’t last more than a sea’s breath and to each exhaling the tide goes up. She shrinks. It is now.
Her feet are the first to feel it and her whole body shivers. The wind twirls the brown curls of her forehead. Maybe the skirt is too much. She throws it away, a wet bundle on the sand. The jacket goes off too and the blouse should but the corset… There, further in a lumber floats. Is it the figurehead of her vessel? The evening light sun blinds her. The cold is no longer in spite of the water being colder at the beginning. She stops every now and then, the white thing gets lost to the sparkles and green-blue changing prairies.
A nose, lashes and ears emerge from the lumber little by little. The lips are hidden in their palor. She dives to speed into the less and less calm waves. Some algae stretch themselves to the light. Some brush her ankles.
Air. She floats, her feet to the bottom as the salty water hits her cheeks. There, a thud further to death. Her hands suddenly grasp a soft and cold shape that isn’t the Reverie, Alain’s boat. Specially because she sinks with its weight among a spurt of bubbles.
She lets go and comes out surrounded by cold golden light. Her limbs are heavy; she shouldn’t try but his black lashes are like whimpers begging to be let into the house. She takes him from the arm as if he were a walking pole. She sinks again. She babbles a horrible curse and decides to pull out the Burdeos ribbon from the hair. She ties the long fingered hand to her ankle. He is as cold as the steps of a porch stair with a closed door and the hair gets entangled in front of her face. A finer algae mass, equally bothersome, is around. She can’t see where she is at times.
Close by the coast, when she feels the waves will pull her to the beach, she lets go for a moment. Bad idea. She coughs water and tries harder. The waves push her onto the beach and she feels the raspness of the sand on her face, her arms. Four legged. Four legged and at times, the waves; she rides the waves to take him back on land.
That’s it. She breathes. She turns around and a smile awaits from life’s side.
