Her hand flicks through the crisp new book that her father bought her the day before. He said it was because she’d been such a good girl lately. Her parent’s divorce hadn’t exactly been a pretty one.
This is going to be my first attempt at a ‘blog’ post. This whole adventure of writing is supposed to encourage me to try new things; so I suppose it’s only fitting I give this a go. I took inspiration from a few friends, who honestly are amazing at this sort of thing; unfortunately I don’t have such high hopes for myself…
The sand slips between your toes.
The wind plays with the ends of your hair.
The sea engulfs the sleeping sand beds.
The shore is filled with ocean air.
A breath, a smile, a sigh of relief.
Finally, you are at peace.
You know when it’s raining there’s that distinct smell? It is earthy and fresh. It is staying inside at break time, watching it dribble down the glass windows whilst we play cards. It is running in from P.E, changing out of sodden sport clothes with dripping hair. It is holidays in Cornwall, rain drumming on the roof of the tent and dripping down the edges. It is sitting on a bench after being broken up with, watching the snails dodge the droplets. It is spring evening walks, trying to clear your confused and muddled head.
It’s cleansing. It’s familiar. It’s rain.
“Shall I speak for thee? shall I say ’tis so? O, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast, That I might rail at him, to ease my mind! Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp’d, Doth burn the heart to ashes-”
“Sorry, from the top please. It’s cinders, Francis, and maybe a bit more emotion? Your daughter literally has had her hands cut off and her tongue cut out.”
Francis sighs, running his hands through his dark hair and returns to his marker on the stage. The other actors roll their eyes and groan quietly, Charlotte rubbing her knees the best she could with her ‘mutilated’ hands.
Continue reading “March”