Writing passages

Just a couple short creative writing passages I wrote. I hope you enjoy!


A sharp wind cuts through the dark winter night. It twists and curls itself through each brown sprig of grass, weaving itself through the vegetation. If you were to even slip outside for just a moment, the shrill blade of bitter cold would have sliced through your coat directly into your bones. You are left to shiver and lament of the harsh, penetrating frost seeping into your soul long after you have ventured back inside. This numbing chill is rather elusive, but if it finds you, it is slow to leave. You see, this type of cold does not just leave once you have been touched by it, it sits inside of you, a parasite of your emotion until you can cleanse yourself of it.


In the backyard of a suburban home a lemongrass bush not only grows, but flourishes. You’d never know that just last autumn it had been cut almost down to the ground as a pitiful stump. The green blades erupt from the soft earth, they curl over like a fountain of water. When there is a breeze the fronds rustle and sway back and forth. The leaves are so abundant, the jade stalk is so solid that people (one person especially) can sit beneath the overflowing foliage and be shielded from the glaring sun while resting their back against the stalk. While relaxing in the bush, birds twittering and insects crawling, as they often do in nature, this secluded hideout is permeated with the full and sharp smell of citrusy lemon. A whole day can be spent beneath the fragrant vegetation with a long novel or empty notebook. A blazing, golden sun can turn pale and watery, and the float beneath the horizon entirely. A bird’s whistling ballad can turn into a cicada’s screeching hymn underneath the lemongrass bush.

I stepped away from the roaring warmth. There was light moving, just out of reach, behind the haze. There were noises too, whispers that seemed to explode and then dissipate by the time they came close to my ears. The noise danced just out of reach. The smoke picked up. It engulfed me, I couldn't breathe well, or see, or hear, or even feel. Even the sharp, acrid smell of exhaust was somehow less than what it had been. The only taste was my own mouth. All the air around me felt simply lukewarm. The smog drained all of my senses. I was almost entirely desensitized. It was in a way kind of pleasant.


Tags: original work, writing, creative writing, for funsies

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