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Writing Workshop – Walk through the Wheat Field

I fell asleep with my head on the open book, the day enveloping me like the kind of blanket that’s held down. Breathing slowing, vision hot, I fell some more. Down and IN.

It was the smell that woke me. The kind of earth that smells like death and life at the same time. Carbon-rich, thick and damp – I could feel it seeping though my jeans, the heels of my trainers half-sucked beneath.  I lay on my back, thick grass like ribbons in my hair, my hands instinctively reaching to my eyes to rub before realising my fingers were coated with the same mud, determined to reach every part of me. It was warm though, soft. There was the thought that if I kept my eyes closed and still I could let it take me, sink down until it covered my mouth and I was just as much death and life as it was. But the cries brought me to – caw-caw-caw; echoing from one pointed, open mouth to another.

Prising myself from the ground I sat up, face war-painted, knees instinctively drawn close as I took in where I was, gazing along the thick river of mud winding its way ahead of me. A sudden gust of wind woke the wheat, before now blind to my senses, but now pulled low and shaking itself in my eyes and ears like paper waved to make a point. And I thought of the Fox in The Little Prince, begging to be tamed, and how he begged the Prince to love him so that the golden wheat may finally speak to him, as it would always remind him of he who he loved the most. And I spoke to the wheat and the earth and begged it, do not make me special to you, do not tame me else I can never leave. Leave me free, please, my voice joining that of the crows circling above me with their cacophonous rancour, perhaps begging the exact same thing.

My thinking felt thick and I wondered if perhaps mud had trickled in my ears as I lay. I blinked long to try and clear my vision but everything stayed the same. And so I stood, for what else was there to do, and slowly, each footstep heavy and pulling and trudging I began to move. There was only forward, for behind lay somewhere narrow and dark that I did not want to go, and fear gripped me with each slipping step that if I fell for good, the mud may carry me back in its currents to that place and I would never get out again. But I would not fall. Would I? No. I wouldn’t.

I kept my eyes on my feet for the sky was not still and boiled above me like an angry sea, full of the promise of rain, or worse, shifting and turning like something restless and searching and in pain in its position. It made my head spin to look at it, so I didn’t, leaving it to the outraged crows, my business was my feet and I was moving. I walked for hours, for months, for the 23 seconds it took for my thumping heart to pump new blood to every cell in my body. I don’t know. But I walked until the mud began to dry, to be replaced by the ribboned grass brushing my thick, mud-dried clothes, and finally finding the courage to look up, I spied the pale lilac of clearer skies on the horizon.

There. That’s where I’m going.

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Now it’s your turn. Show me your writing taking us into a picture.

 

Leave your name and the URL to your post in the Linky below (the URL should be to your post not just to your blog) – it’ll be open til Sunday night so if you haven’t had chance to respond yet, then you’ve got plenty of time to join in. Don’t forget that anyone can take part! New prompts will be up this time next week, so I hope to see you back soon.


2 Comments

  1. David Milne

    Another fine piece Josie. I love your descriptive imagery and your word choice. The brooding past needs a brighter future in order to be truly abandoned. Open sky and liac futures, a wonderful place to walk to.

  2. Lovely lovely. My favourite thing about this piece is the texture of it. Just gorgeous. Especially apt with all that beautiful layered paint. I really feel that mud.

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  1. Writing Workshop – Picture Walking | dichotomyof - [...] joined in with Josie’s Writing Workshop prompt this week over on Sleep is for the Weak. As usual there’s …

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