Writer Tribe

Posted on | February 4, 2011 | No Comments

While at Blissdom, the #writertribe met. We sat around a table. We shared thoughts and ideas and words. We shared a lot of words. And at the end of the meeting, we were given a task… to write. To write our response to the following prompt: You are standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. Fog is all around you. You can’t see anything. Who are you waiting for?

This is my answer to that question…

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

When I first stepped out on this path, it was sunny…brilliantly sunny… vibrantly, startlingly, inescapably sunny. The path was clear; laid out in front of me like the smooth, clear waters of a pristine lake.  I suppose if I had stopped to look around, I would have noticed  something was wrong.  The daisies did look a bit trampled.  But who has time to notice daisies. I pushed on. I pushed forward. Bullheaded as usual.  Stubborn to a fault.  I didn’t even notice when or how or where the fog rolled in.

So narrow-minded, so set on the ultimate goal — whatever that was or is or will be– that I didn’t even know I was surrounded.  Didn’t even know I’d been struck. Didn’t even know I’d been hurt.  How could I have missed the moment I’d been ripped open, limb from limb, rib from rib, heart from soul. It wasn’t until I tasted the slow, sluggish slither of blood against my lips that it became abundantly clear.

I was lost.

I was frightened.

Turning in circles, all I could see was that I was bleeding out on the stark white path stretched endlessly beneath my feet.

Nothing was clear. Nothing was safe.  The world had disappeared in the haze of gray. Colors disappeared. Shapes… disappeared. Everything disappeared until there was only me. My steps. My breath lost in the thickness of the air. My fear a wayward companion tugging against my feet. Purposeful steps turned to staggers;  clear vision, cloudy.  Too lost to find my way. Too lost to find my path. Too lost to find… me.

And then I was here; suspended in air, the ground stable but unseen.  I could be floating. I could be drowning. I could be anywhere. But I am here.




And then, in the midst of madness, I hear a soft tap, the pad of foot against ground.  Somewhere, there is someone. I try to speak but my throat is curled in the smoky fingered fog and my voice has faded into the past or maybe the future.  But still, someone is out there.

The footsteps draw near and then, ahead of me, there is a face.  At first, I struggle to place those eyes, that mouth, the soft wave of the hair.  I should know where to place that face. She steps closer. Her face seems kind. She seems to know something I forgot, something I meant to remember…  a long time ago.

She smiles and the pieces of my soul begin to click together, Lego to Lego. Her hand stretches out and in a flash, I know her.  I know the curve of her jaw, the rise and fall of her breath, the number of eyelashes fluttering across her warm cheeks. I know her.  She reaches again, stepping ever closer… tentative but sure, cautious but eager… and then she is there. Palm to palm. Cheek to cheek. Lip to lip.

Arms raise.

Fists unclench.

I exhale and find myself, arms wrapped tightly around my chest, holding me together as the fog rolls by.


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    Spilled Milk (and Other Atrocities) by Law Momma is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
    Based on a work at http://www.law-momma.com.
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