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Creative Essay guest submission

by Kris ⋅ July 19, 2005 ⋅ Comment now ⋅ Subscribe RSS

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This is from my friend Jett, who is a fantabulous music guru and who will hopefully be posting some neat-o album reviews. Here is one of his creative writing samples, exclusively for Dreamlogic. Maybe it’ll start a trend for future reader submissions (*hinthint-nudgenudge-winkwink*) –Kris

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Sweet Summer Sweat…

The rain falls beyond the transparent drapes drawn back from the window thru which the light casts a contrasting beam like a search lamp colliding with the gentle down-pour. Thunder rumbles overhead amid the amalgamous shapes of dark clouds and she shivers, but smiles. Rubbing her soft, yet firm and taut fingers roughly against the woven fabric blend of a thin, black knit cardigan, she climbs onto the narrow window sill dreaming of a cushioned ledge, like a comforting bench summoned from some forgotten memory.

Cats’ meowing falls softly in the background and yet neglects to penetrate the concentration with which she now focuses her attention into the visionary curtain of rain cascading more thickly now against an inky backdrop of midnight.

“Where will my thoughts take me now?” she muses silently. As though the rain and chill could not possibly dampen the mood, she imagines her arms beginning to extend one after the other into the night as though drawn to a beacon oscillating a secure signal upon the banks of an imaginary shore just a few miles beyond her vigil.

In close proximity, chimes deliver a ceaseless resonance of high pitched collisions which neither the rain nor thunder can quell. She leans her soul into the clamour of the chimes in hopes that her spirit may find itself transported easily into the wind. Eli loves to fly.

Tonight, she craves his company, and would fly to him if only she could find him, now. Dull, yet determined, sounds of scraping distract her eyes to re-open. She knows in an instant that the noise must be that of one of her cats finding the bottom of a thick plastic litter box. Her eyes linger, though toward the open door of her boudoir when she imagines for a moment a dark mist concentrating into the hardened flesh, and loose clothing of a man she desires. Her imaginative heart lingers upon the finely tooled features and barely glistening shoulders. Shirt? No shirt? Definitely without the shirt! He moves forward, and then he’s back again in the doorway, as though repeating his approach toward her, sometimes with a loose blue jean shirt, sometimes without one. Maybe sleeves? and unbuttoned? Yes! Yes!

Next, he’s back in the door frame again. And now, she switches out the colour and styling of his hair. First black and shiney, next a deep auburn wave, then more red with Shirley Temple curls… but, no! Or, maybe? She giggles and as the vision continues to change ridiculously before her very eyes, she wills it to dissipate and fade, and when the visual loop does not end-program, she turns away smiling. Feeling a little silly, yet relieved to realise that no one hangs now in her doorway after all. “I would still smell him if he had been here, right?” she asks, almost out loud this time. Her smiles slowly fades into uncertainty as her lungs slowly begin to fill reflexively in response to this very notion that in the air may still linger that warm summer scent.

“That smell of…” she began. But no, of course, it must be the wind playing those little tricks again.

– Jett Black