I have this week taken part in Write 4 Ten, Mondays prompt was SPACE. It can be any definition, use or interpretation. So with this in mind, I sat and wrote for ten minutes and this is what I wrote, its the first time I have written a non-fiction entry. Feedback welcomed :)
As I lay on my bed gazing out of the window at the rain thrashing down, I have a combined feeling of annoyance and nostalgia; annoyed because its summer and I should be out feeling the warm rays caressing my skin, and nostalgia for the pleasure a rain storm can bring. The sky is blue amongst the heavy undulating grey clouds and as I stare into its infinite density, I am there…in Africa…lying on my bed.
The window is shuttered and the power has gone out. The darkness draws in around you causing your skin to cool, an affront to the blistering heat that a moment before had caused it to shimmer in sweat. Then it starts; a tip, a tap, a pitter, a patter…the rain builds up momentum until it is pounding the tin roof. The noise it makes, as it ricochets off the tin, is the only audible sound and at once you are deafened and cocooned by the raucous echo about the room. Holding your breath you wait to see if the roof collapses on you. Your breathing becomes shallower the longer the rain lasts, picking up its own rhythm, a gentle sway as if you are drifting on the ocean. Soon your eyes are heavy and sleep beckons, your body enjoying the respite from maintaining your temperature; you have no energy left and drift off onto the clouds and into dreams of ice cream and swimming pools.
The alarm sounds and I am brought back to my bed in England, the rain has stopped but the clouds still hang there pregnant with the expectation of more.
As I lay on my bed gazing out of the window at the rain thrashing down, I have a combined feeling of annoyance and nostalgia; annoyed because its summer and I should be out feeling the warm rays caressing my skin, and nostalgia for the pleasure a rain storm can bring. The sky is blue amongst the heavy undulating grey clouds and as I stare into its infinite density, I am there…in Africa…lying on my bed.
The window is shuttered and the power has gone out. The darkness draws in around you causing your skin to cool, an affront to the blistering heat that a moment before had caused it to shimmer in sweat. Then it starts; a tip, a tap, a pitter, a patter…the rain builds up momentum until it is pounding the tin roof. The noise it makes, as it ricochets off the tin, is the only audible sound and at once you are deafened and cocooned by the raucous echo about the room. Holding your breath you wait to see if the roof collapses on you. Your breathing becomes shallower the longer the rain lasts, picking up its own rhythm, a gentle sway as if you are drifting on the ocean. Soon your eyes are heavy and sleep beckons, your body enjoying the respite from maintaining your temperature; you have no energy left and drift off onto the clouds and into dreams of ice cream and swimming pools.
The alarm sounds and I am brought back to my bed in England, the rain has stopped but the clouds still hang there pregnant with the expectation of more.
Beautiful! I've never been to Africa. Only seen documentaries, but I can imagine the rain drumming hard on the roof. It's the way I imagine rain always falls in Africa. It falls that way in England and the US also, but it 'feels' more African. You brought that to me. Thanks :)
ReplyDeleteThanks Hap, I find writing non-fiction much harder than fiction, real life is pretty hard! lol x
Deleteexcellent, having been there i appreciate how well you have captured the feel of Africa .... i could almost hear the drums in the distance. Love it x
ReplyDeleteThanks :) x
Delete