*crickets chirping*
Well, I'm sure someone missed me. I'm back with a fun thing I recently wrote. I'm having a bit of writer's block as far as Marcy's story goes, so I've been writing short things to make up for it.
In Lit class last year, we were required to read a poem for imagery. I randomly remembered it and decided, hey, what if I expounded on it and made it a short story?
So here it is.
Feedback would be appreciated :)
~~~~~~~~~
“Meeting at Night”
by Robert Browning
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating two to each!
Expounded:
My palms ache as I pull the oars again. The creak has repeated exactly 12,742 times in my journey. I can’t wait to get home, where my wife is waiting...oh I can’t wait to see her. We’ve been separated for too long.
I’ve been traveling for several hours now. I think it’s about three in the morning. The moon is up, thankfully, so I can still see enough to get by. The sea looks grey under the light of the moon. I let out a small laugh. It’s beautiful, what I can see of it at this hour. It’s a half moon, large, low, and yellow.
The cove is in sight! Thank God! I pause in my rowing, wringing my hands and rubbing the blisters that have emerged. I know my wife will treat them as soon as I get home, fussing as usual that I can’t take care of myself. The beach grows nearer as I resume the tedious way home. It fills me with energy to see that I’m almost there. The land is long and black, but it’s land, and it’s the land that I built my house on.
Finally I pull up on the beach. My feet splash into the water as I hop overboard. Taking hold of the side of the small rowboat, I painstakingly drag it to shore. The prow pushes through the water like a knife through butter. The sand is thick and slushy tonight, but I eventually make it. I pull the boat up onto the beach a little ways, tie it to a post that I buried in the sand several years ago, dust off my hands, and journey home.
I stroll along the sand, my feet making sucking noises. Little waves wash up on shore quickly, like they are startled by something. They sing a song of the sea, salty and mighty. Not many people get to see the ocean at night. The cool air wafts over my face, carrying the smell of fish and salt with it. I wonder if my wife is up…
There’s a mile of beach and three fields that I have to walk before I get to our house. I let my thoughts wander while I walk.
I’ve just left the army. I was wounded in combat in the war last year. It took a very long time to recover. It was only 1812, and the doctors were running short. I had taken several bullets to my legs, and while I waited for a doctor, the holes had become infected. I almost died. I got the doctor that tended me to send a letter to my wife, but I never received a letter in return. It’s very possible that she never got it. Many times I’ve wished for a quicker way to send a message.
The mile journey is over and then I step off of the sand and onto ground. Oh! Ground! Dirt, the warm smell of dew and dirt, fills my nostrils. I breathe it in. The hills roll before me, but I know that they will seem as only moments because home is very near now.
And I was right. It seems like I’ve only been walking for a few seconds before I sight a farm. My farm! Our farm! I begin to jog, then run. I can almost see the curtains in the windows. The light is creeping behind the house, but it’s still too dark to see properly. I trip and fall to the grass, my face landing in a bush. Nothing will deter me--I get up and keep running. Finally I reach the porch. My wife is probably asleep. She doesn’t know I’ve come. I tap on the pane of glass that serves as a window to our bedroom. No response. I tap again, a bit louder now. I hear the quick sharp scratch, then see the blue spurt of a match she lit. By the very faint light through the curtain, I see her get up and light a lamp. She gets up and goes over to the front door. I stand on the porch, suddenly unsure of what to do. The door creaks open. I see the face of my wife, illuminated by the light of the lamp and the slowly rising sun. Her hand flies to her mouth--she sets down the lantern and dashes into my arms. I catch her, feel her heartbeat, in sync with mine. Stroking her hair, I hug her and feel a tear slipping down my face. “I thought you were dead!” she sobs, holding me tightly.
“I could never leave you,” I promise, a sob shaking my voice as well. “I’m home, and I’m staying home.”
~~~~~~~~~Sorry about the formatting once more. Ugh, it's a terrible thing. Anyway, what did you think? :D
~~Zoë Wingfeather
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