Thursday, January 12, 2012

Color Wash


Turning onto the main drag we look for a place to park without great success.  Cars accessorized with different states’ plates, packed full of travelers gear, line both sides of the narrow lane.  Just as we reach the street’s far west end, we find a small space to slide our car into.

We step up onto the crumbling concrete sidewalk, his hand opened wide, inviting my own.  Grabbing it, we walk the familiar path eastward.  The sky, donning its morning slate cardigan hovers above us.  Salted air skims our skin; I drag it in deeply, filling my lungs with its pleasantly peaceful scent.

Trinket, tchotchke, souvenir shops with windows filled wave for our attention, but our eyes dial in our target up the small incline.  One step in front of the other, stepping aside for groups walking back down – some returning to their cars, some to the bluffs, some to take their cooped up pup for a walk – like a folk dance, native to this small spec of a town.

Without a word exchanged, we step into the first of our routine stops.  Pretty jewelry, nice paintings, some woodwork we stop to examine and the fat cat that’s always in the back gets a chin scratch.

Cross the street, up the white stairs, local artists’ work and one to chat with as we find a perfectly personal present to tuck away.

A few doors down, canvases steal our breath – our eyes fooled, rather than paint we see strokes of light.  Jokes about the necessity of kids’ college funds routinely punctuate the visit.  And with one last look we return to the crumbling sidewalk.

Pausing for a seafood lunch with a view we can see now that the coastal sky has shed her morning cardigan.  We chat, we eat, we agree that nothing we’ve seen sparks us both, yet.  Paying the overpriced tourist trap bill we readily signed up for, we walk up a block off the main drag.  No sidewalks, just road.  There are a handful more stops to make to make the day’s gallery walk complete.

We leisurely stroll back to the car.  Not a painting in hand, but the hours’ zen color washed across us.  It’s a favorite hue, bookmarked for our annual visit.  Carrying it with us, one town north, we step into the next color waiting to paint our day, staining our memories…hopefully, permanently.


Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood2012 has put The Creative back in the driver's seat - but, so far that has been via journaling; (different for me) scrapbooking; inking, painting, doodling in my art journal; trying new GFCF recipes; and lots of photo editing.

The Creative, however, had not joined me in the word pool until I found a little { Magic } in a Ronald Dahl quote, earlier this week.  So, I'm tickled pink to finally be responding to a Write on Edge prompt this year!

The prompt is to write a piece, fiction or creative non-fiction, 400 words or less, sparked by "Flavor."  Whether that be a taste, spice, or the quality or character found in something is up to us.

This began as a fictional piece, but it's so colored by memory it definitely falls into the creative non-fiction category.  Can you feel the flavor of the memory?

9 comments:

  1. First, I love the word "tchotchke" so you get bonus points for being able to use it in a sentence without forcing things. Second, I loved the sentence about the zen washing over you. And finally, I just absolutely LOVE the flavor of this arts town!

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  2. I feel the flavor of all of the colors surrounding you (or your character) as you / she embarks on the journey. Also - I love this line: "The sky, donning its morning slate cardigan hovers above us."

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  3. Absolutely - The flavor of your annual visit and what it means for your mental well-being comes across in prose that reflects the calming feel of the piece. Well done!

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  4. Yeah and I'm just wondering how you say that word! Hehe. Great take, the flavour of a place. Beautiful piece. :)

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  5. Wow. You made me want to be in this memory:~) You're very good at helping me, as a reader, see this place in my mind.

    I loved this line, "A few doors down, canvases steal our breath – our eyes fooled, rather than paint we see strokes of light." I've felt this before when looking at a painting.

    I like how you used the prompt about flavor. I hadn't thought about this way. You made me feel the flavor of this town and it was relaxing.

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  6. This is my favorite part of this:

    We step up onto the crumbling concrete sidewalk, his hand opened wide, inviting my own. Grabbing it, we walk the familiar path eastward. The sky, donning its morning slate cardigan hovers above us. Salted air skims our skin; I drag it in deeply, filling my lungs with its pleasantly peaceful scent.

    The entire piece is just peaceful and serene. Lovely job, I felt as though I was strolling through the galleries and shops with them.

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  7. Wow. Your writing is just amazing, Karen! I could really feel myself there with your descriptions. (And I love the word crumbling in this - perfect!)

    Where was this meant to be? It reminds me of an artsy little town in the historic district of New Smyrna in FL. Your story describes that place perfectly. It's always been one of my favorites!

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  8. Glad your creative has joined the word pool :) I can totally picture you and DH on this journey, and it makes me smile!

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  9. Love the flavor of your memory here, and fiction or not, your description is beautiful!

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