Áine’s harp

Today was the first day of my Creative Writing course. The syllabus makes it sound like we’d only write creative nonfiction about trees and flowers, but the class actually seems pretty awesome.

It’s very unstructured and open, which is both good and bad. On the one hand, I can write anything I want. On the other, I can write anything I want. Having recently decided to put away the novel I’ve been working on since Fall, I was looking forward to someone pushing me in a direction I might not have gone on my own. I can probably still get that out of this course if I talk to the professor, but since she specializes in creative nonfiction, I might refrain from that. We’ll see how the semester goes.

That aside, tonight’s assignment is to write something, anything, in regards to “nature.” I, regrettably, must use the quotes there. Nature can mean anything — the trees outside your window, to the space surrounding you, even to human nature. It can be literal, figurative, theoretical, philosophical… anything. Anything at all. Did I mention this class is unstructured and open?

On more specific terms, we have to talk about and to nature. Or through it if we so decide. I came up with a few ideas and one poem, but none of them suited my fancy. It wasn’t until I was listening to Amethystium and the song Mystere [click the link to hear the song] started playing that I knew what I had to write about. Several minutes and lots of scribbles later, this is what I have:

The trees shivered at the caress of a morning breeze. Fallen petals drifted into the music room through the open balcony door, the only listeners to the melancholic tune Áine played on her harp.

A man entered the room, his steps a muffled backdrop to the progression of notes impersonating this woman’s tragedy.  He placed a small black box on the table beside her and left in silence.

Áine continued her song, her fingers gliding across the strings even as tears clouded her vision. Each note blended with the next, rising and falling with her breath, in rhythm with her beating heart.

She played for those whose songs ended early. She wept for the husband she would never see again.

The dying petals danced as the cool breeze blew.

I open this challenge up to you all. Talk about nature, talk to nature, or talk through nature. Then write about it in any way, and any genre, you please. What comes to your mind?

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About Squishy

Writer, dancer, gamer, and admirer of all that is beautiful.

Posted on May 7, 2012, in Education and Work, Ishy Writes!, Real Life and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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