When writing short stories formatting, plotting, and strategy becomes the forefront once the initial seed of an idea pops into my head. Then I spend hours upon hours fixing, rewriting, and toiling a story together. This leads to sucking the joy right out of writing! So I decided the other day to go old school and time myself for ten minutes and write nonstop. For me, this idea is horrifying. There are no edits allowed. There are no seconds to ponder. You just put pen to paper and write. This is what I came up with—please, no judgment!
I am floating in the water. Submerged in an ocean, lying on the waves, being pulled towards shore and pulled away. I bob on the surface, salt water lapping at my ears. I am not swimming. I am not wading. I am floating—a dead man’s float, towed by something so great, I forget I have a say in it.
What am I waiting for? What am I doing here? I feel lost in a sea. Uncertainties lapping at my ears, being towed towards the life I think I want as well as being pulled away.
Seagulls flap overhead, screaming joy, of urgency, of life. A breeze picks up. It splashes salty mist that dries on my skin.
I am alive, though I fear of dying, of death, lurking beneath my limbs, swimming upwards, mouth opened wide, teeth rounding wide, hungry for a snack.
My body is buoyant. My thoughts are drowned. I see the water. I feel the water. I am not the water, though it is part of me.
A skiff streams by. A single person commands it. The sun is bright. It bounces off the surface and hides the sex of the captain. I see the captain. I am not seen. I am passed by. If I am dead, I don’t already know it. For if I knew, I would not fear it.
I float in the ocean, on my back, staring up at the big wide sky. White clouds gather. They thin. They turn orange and then pink. They sink down, down, down, into the sea.
I forget where I am. I forget who I am.
I don’t want to remember. I am alone, buried in water, breathing in water, floating in the water.