Ten Minute Freewrite
We'll be starting this year off with a BANG. . . kinda. Let's take a look.
The sun comes up over the water now, as I sit on the sand in my dark red dress, among dozens of socks, phones, pens, books, jackets, umbrellas, lunch boxes, and even the occasional pet, hugging my knees, trying to think. A puppy bounds up to me, licks my leg with an enthusiastic bark, then leaps away, chasing the waves.
Last night I was with Carl going up the 101 freeway just outside LA, looking for a hidden goth club in downtown. It was probably past midnight by that point, and we had been searching for over an hour.
“Just admit it,” I had said, tugging at one of my thick black braids. “We’re lost.”
The moment I said the words, I promptly fell asleep.
And now, here I am, on a remote island somewhere, smelling of sea water and wet sand.
I think I’m missing some steps here.
This is too weird for words. What on earth happened last night? Did we find the place and I somehow got blackout drunk? No, that doesn’t make sense. I always drink in moderation. I’ve never been drunk.
Did someone stick a roofie in my drink? Some faint memory wafts in my mind. A lady dressed in purple with thick black lipstick and claw like nails, grinning at me from the darkness. But she’s the only thing in the memory. No bar stools, no dim lighting, no smell of liquor. Just this lady and her crazy grin in the night.
Neither theory makes sense. Even if I DID somehow lose everything from last night, there aren’t any remote islands around LA. If I’m in the LA area, I’ll see boats everywhere. But there’s nothing.
I carefully stand up and wipe the sand from my long black skirt. I immediately regret choosing heels for that night. With a flick of my ankles, I toss both aside among the junk littering the beach.
Junk. Junk everywhere. It’s like a representative of all the things I’ve ever lost in my life. Single socks, lost in the dryer. At least five different versions of the various phones I’ve lost over the years. Every color of pen imaginable. A mix of lunch boxes with everything on it from Pound Puppies and Gumby to Lego and Frozen characters.
There’s books too. Mainly textbooks and personal journals. I pick up a few and thumb through them, but most of the handwriting is so difficult to read it’s not worth trying.
But then something catches my eye. A green jeweled book sticking out from the sand. Careful to avoid the debris, I run after the book and snatch it from the ground. I rip open the cover to the first page, my heart skipping a beat.
My own name glares back at me with my thirteen-year-old handwriting. I run my fingers over the writing. “Destiny Deloris.” My first journal. My grandma gave it to me right before she died. I filled it with drawings of my dog, Beef, and all the angst of a preteen. But when I went to college, I lost the thing and spent much of the trip to my dorms lamenting the loss.
But here I am, holding my old journal in my hands. I flip through it, taking in all the drawings and writing, remembering every little emotion as I read.
Something hit my mind like a truck. My journal on an old beach. Pens, socks, jackets, and all the things people ever lost, surrounding me.
Where am I?
“Lost, dearie?” A voice sings over the waves. I turn and face that same crazy purple lady with her unnatural grin, ten times as scary in the daylight. I’m not entirely sure if I should, but I feel a desire to scream.
This was a good exercise in description. ;) Write your own response here, or share on your own blog!
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