The Narrative Method
I am part of an online writing community called The Narrative Method. These salons and the participants have brought so much inspiration, open heartedness, and creative play into my days. Writing is one of the best ways to discover yourself, the wonderous world, and our dreams. Dreaming in the waking world is expansive possibility. Dreaming in the sleeping life is an adventure into self discovery. The Narrative Method and stream of consciousness creative writing is weaving the two together. I thought I would share last weeks prompt with you with the reminder that the outcome is not necessarily the goal. It is the process that feeds the soul. I would love to see you in the group. It is a great community and free to all.
The Prompt: We were shown a photo of a person in a long hospital hallway slumped down with her back against the wall, butt on the ground, knees bent near her chin hands covering her turned down face. She had light blue scrubs on and a fitted white cap, a face mask pulled down under her chin. The prompting sentence mentioned something about a fake reassurance.
We, the writers, had 7 minutes to write and then a second statement was shared to prompt the next 7 minutes, then we have 7 minutes to look it over or continue writing, or edit. I can’t remember what the second prompt was. But here is what came from the session. I was one out of probably 80 some participants. I know that many stories manifested out the same inspiration. This is the beauty of the practice. This is diversity. This is abundance. This is magic.
“All I ask for is honesty. it doesn’t even have to be the truth, as long as you aren’t bullshitting me.”
Her body was a thin frame folded, slumped and sliding down the wall to the ground, the heels of her hands pushed into her eyes, shoulders shrugged her neckless.
But wait… It wasn’t like you think. She wasn’t in scrubs, she wasn’t in a hospital, it was not sadness. It was frustration, she was at the end of her rope, tempted to let go and just free fall.
‘Oh, the distractions,’ she mumbled. She slid down a wall of cedar shingles and felt the long slivers of wood pierce her skin, dig in and up as she went back and down. The ground was wet under from the storm that had passed moments ago dumping an ocean of water into the earth. She felt the water soaking in to her socks inside her shoes, into her underwear inside her jeans. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. While this action was born out of vexation, she enjoyed the sensation. The relief was in the pressure.
After the silence became too loud, she looked up.
He was skyscraper tall. His bones seemed to glow under his skin. His eyes dark, skin pale. He had an elven quality, a mixture of mischief and muse.
He sighed, “I’m doing the best I can, honestly, but the lines grow blurry when so many are involved. Everyone is blinded by their point of view. There are ten thousand truths.”
The sky was darkening swiftly into iron blue and a thick cloud tumbled slowly across the sky revealing a crescent moon. Its light turned him into silhouette, yet she sensed the curl of a subtle smile growing and that familiar lift of his brow. He turned to face the light.
Their friend who had a leading part in this tale was on an island off the coast tending to a family affair having to do with stolen rubies and pirate ships. Unwittingly having the same thought, they wondered if their friend was looking at the moon too.
