Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

I wandered lonely as a cloud

An excerpt from today:

I'm sitting in my car on a very windy cold day looking out over the grey river at Fabyan Forest Park.
I have just run errands and the last one is the library.
The snow has been gone for so long- it's hard to imagine the woods with it. I can still it see somewhere in my mind- white, grey and blue.
The clouds above the line of trees on the opposite bank take on a purple grey color and I wonder if it's because of the brown trees below?
A mass of trees always put an aura in the air around it. Always, a sort of mist hangs around it even though it is no mist at all. It is just the different height of branches and twigs all delicately interlaced in the sky. So now the clouds are purple instead of merely just grey due to these brown interweavings.
And there's the tiniest big of purple in the river because the river always reflects the clouds. The color of purple in the river is so faint, you wouldn't notice it if you didn't see the trees touching the clouds into color.
I feel like I could go on forever about the trees, sky and river. A thousand years could go by and I wouldn't say it all. Not at all.
Can I know this place? If I moved away would it gain clarity and grow starbright? Or would it writhe and glower in my mind and become hidden in homesickness. This place did both when I was away in college. It gave me my best essay and it scored my heart with a hundred missing cuts and bruises. The lakes of Minnesota did nothing to satiate the need of this particular river and forest.
Why does a place do that? This place has memories in my mind from childhood but the memories are like dreams and I've never been sure if I went here with my parents and aunt or if I dreamed that I did, over and over as a child.
I am here now and I'm still not sure of those memories. I am simply glad to be here.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

How to Get Through a Big Book

How to get through a Big Book and have a little fun too.

  1. Make and eat food mentioned in the book (big books always include food, usually in meticulous detail).
  2. Read a little bit each day.
  3. Make a soundtrack.
  4. Dress like a character from the book for a day. Or a week. Or a month if it really grabs you.
  5. Ten minutes to kill? Daydream about the landscape or what the characters are seeing as they move through their day.
  6. Read passages you enjoy out loud. If you’re in the right mood, record yourself reading passages and share it (Instagram is great for this). Include illustrations if you like (thank you, Shirin).
  7. Whip out a highlighter or some sticky tabs for those great parts.
  8. Pace yourself and remember, reading gigantic books isn’t a race. It’s about the journey. Might as well bring along snacks, good drinks, great lighting, and enjoy the ride.

How to Search for Story Settings

A big city not far from mine has a casino. I’ve heard a few stories from friends that have worked there. Most center on being treated badly by a customer and revenging themselves by throwing the customer’s car keys into the Fox River. Karma is enacted on a regular basis at the casino.

There’s something about that river, flowing by, murky green during the day and black at night, a bottomless pit for car keys.

The river divides the city in half, east to west. The Fox flows along the old warehouses, limestone and brick, built back when the city had manufacturing plants and industry. Now the warehouses sit sturdy and silent, crumbling ever so slowly. Their roofs are flat and give the illusion of brick walls running straight into the sky. Some were built like prosaic wedding cakes, higher and higher, until the final topping is small square with tiny windows. Industry has never been about aesthetic needs and wants.  And yet by some miracle, these old turn of the century warehouses have achieved it just the same.

I observed the warehouses from the back deck of the riverside café, clutching my cup of earl grey and wishing I had put sunscreen on. It was the first time I had ever been to this café and I came because I needed a new setting for a fiction story I was working on. None of the cafes I remembered from the past were working for me. I needed this kind of café, one that hung out in an old manufacturing city where there wasn’t much industry left. There was, at least, a casino and many local businesses and this café hung on, here at the water’s edge.

A little further up was the casino where my friends had thrown those keys into the water. From my point on the deck, I could see the grimy metallic white heel of the building jutting out. Another friend told me that he goes there regularly to play black jack. It relieves stress and earns a little extra cash for his family.

The wind picks up a little and despite the sun, it’s chilly. Spring plays these tricks on us.

There is no sign of life in the warehouses all around me. We’re all boxed in together and the light plays off their empty windows, open and blank to the sun. I sip some tea and play “Over the Hills and Far Away” by Led Zeppelin just to see if this café will work for my story. It only takes a few bars of listening to the song and I know that this place is perfect. This spot on the river is perfect for many stories. It’s  been perfect for all the stories I know nothing about and the ones that I’ve caught the smallest glimpses of.

A mallard suns himself in the weeds that line the water’s edge. The river moves fast and sure and I turn off the music. No need to for further noise. The song is already there.