Game - Free Association

I've been thinking about this blog off and on all day long. While I can't imagine my enthusiasm waxing for much longer, this must be a good sign. I thought of and scrapped about a dozen ideas for things to post about today; I'll be wishing for this good fortune again in a week when the tumbleweeds are rolling through my barren brain.

I finally settled on a fun game: free association! Two minutes of typing with eyes (mostly) closed, then I will construct a little story out of my lists.

Blue:
Sea, salt, water, blue, blue, neon, yellow, sign, flickering, alley, shadow, dumpster, garbage, cardboard, rats, tail, twitching, waiting, breathing, whoosh, air, breath, breeze, sun and clouds, yellow, buttercup, daisy, meadow, green, waving grass, shhhh, sleep, cottony, downy, comforter, warm, heavy, hot, red, stifle, can't breathe.

Wisp:
cloud, cold, ice, crystals, clear, shiny, melt, droplet, tiny, splash, circles, pond, mirror, reeds, toads, croak, night, warm, scented, humid, sticky, mosquito, candles, yellow, flicker, wax, sizzle, cooking, garlic, savory, green, rich, savory, warm, aroma, cinnamon, cardamom, chai tea, milk, honey, clouds

Bread:
wheat, yeast, fluff, oven, rise, steam, cut open, slice, serrated, glint, silver, blade, gleam, blood, shine, run, drop, pool, sticky, hot, garnet, reflection, shadows, ruffle, wave, tide, crash, foam, retreat, sand

The broad themes I can see here are: ocean, kitchen, danger, springtime. My spur of the moment, rough little story follows.


Her knife sliced through an onion, creating a disorganized pile of pale half-moons on the chipped chopping board. With every slick slice, the aroma of the onion drifted up toward her. Water pricked at her eyes, and she blinked hurriedly. Across the kitchen, in the little living room, a window admitted a brisk, salty breeze off the ocean, and it was to this window that she strode, hoping that the fresh air would soothe the affliction.


The air tasted heavy and wet in her mouth and delivered a tang of ozone to clear the savory, raw smell of the onion. She sniffed, once to refresh her nose and again to explore the familiar aroma of an oncoming storm. With her free hand, slightly sticky from the pungent juices the onion and garlic, she pushed the window further open and leaned her head outside. In the west, shrouding what should have been a brilliant sunset, dark clouds gathered. They hung low in the sky, indistinguishable from the shadow they cast across the beach.


As she gazed out the window, thinking about someone who should have been returning from that direction any moment now, she caught a whiff of onion. She frowned down at her hand and left the window in search of the sink and soap. On her way, she pressed a button on the long, low radio that hunched in one corner of the countertop. Static crashed out of the speakers for a moment before the signal established itself.


She continued chopping as the disk jockey suspended the play of light jazz she was trying to grow to like. He informed his listeners that the National Weather Service had issued watches and warnings for the area, and she tried to remember which was the worse one. The voice coming through the speakers sounded so serious.


The aroma of onions lingered as she finished chopping and scraped the piles on the board into a pan, slick with hot oil. A pleasant hiss briefly filled her ears, and in spite of her growing concern for the man who should have been arriving for his dinner, she smiled, just a little. The radio repeated the watches and warnings – and now sightings, as the food cooked and the aroma in the kitchen softened. Sightings sounded worst of all.


She left the stove to return to the window. The air was suddenly stifling, so still and wet and hot. She leaned outside and squinted into the distance, but when she saw jagged slashes of furious light in the distance, she slammed the window shut and hurried back to the kitchen. Her hands moved by their own accord, boiling water, shaking salt, twisting the pepper mill, as the slashes of light flickered behind her eyes.


She ate, but everything tasted dim. She lit candles, but they danced so strangely. Dishes piled up in the sink, leftover food cooled on the table, and still the slashes flickered. Her hip creaked as she let herself fall into a pillowy armchair. She did not want to see the bright, vicious forks of lightning, but she could not allow her eyes to close until he came through the door.


The rumbling, rolling, crackling, and cracking thunder should have kept her awake. But her body, exhausted by her day’s labors, and her eyes, still tender from the defenses of the onion, betrayed her as the lightning split the clouds above the sea. She slept, and the candles burned out, and the door was still.


And so - a story. I'm not sure it means anything, but the neurons that spark and spit out these things require exercise.

I'm having second thoughts about not sharing this blog. I would welcome other ideas of creative games and topics and posts, and I'm more likely to get them from people directed here than from people who somehow stumble upon this rambling. Perhaps, perhaps.