I stumbled upon this.
As I am struggles with stories recently any prompt is welcome. I thought, wouldn't it be fun to write on each of these? Let's play.
Waldeinsamkeit (German): The feeling of being alone in the woods
The girl looked bored. The lethargic rhythm of her stroll gave the impression of someone resigned to a less than ordinary life and when she smiled at the small child tugging at his mother’s hair, her face was lit by a longing usually reserved for newborn birds staring at the sky. The child yelped and buried his face in the mother’s neck, embarrassed and flirtatious the way only two year olds can manage. The girl lowered her gaze, the mole on her upper lip twitching and pulling her good-natured smile into a sassy smirk into a somber curl. She continued walking and shuffling her feet against the ground. Grey Chuck Taylors tattooed with pen doodles touched the floor as sleepy brushstrokes. From across the room I could just make out the word, “ABIDE”, scribbled on her heel.
I imagine myself talking to her, teasing out giggles and joy from her stoic gaze with snap crackle pop wit. Wooing her is easy when I speak as well as I can dream. Through coffee dates and walks through art museums, picnics and electric hand holding, I could turn her ache for flight to mischievous grins of a woman with a satisfying life.
But who am I to dictate fate? After all, my fantasy is not to ease her loneliness but to sooth my sensitive ears.
The symphony of falling trees becomes deafening. The shock of fingertips would be a welcome respite.
As I am struggles with stories recently any prompt is welcome. I thought, wouldn't it be fun to write on each of these? Let's play.
Waldeinsamkeit (German): The feeling of being alone in the woods
The girl looked bored. The lethargic rhythm of her stroll gave the impression of someone resigned to a less than ordinary life and when she smiled at the small child tugging at his mother’s hair, her face was lit by a longing usually reserved for newborn birds staring at the sky. The child yelped and buried his face in the mother’s neck, embarrassed and flirtatious the way only two year olds can manage. The girl lowered her gaze, the mole on her upper lip twitching and pulling her good-natured smile into a sassy smirk into a somber curl. She continued walking and shuffling her feet against the ground. Grey Chuck Taylors tattooed with pen doodles touched the floor as sleepy brushstrokes. From across the room I could just make out the word, “ABIDE”, scribbled on her heel.
I imagine myself talking to her, teasing out giggles and joy from her stoic gaze with snap crackle pop wit. Wooing her is easy when I speak as well as I can dream. Through coffee dates and walks through art museums, picnics and electric hand holding, I could turn her ache for flight to mischievous grins of a woman with a satisfying life.
But who am I to dictate fate? After all, my fantasy is not to ease her loneliness but to sooth my sensitive ears.
The symphony of falling trees becomes deafening. The shock of fingertips would be a welcome respite.
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