This week was the last meeting of my writing group until September. It's always a little sad when this happens. However, the organizers have pointed out that when they did hold the group in the summer, numbers were practically non-existent, as summer madness ensues. Vacation plans, barbecues, dinners, outdoor activities. They feel, and I agree, that the two month break is nice with all the summer obligations.
During the group, I wrote a bit for my novel, which was nice. We talked a bit about book clubs, which got me thinking, and that's always nice too.
Below is a bit a wrote in response to a prompt, a combination of drawing a tight spiral and a Rumi poem. As always, it is totally rough and unedited, except for maybe spelling.
I pressed my toes into the wet sand. Usually, I hate the feeling of something between my toes, but this, this was good. It was cool on the surface and warmer as my feet sank deeper. I wiggled and pushed, letting myself slip slowly beneath the surface. The wet sand glided up the top of my feet, touching my ankles as a soft wave rolled across the beach. I watched as it receded, back into the salty ocean.
The grains tickled, but I didn’t want to move. I stared out at the blue of the water, reflecting the perfect clear blue of the sky. Nothing in front of me except my shadow and the foam-tipped waves of the ocean. Everything was behind me. I could feel the heat of the sun on the back of my neck, the back of my legs. If I paid attention, I could hear the voices of the others. Not many, but a few people who said they were like me, who needed to come to the beach in the middle of the afternoon.
I didn’t want to think about why the beach wasn’t more crowded. It was a hot, cloudless afternoon. It was just me and a handful of people. I wished I was alone, but I also wished I wasn’t.