Scree: A Narrative Fiction

A beam of early morning sunlight played on his face. He turned and scooted to another part of the bed in order to avoid waking. Within a few minutes the beam of sunlight had caught up with him again and was shining again directly on his eyelids. He lay there, his head in a fog, rubbed his eyes and stared at the white plastered walls trying to determine where he was and even who he was. The brightness of the room overwhelmed him with a fierce intensity. It was a few minutes before his eyes became accustomed to the light. He entertained his semi-waking mind by tracing patterns of the earthy colors on the tapestry that hung on the wall facing him. He rubbed his hands slowly on the bedsheet, felt a smoothness and said to himself, "This

I made my way to my aunt’s house. Her home smelled of fresh cut pine, and she offered me a cup of coffee with a cinnamon stick in it. I accepted, and we went to the kitchen table and discussed our week. As she talked, I looked out her kitchen table. A small oak grew in the front yard. Snow capped the birdfeeder beside her bird bath.

On a warm, sunny Texas afternoon I walked through the Southlake strip mall. In the air a pungent odor danced around me. My hand went immediately to my nose, to block out the smell. The sun’s heat came glaring down at me as I shielded my hands in front of my face to keep the ray of light from hurting my sensitive eyes. The clouds seemed to dance across the vibrant blue sky. The pounding of my feet echoed across the

A purple dusk splashing over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. When the sun set, no candle replaced it. Only the lustrous spark in glossy eyes to spare. Under the willow trees, the leaves lay deep and so crisp that a lizard made a great skittering if he ran among them. Elegantly, the innumerable flashing fragments lay shining in midst of the church. Ahead, the path vivaciously glistening like white quartz, yet raindrops on the weary concrete was all it was.

We were all scared, but I couldn't let expulsion get in my way of having the perfect summer That was the morning I noticed Rayjean absent . As we were going to breakfast I noticed a long line leading to Denaples. The sun shined bright that day, the light trying it's best to penetrate the thickness of the fog, but as hard as it tried the light just couldn’t. The red flowers shined bright thought the fog it was truly beautiful, the flower was as red as blood. Though hard to see, Dionne Green had shiny green grass neatly trimmed to the millimeter everything was great except the humidity. I looked under me, I was stepping on waxed tile stones, they looked perfect. Sebastian stared at me with a grin on his face, he motioned me to the large statue, of the man holding the cross. On his knees. I didn't know what he was thinking, then he said, " Time to climb." I immediately without hesitation agreed I gave

As I comfortably laid in my warm delightful bed. I felt such peace, such serenity as I inspected my bedroom, my sanctuary. The christmas lights dangled from the ceiling which made the light bounce off from my purple walls and illuminate my entire room. They reminded me of stars. It was

"Yep!" Says Jake before they both start running away from the screechers. When they get around the truck, they see another herd of screechers in their way, heading towards them.

The Walkers were friends of my parents and sometimes Mr. Walker worked with Dad on construction jobs. I remember the summer I was four our families lived in tents back in the hills, and my mother washed clothes on a washboard, because Dad and Mr. Walker were building Brown’s Logging Camp. Mrs. Walker taught me to draw trees and I still have the results, a crayon-colored mountain scene, because Mother saved it in my scrapbook, just as she saved the note Mrs. Walker wrote that thanked Mother for sharing me with her and described a picnic she and I had eaten on a blanket during one of my visits to their home in McCall. I was often invited to Mrs. Walker’s, and together we played card games, or took walks in the woods, or made cookies, or played with Lady

My breathing is steady and shallow, the exhales causing slight disturbances in the fog around me, my shoes making a constant smack, smack on the pavement. The mist acts like a thin blanket, dampening my senses, making the world just a little quieter, a little calmer. All around me are the sounds and smells of pure, serene nighttime. To my left is the pond; ducks are huddled along the shoreline, sometimes ruffling their feathers or making a sleepy murmur. I just passed the campus daycare, the windows are all dark and the playground is empty; the swing creaks back and forth slightly… There must be a breeze.

A majority of my favorite days were spent at Mamaw’s house. When I think about that rustic white house sitting in the middle of that vast farm, I think of it as a place where I am myself, and it is a place where my family and I create the most fun filled memories.  Mamaw’s house has been the setting of quite a few hilarious and heartwarming stories over the years. Ever since my family had bought the farm, it has been our family gathering place. Mamaw’s house hosts anything from birthday parties to Thanksgiving dinners to family reunions.  Out of all the precious memories I have from that house, there are a few that are especially near and dear to my heart.

There was a soft wind blowing that morning. The birds were chirping in the trees and the glow of the rising sun tinted the sky with shades of yellow and orange. As I walked to the car, I could feel the soft breeze pass through my hair so gently as if an angel ran its fingers through each strand. I paused for a moment to enjoy that delightful feeling before I began my journey to work.

The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.

The columns of books stood tall in the room, staring down at me. With each step, they inch closer to me, blocking out the glass of sunlight. The shelves were adorned with deep carvings of falling autumn leaves, little birds on branches – so surreal that it was inviting my fingers to be mesmerised as much as my eyes. I glided through the arboreal forest, spines of darkened leather facing outward, gold lettering ornate the edges. The sweet smell of woody vanilla and pipe tobacco was consumed by the overpowering smell of new ink and new journeys.

Gazing out of my bedroom window one night, I witnessed a breathtaking view of the yard. As if you are transferred into a fairy tale. The sky seemed like a piece of beautiful painting. The whole ambiance of the space was captivating. The fluffy clouds were dancing around the moon making the light falling on the ground to glimmer dramatically. By the passing time the cloud shift shapes into something new and exciting each time. The stone pathway led one to the exquisite marble fountain. The soft moonlight hitting the marble make it shine as white as pearls. The moonlight made everything, the flowers the tree leaves and bushes all glittered like jewels. A light breeze was making the branches dance to their own rhythm. The cool wind carrying the smell of the flowers was a reminder of a spring day. The chirping of night life added more life to the whole scenario. The soothing environment of the yard portrayed the idea of how the heaven must look like.

A fond memory that trickles into my head when I’m on the porch is an enjoyable one. Yearly, we have a party with the same families for a weekend with their dads and daughters. It started as a soccer team then grew into a stable friendship. One of the dads has an amusing capability of cooking. Lambs chops are his specialty. Shoulder to shoulder we laughed and talked around the table on the porch enjoying each others company. We chuckled through the night and with the stars. We devoured our meal of thick, juicy lamb chops and creamy garlic bread. Pasta was served with a homemade pesto sauce for those girls of particular pallets. Just talking and singing with everyone there without cellular devices, is really what summer is about. Enjoying the view of sunsets in August and sun rises in June, the view is perfect. If you turn around towards the house and enter through the screen sliding glass door, you’ll see a kitchen with 3 stools. Three stools, 3 daughters who grew up in this house. Each stool has been colorfully decorated and belongs to each one of us. We sit at those stools every day eating breakfast and starting our day off right. Taking a left we enter the living room. The living room is not called the “living” room for nothing. It’s always alive in there with songs being sung, or stories being told, it never gets old. The living room is made up of comfortable couches and silky throw blankets from all over the place, we have an itchy