Genre: Fiction
Back in 2013, WRITE CLUB Atlanta posted this prompt. I found it terribly engaging and the below piece tumbled out because of it. A bit of a play upon guided meditations. Not sure whether I ever submitted it to them or not. Regardless, I don’t mind it seeing the light of day here, since it is so different from my usual fare.
Path.
by Gwynn V. Fulcher
You are walking barefoot on a path.
The path is covered in a dry dirt so fine it is soft as sifted flour.
The air is comfortable.
There is a breeze.
You are content.
You come across the first thing.
It is round and fits in your cupped hands.
It has a bright color and a give to its skin.
It smells of citrus.
It is an orange.
You know it is.
You put it in your right pocket.
The pocket is deep, there is plenty of room.
You start walking again.
You are comfortable.
Relax.
You see the second thing.
It is ahead of you and a little to the right of the path.
It’s taller than you are, but only a little.
And its skin is rough.
As you approach it, you see it has no leaves.
But a few small colored buds.
Seeing it reminds you to take a deep breath.
It is a tree.
You know it is a tree.
You retrieve a twig that has fallen to the ground.
A bud is on the twig.
Place the twig in your left pocket
And inhale deeply.
There is plenty of room.
You continue walking past the tree.
You are relaxed.
The air is soft.
There is a breeze.
You follow the path into a lightly wooded forest.
The leaves are light green
And sunlight beams in and out between the trunks as you move.
The air is comfortable among the trees.
You feel the twig in your pocket.
The orange.
And inhale again.
Relaxing.
Walking.
You see the third thing.
It is on the ground.
When you stop it is at your feet.
It is thin and black with silver threads.
It is made of cloth.
It is a glove.
You know it is a glove.
The glove is yours.
You bend your knees and crouch to pick it up.
You rest in the low comfort of that position.
Feel the gentle stretch on your legs and knees.
Feel the softness of the glove in your hands.
And stand again.
Regard the silver threads.
Seeing the glove reminds you to keep it.
You place the glove in a pocket.
You continue to walk with a steady, relaxed cadence.
The trail is inviting.
The dirt is dry and soft.
The trees thicken and shush in the low breeze.
You see the fourth thing.
It is on the trail ahead.
At the edge of a clearing.
It is small enough to fit in your one hand.
It is clean and warm-looking.
It is a gun.
You know it is.
The gun is not yours.
Seeing it reminds you that someone else is here.
You reach inside your pockets.
And gently feel the glove.
The orange.
The twig.
And inhale deeply.
You push the gun across the ground with your bare foot.
In the soft, dry dirt.
You push it off of the trail.
Into the brush.
Its metal was pleasantly warm from the sun.
You resume walking.
You step from the soft, sifted trail.
Into the clearing.
The air is inviting.
The grasses are knee-high
Bending gently in the breeze.
The sun is warm and waning.
A loon cries softly.
You see the fifth thing.
In the grasses.
Ahead and a little to the right.
There.
In the bed of wild tulips.
Amid the softly buzzing wings of the carrion flies.
He is exactly where you left him.
Path.
by Gwynn V. Fulcher
You are walking barefoot on a path.
The path is covered in a dry dirt so fine it is soft as sifted flour.
The air is comfortable.
There is a breeze.
You are content.
You come across the first thing.
It is round and fits in your cupped hands.
It has a bright color and a give to its skin.
It smells of citrus.
It is an orange.
You know it is.
You put it in your right pocket.
The pocket is deep, there is plenty of room.
You start walking again.
You are comfortable.
Relax.
You see the second thing.
It is ahead of you and a little to the right of the path.
It’s taller than you are, but only a little.
And its skin is rough.
As you approach it, you see it has no leaves.
But a few small colored buds.
Seeing it reminds you to take a deep breath.
It is a tree.
You know it is a tree.
You retrieve a twig that has fallen to the ground.
A bud is on the twig.
Place the twig in your left pocket
And inhale deeply.
There is plenty of room.
You continue walking past the tree.
You are relaxed.
The air is soft.
There is a breeze.
You follow the path into a lightly wooded forest.
The leaves are light green
And sunlight beams in and out between the trunks as you move.
The air is comfortable among the trees.
You feel the twig in your pocket.
The orange.
And inhale again.
Relaxing.
Walking.
You see the third thing.
It is on the ground.
When you stop it is at your feet.
It is thin and black with silver threads.
It is made of cloth.
It is a glove.
You know it is a glove.
The glove is yours.
You bend your knees and crouch to pick it up.
You rest in the low comfort of that position.
Feel the gentle stretch on your legs and knees.
Feel the softness of the glove in your hands.
And stand again.
Regard the silver threads.
Seeing the glove reminds you to keep it.
You place the glove in a pocket.
You continue to walk with a steady, relaxed cadence.
The trail is inviting.
The dirt is dry and soft.
The trees thicken and shush in the low breeze.
You see the fourth thing.
It is on the trail ahead.
At the edge of a clearing.
It is small enough to fit in your one hand.
It is clean and warm-looking.
It is a gun.
You know it is.
The gun is not yours.
Seeing it reminds you that someone else is here.
You reach inside your pockets.
And gently feel the glove.
The orange.
The twig.
And inhale deeply.
You push the gun across the ground with your bare foot.
In the soft, dry dirt.
You push it off of the trail.
Into the brush.
Its metal was pleasantly warm from the sun.
You resume walking.
You step from the soft, sifted trail.
Into the clearing.
The air is inviting.
The grasses are knee-high
Bending gently in the breeze.
The sun is warm and waning.
A loon cries softly.
You see the fifth thing.
In the grasses.
Ahead and a little to the right.
There.
In the bed of wild tulips.
Amid the softly buzzing wings of the carrion flies.
He is exactly where you left him.
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