Writing of all Things

  I was struggling to find a theme to write about when I tried what Dorothy Brande suggests in one of our previous week’s lessons - first thing in the morning start to write, not a story, but “unlock your thoughts on paper, write whatever comes to mind, before you are quite awake before reason has begun to take over from the dream function of your brain.   It does not matter what you write” (Burroway). After I finished, I noticed there was a chronological order, the first memory was the shortest.    Truth, Half-truth, Lie      When I was four, my parents took me to Mount Rushmore, where I rode bareback on a yak.   In the pictures by the hotel pool, my mother is holding my hand. I have long brown hair brushed into pigtails that hang in two ringlets behind my ears, wear a red zip-up sweatshirt and squint at the camera.   My brother was not in any of the pictures then. He was a newborn. I do not know where we left him.      ...

 Jack’s legs were still milling in the air when he saw the treetops below him.  He had been a few feet behind and to the right of Layla when she dissolved into the shimmering air that moved like water just before the white mountain cliffs.  She was leaning into her half running stride and it was her head that first entered into the undulating green leaves, then her shoulders, her arms holding Ashe and, lastly her right arm trailing behind the rest of her body pulling Lillian in with her. Jack stopped moving his legs and looked below, through the full lush boughs of the tree he saw Layla lying on the lush green grass with Ashe on top of her chest.  He called out hoarsely.  Layla put her hand on Ashe’s back to comfort him and her head turned toward where Lillian lie, motionless. Layla reached out her arm and touched the edge of Lillian’s pink and white top.  Jack called out, loudly this time.  Layla closed her eyes and let her head fall back. His voice e...

  Layla was running now, pulling Lillian dangerously.   Ashe squeezed his arms around her neck so tightly she could scarcely breathe.   Jack would be behind her, but she could not stop to look for him.   Layla put as much distance as she could between them and the boy-soldier with the bayonet and the invisible companion in green uniforms.   The other recruit might not be as generous. The woods were coming to an end.   The woods around the village were filled with caves disguised by underbrush.   If someone heard them coming, surely they would peer out to see who was coming.   The men and boys from the village would recognize her and pull her into their hiding places.   Layla did feel something pulling her, but it was not the hands of one of the villagers. In front of her, she saw the air move in whirls.   The green of the trees was brilliant, the leaves floated as if they were in the water.   The white mountain face was just beyond ...