Still in her nightclothes, she stood in the damp grass, watching the swirling morning fog that veiled the lake, strands of the wispy gray unwinding skyward, wraithlike. It was thick enough to conceal the loons that called mournfully in the mist. Their molting was almost complete, signaling their departure, signaling ice up, winter. She envied the loons, their closeness, their ability to molt and migrate. At the water’s edge now, she turned over the old canoe, and, leaving her nightclothes on the shore, shoved off into the lake, paddle-less, letting the slight breeze carry her into the fog. The water was warmer than the cool fall air eddying around her and with barely a splash, she let herself slip into its consoling embrace.

An offering in six sentences for Zoe at Recording Life Under the Radar. This weeks cue is SLIP!


7 thoughts on “Slipping

  1. “next time, try to write something more evocative… not!”*

    damn! pleasing (and impressive) arrangement of words, yo.**
    ‘cellent Six.
    (My efforts to write seem to go immediately to presenting a ‘visual’, a scene, if you will. It’s fun, however threading a narrative through (them) is a bigger challenge. In an odd way, it seems to encourage my ‘telling’ at the cost of additional ‘showing’.)
    Liked your storyette*** and it helps to try and figure out how a well-written story is done.

    *while my ambition lends confidence to mangling words, I have a sneaking feeling that written humor, counter-intuitively enough, is an even slipperier fish to land
    ** the Chicago Manual of Style recommends footnotes whenever attempting to employ ‘thug’ into shorter works
    *** not a ‘real’ word

    Liked by 1 person

  2. So lyrical! Loved the beautiful descriptions.
    I hope it’s not a forever embrace though it feels like it is.Your story makes me want to hear more about her . Wonderful six sentences.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Powerful and lyrical writing, D. You captured me with your first sentence and convinced me to let go with the last. Although this character might not return, I read it as a shedding of clothes and former self, an embrace of new life. Perhaps in the great beyond. Absolutely loved how you weaved threads of loons and mist throughout. Solid writing!

    Liked by 1 person

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