My writing group is pretty informal – we don’t have officers or go over the minutes of previous meetings. Instead, we get together for lunch, talk about our current projects, and discuss things like our latest marketing efforts. In September, we decided to change things up by taking a trip to an arboretum, bringing only paper and pen.
After a few minutes of “sharing,” we split up – each wandering through the gardens and the paths of our own imagination.
It was overcast with a passing sprinkle or two, a comfortable 72 degrees – perfect writing weather.
I thought I had found the perfect spot to write – a picnic table under a gazebo. I scratched out a few lines and after a moment, I moved to another location. It was there, sitting in an Adirondack chair that I met Grace.
Dropping the garden rake, she placed her hands on the small of her back and stretched as rain drops lightly fell around her. June had been unusually hot and dry. Grace refused to run inside. She thought it a sacrilege not to bathe in the prayed for precipitation, to not revel in the glorious wetness.
The clouds thickened, the droplets fell harder, faster. A low rumble signaled this would be no passing shower. This would be an electrical frenzy – a clashing of the elements.
The wind shifted. The trees found their rhythm, swaying to some mystical music. Grace closed her eyes, raised her hands into the air until she too, found the melody. she rocked to and fro, and as the storm increased in intensity, so did her movements. She danced – twirling like a tornado. A laugh erupted from deep inside as lightning crackled across the sky.
It was then he saw her – this beautiful madwoman embracing the storm – and the fairy prince knew she would be his.