Formed From Fire
I find myself drawn to vignettes, possibly the most obscure format for creative writing. Novels are too big a commitment and too complex. Short stories have to be sandwiched by the perfect beginning and ending and bound with a bow. My perfectionism makes me tinker with them endlessly and still feel unsatisfied. As a sensitive person, poetry calls to me, but it’s too unstructured. I get overwhelmed and struggle to find my voice. Vignettes capture the essence of a mood and cut it out from a larger story, inherently leaving frayed edges. It’s poetic while still being prose and complete in its imperfection.
So for the first time in years, I’m attempting creative writing. Sparks will be a series of vignettes, bound by interlocking characters (some children, some adults) and a unifying theme.
Spark I
About once a month, I get vivid dreams. Most people remember their nightmares, but I rarely get nightmares. Or they have dreams about being naked in class. And I get those, too, but probably everyone does. These dreams are different. They are all intricate landscapes to explore. They don’t have any deeper meaning, but they can be so beautiful I wake up crying. Majestic cliffs rising above the ocean with granite statues overlooking the waves. A rainy forest hiding a network of caves lit by candles. A gate behind a Manhattan apartment leading to a labyrinthian garden of flowers and hedges.
I need to memorialize these worlds, so I try to paint them, but the result is like a looking through thick fog on a windy day: blurry and shifting and dull. Maybe I’m not the best artist. But even if I were, I don’t think I could capture the immediacy of those worlds.
I like to sleep a lot. When I go to bed I wonder if I’ll get gifted with one of these dreams. If I want for them too much, they don’t happen. They’re most likely to happen when I’m just really tired and not thinking about anything.
Last night I had one of these dreams. It was the most lackluster one I’ve had, but it was vivid and a landscape, so it still counted.
Me, my mom, my dad, and my dog were going on a long road trip. I don’t actually have a dog, but in the dream I did. It was a golden retriever and was always smiling with its tongue out. I don’t remember where we were going — maybe Canada or maybe a beach in North Carolina, which are two very different places — but that isn’t really important.
My mom said, “We’re going to need to take [the dog] out for a bathroom break soon.” (The dog also had a name, but I don’t remember what it was.)
My dad said he’d keep an eye out, and in a few minutes, he pointed to a green grassy area to the left, and we pulled over and got out of the car.
The field was rectangular and bounded by trees on the other three sides. It was also much bigger and more interesting than it looked from the road. The air smelled green and fresh. The grass was overgrown and sprinkled with wildflowers in every color and shape. Butterflies and a couple bumblebees flew above the flowers. The colors were so vibrant, and the place felt more alive than any field I had seen before. There were a series of stones laid out in a path, almost like stepping stones, but they were a little too spread out, and a little too tall. The makeshift path led to a large tree, standing alone like an island in a sea of yellow flowers that had congregated around its roots. A bridge nestled in the woods behind the field caught my attention. I made my way towards it, crossing the field diagonally, and the flowers ticked my legs as I walked.
The cool shade of the woods was a welcome contrast to the blaring heat over the field. The scent changed too. It was earthy, mossy and tranquil. The bridge was arched and composed of green-grey stones of irregular sizes that jutted out from the mortar. I sat on the bridge wall and peered into the stream below, looking for snails or frogs. It was too hard to see through the running water, so I got off the bridge, took off my shoes, and stepped into the water, and trodded through it. I found a small shell and picked it up, but no one was living in it anymore.
The stream parted around a large boulder boulder with a flat top. It was warmed by a single sunbeam like a beacon. I climbed up on it, so I could lie down and dry out, but I heard my mom’s voice calling me. I hadn’t walked far upstream and could see her in the field beyond the trees.
Now, I am mostly awake and in the car, feeling tired and a bit grumpy. My dad forced me up early, because I had completely forgotten about the weekend plans — or else my mom and dad forgot to tell me, which is also likely. (They forget a lot of things.) We are going on a guided nature tour on canoes with some family friends. The family friends are fine but boring, and it takes effort to talk to people and smile at the right time and remember what to say. I don’t like that here will also be strangers the tour, because talking to strangers takes double the effort. Canoeing sounds fun, but I’d rather be allowed to jump off the boat and swim around than being forced to follow the guide.
The car is musty and hasn’t been cleaned in a long while, but I have the window cracked. I’ve been leaning against the window, drifting in an out of sleep, lulled by the breeze. This nature place must be far away, because my legs are cramping.
The strip malls and billboards transition into farmlands and small towns, which transition to trees mixed with open grassland. My dad pulls out a map. “We are almost at the picnic site.” He looks at his watch. “And right on time, too.”
My mom pulls into a small gravel lot with three parking spaces and two picnic tables. She opens the trunk and the cooler in the truck, and pulls out 3 brown lunch bags. I take my book out of the backseat with me and grab a lunch bag with my other hand.
Right behind the parking lot is the field from my dream. It is less majestic somehow, like the grass is shorter, and there are no butterflies, and there are fewer varieties of wild flowers. But the big tree is there, and the stones leading up to the tree are there, and the bridge beyond the field in the trees. Oh, so I have been here before. That explains why the dream wasn’t as vivid as the other landscape dreams — it wasn’t one after all. It was just a memory.
“I remember this place. When were we here before?”
My dad looks at me quizzically. “We’ve never been here before. We’ve never been down this way at all before. We wanted to explore a new natural area.
“No, you’re wrong, we have.” My mom repeats that we have not.
I take a smug satisfaction in proving my parents wrong, and I know just how to do it.
“Well, I know the perfect lunch spot.” And I confidentially run across the field and alongside the stream. Then, I take off my shoes, leave them on a rock by the bank, trudge through the water, and climb up on the bolder. I lay my book down for now, take the turkey sandwich out of the lunch bag, and wait for my parents to catch up.
About once a month, I get vivid dreams. Most people remember their nightmares, but I rarely get nightmares. Or they have dreams about being naked in class. And I get those, too, but probably everyone does. These dreams are different. They are all intricate landscapes to explore. They don’t have any deeper meaning, but they can be so beautiful I wake up crying. Majestic cliffs rising above the ocean with granite statues overlooking the waves. A rainy forest hiding a network of caves lit by candles. A gate behind a Manhattan apartment leading to a labyrinthian garden of flowers and hedges.
I need to memorialize these worlds, so I try to paint them, but the result is like a looking through thick fog on a windy day: blurry and shifting and dull. Maybe I’m not the best artist. But even if I were, I don’t think I could capture the immediacy of those worlds.
I like to sleep a lot. When I go to bed I wonder if I’ll get gifted with one of these dreams. If I want for them too much, they don’t happen. They’re most likely to happen when I’m just really tired and not thinking about anything.
Last night I had one of these dreams. It was the most lackluster one I’ve had, but it was vivid and a landscape, so it still counted.
Me, my mom, my dad, and my dog were going on a long road trip. I don’t actually have a dog, but in the dream I did. It was a golden retriever and was always smiling with its tongue out. I don’t remember where we were going — maybe Canada or maybe a beach in North Carolina, which are two very different places — but that isn’t really important.
My mom said, “We’re going to need to take [the dog] out for a bathroom break soon.” (The dog also had a name, but I don’t remember what it was.)
My dad said he’d keep an eye out, and in a few minutes, he pointed to a green grassy area to the left, and we pulled over and got out of the car.
The field was rectangular and bounded by trees on the other three sides. It was also much bigger and more interesting than it looked from the road. The air smelled green and fresh. The grass was overgrown and sprinkled with wildflowers in every color and shape. Butterflies and a couple bumblebees flew above the flowers. The colors were so vibrant, and the place felt more alive than any field I had seen before. There were a series of stones laid out in a path, almost like stepping stones, but they were a little too spread out, and a little too tall. The makeshift path led to a large tree, standing alone like an island in a sea of yellow flowers that had congregated around its roots. A bridge nestled in the woods behind the field caught my attention. I made my way towards it, crossing the field diagonally, and the flowers ticked my legs as I walked.
The cool shade of the woods was a welcome contrast to the blaring heat over the field. The scent changed too. It was earthy, mossy and tranquil. The bridge was arched and composed of green-grey stones of irregular sizes that jutted out from the mortar. I sat on the bridge wall and peered into the stream below, looking for snails or frogs. It was too hard to see through the running water, so I got off the bridge, took off my shoes, and stepped into the water, and trodded through it. I found a small shell and picked it up, but no one was living in it anymore.
The stream parted around a large boulder boulder with a flat top. It was warmed by a single sunbeam like a beacon. I climbed up on it, so I could lie down and dry out, but I heard my mom’s voice calling me. I hadn’t walked far upstream and could see her in the field beyond the trees.
Now, I am mostly awake and in the car, feeling tired and a bit grumpy. My dad forced me up early, because I had completely forgotten about the weekend plans — or else my mom and dad forgot to tell me, which is also likely. (They forget a lot of things.) We are going on a guided nature tour on canoes with some family friends. The family friends are fine but boring, and it takes effort to talk to people and smile at the right time and remember what to say. I don’t like that here will also be strangers, because talking to strangers takes double the effort. Canoeing sounds fun, but I’d rather be allowed to jump off the boat and swim around than being forced to follow the guide.
The car is musty and hasn’t been cleaned in a long while, but I have the window cracked. I’ve been leaning against the window, drifting in an out of sleep, lulled by the breeze. This nature place must be far away, because my legs are cramping.
The strip malls and billboards transition into farmlands and small towns, which transition to trees mixed with open grassland. My dad pulls out a map. “We are almost at the picnic site.” He looks at his watch. “And right on time, too.”
My mom pulls into a small gravel lot with three parking spaces and two picnic tables. She opens the trunk and the cooler in the truck, and pulls out 3 brown lunch bags. I take my book out of the backseat with me and grab a lunch bag with my other hand.
Right behind the parking lot is the field from my dream. It is less majestic somehow, like the grass is shorter, and there are no butterflies, and there are fewer varieties of wild flowers. But the big tree is there, and the stones leading up to the tree are there, and the bridge beyond the field in the trees. Oh, so I have been here before. That explains why the dream wasn’t as vivid as the other landscape dreams — it wasn’t one after all. It was just a memory.
“I remember this place. When were we here before?”
My dad looks at me quizzically. “We’ve never been here before. We’ve never been down this way at all before. We wanted to explore a new natural area.”
“No, you’re wrong, we have.” (My mom repeats that we have not.)
I take a smug satisfaction in proving my parents wrong, and I know just how to do it.
“Well, I know the perfect lunch spot.” And I confidentially run across the field and alongside the stream. Then, I take off my shoes, leave them on a rock by the bank, trudge through the water, and climb up on the bolder. I lay my book down for now, take the turkey sandwich out of the lunch bag, and wait for my parents to catch up.