I wrote this beginning a couple of weeks ago, and decided to share it today, in celebration of its title. Feedback would be appreciated. This place was filled with cannabanoids. They were crawling out of every fold, every hiding hole, out of every place they’d ever drifted, which was everywhere. Like the scattering cotton seeds that had so joyed me in my youth, they floated softer than a dream around us all. But it was sad to see our innocence, or excellent façade thereof, matured and changed, from latent plant life as a seed to the proud haze of the same as buds coming to a premature end. However, it was usually not until moments such as the one now I find myself looking for symbolism where it is not that any of us felt or at least admitted to feeling that sadness. That was our great pride. We were never sad, and when we were, it wasn't for long. Admittedly, we never had deep grieving at all. There was no need. It was April, and I was sitting and staring out my window at the wet streets below. Some streaks down the middle had dried already. I had just finished bearing witness to the pyre funeral of some latent plant life. Quite sad, really. When a car escorted a pair of high beams down the road way too fast, I felt an itch. I tried to scratch it several times before I even realized that my body wasn't there anymore. Few things in my life have ever been as abrupt as what happened that night. One moment I was sitting there, wishing someone out there would put a cotton seed in a drop of glass for me, and the next I was in a clean collared dress, and my hair was short and straight again. My shoes were black and shiny, with a shiny silver buckle. The days when I had little desire to make choices about wardrobe, but loved a consortium of shoes. The days when I didn't have anything of more consequence to ponder than shoes, but pondered anyhow.
Although your writing is abstract, it has bonded well (aesthetically) to conjure a natural feeling which seems to be bursting inside the narrator. I think I'm beginning to understand what the 'magic realism' you referred to in a previous post is about now. Personally, I would choose a different sentence to begin your story, Liz. One of the reasons for that is I looked up the word cannabanoid(s) and could not find it in my dictionary. I was hoping that you would explain it, but your feelings took you straight into the 'heart of the matter', so I just had to guess It might be an idea to cut the first sentence and place it in front of the sentence beginning: Your second sentence has a lot more power, and would be a more dynamic start for your story. (methinks) Try it, and see if you're happier with it. I like the flow of your narration and the way it is guided by inner feeling, rather than plot weaving. It complements your writing style. Also notable, is the subtle way with which you juxtapose shifting scenery from nature, to the rainy streets, and finally to the comfort of your home. As a brief story, I would suggest that you either end it on a high note, or with an enigma if you intend to expand it. I hope that you expand and continue it with some possibility of dialogue later on to build the mystery. Your writing is as fresh as the nature you describe.
