Writing without Visual Cues

[RoughWriters]

Today we undertook the challenge to write without the visual cues associated with regular writing. Here are some of our results!

[tiffany]

The gentle hiss of the wind rattles the leaves hovering above my head. It’s a quiet ebb and flow, pulsing like a heartbeat in my ears. I can smell the earth, rich, vibrant, the combination of pure, crisp air and a wild spice, of evergreen and honeysuckle. Birds call to one another in the distance, the caw, caw, caw of a crow somewhere above me, the warble of a finch, and the mimicking cries of a mocking bird. I hear the flutter of wings nearby, hushed but definite. The earth crunches beneath my feet, tap, tap, light and peaceful. I can feel the small pebbles, the upraised roots, the pathways of trailing rainwater, all with a touch. The rough bark of a tree is at my fingertips, gently grating at my tender skin. It is sticky with sap, yet wet with the rainwater that trickles down its coarse surface. The rain trickles down my face as well, tickling my cheeks, washing away sorrow and anger in its peace.

[Scott]

Damp, hot air streamed by me as I walked. The ”clanck ching ching ching ching” came from my right as I stumbled by, catching myself on a cold smooth surface. My toe throbbed in my shoe and through the holes in my sock, the rough leather irritated my toe.
The strong smell of sweet and sour chicken overpowered my nostrils and the air tasted of deep fry cookers and grease. I did not glance back at what I had stumbled over, but it hadn’t felt hard. It was rather a dull squish of material and a loud slosh of liquid. Some of this had spilled down my leg and now began to seep beneath the dryness of my socks.
From somewhere came the fast piercing siren of the police. A closing “Wee Oooh” that was punctuated with the sharp click of a door and the whoosh of a holster strap. “Freeze, fella.” The cough that shook me reverberated in my chest and down I fell, slowly weakening. The tinny taste of blood filled my mouth before I felt hard arms grasp me and cold circlets bind me.

[Sarah]

The horrible smells that wafted towards my nose kept touching my arms and legs like creeping hands a long my skin. The tendrils inched higher and higher up my body as the smell almost had me passed out. I could feel them moving through my clothes as they inched along. I could taste the smells now. The bitterness and the spicy tang of blood stung my tongue. I could hear the wails and sobs, the screams and shouts of the recipients of these smells and tastes. The cold tendrils continued to engulf me. Then the heat came. It seared and burned and oh the pain, it was so sharp. I could feel the coldness of the ground and then the heat returned engulfing me in pain. The sizzling of burned flesh reached my ears and the smells said burning flesh reached my nose in a cacophony of bitter smells. The smells burned my eyes.

[Edward Cheever]

It was too dark to see anything. My fingers prowled the object’s edges.
“I don’t understand. Why do you…”
“Just do it!” Came the sinister voice, “Tell me what that object is, or you will face the consequences.”
I shook my head, “This is stup…”
“DO IT!” cried the voice.
Even though the room was already pitch black, I closed my eyes firmly, more for my own mind than any practical purpose.
I listened to the electrical notes on the tips of my fingers as I ran them once more over the object. It was smooth, but imperfect. Subtle, almost imperceptible dips, dimples and valleys pockmarked the strange surface.
It was cold. Not cold like a fish drug out of the Alaskan waters, but rather the cool of something dead, untouched by the sun, or the warmth of a lamp.
I bent my face to the surface and took a strong breath. Nothing. Perhaps the slightest hint of chemical residue, like a glue or plastic.
Still confused, I placed my ear against it for any hint of sound. Again, nothing. Perhaps the small sound of some far off vibration, and the beating of my own heart.
I opened my eyes and turned my head in the darkness, searching the unseen corners of my imagination.
“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
“What is the object?” demanded the voice.
“I have no idea what…”
“Be sure of yourself before you answer. You know the price.”
I shivered and bent back over the object. I ran my hands over it again, it’s hard, unyielding surface. I pressed my ear up against it again. With my right hand I reached out and tapped on it with a sharp rap.
A hollow, wooden sound rang in my ears. It was like the sound of a buried man banging on the lid of his coffin. At the thought I shrunk back from it.
I sat there, still for a moment, before I returned my hands to it again. I would find no sympathy from the voice for my fears.
Nothing told me what I needed. Not touch. Not smell. Not Hearing. Not… uhg. There was something I had forgotten.
“Yes,” said the voice. “Taste it. Slide your tongue across its surface, and tell me.”
“No, but I don’t…”
“Taste It!”
I shuddered and leaned in. I tentatively stretched out my tongue, shivering as I leaned forward.
I hesitated, then dove in. My tongue drug across the cold, hard, smooth surface. My face contracted into a grimace. It tasted… wooden.
“What…”
“Mr. Shenheimer, pay attention!”
“Huh… wha?” My eyes opened, and I blinkingly saw light.
“Mr. Shenheimer, what are you doing?”
It was then I realized I was in class. And while all eyes watched, I was licking my desk.