I Like to Think I Can Write

I Like to Think I Can Write

A creative writing piece

I had to write this piece for a class, but it is one of my favorite things I have ever written. I tried to describe a place that was meaningful to me but without actually naming the place.


The sun tries to enter my window, but the blinds have barricaded it from my eyes. It’s eager. It tries to creep through my eyelashes. I sleep until late morning. Organic cotton sheets envelop me, keeping me there. It feels like a hug. I stretch.

I tear open the blinds and feel alive. Waking up to the smell of Sunday breakfast floating up the stairs and a puppy licking my cheek. I put on my glasses. blueberry-filled pancakes. Fluffy eggs. Greasy bacon. Sticky syrup. Tangy juice. Good morning hugs and kisses. Full bellies. Telling stories. The sun is warm through the windows, bathing the dogs in its softest light. Soft pajamas.

Creeping back up the steep staircase to start my day. Hot shower. Foggy mirrors. Pink towel. Fragrant lotion. Stringy wet hair. My room basks in the afternoon light. Perfume spray makes rainbows in the rays. I clothe my body in things that are lived in. They are worn. I am comfortable. I am content. I am loved.

The evening breeze is filled with bird calls and frog voices. Fireflies speckle the air like confetti. Stars glitter the ebony sky. The grass is dewy, bare footprints leaving dark spots in the yard. Grass sticks to my feet. Slapping mosquitoes away. Tires creak on top of the gravel. Crickets sing their little songs. Sunsets spill over the trees, making everything a shade of pink.

The moon peeks out, timid, but bright. Cold enough for a sweatshirt and a bonfire. Smoke penetrates my jacket. It coats my hair. Gooey marshmallows. The kittens run amok, finding little mice in the weeds. Coyotes yip in the field. Searching for the Big Dipper. The vastness of the sky makes me feel so small. A tiny human on a big planet, floating in space. Stray headlights sweep through the trees.

I trudge upstairs to sleep. The sound of my toothbrush rattles my teeth. My blankets are soft. Goodnight hugs and kisses. Yawns are contagious. Lights turn off. Tiptoeing. The silence of the darkness, but also the noise of everything that only awakens at night.

Published by ava leigh

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