Creative Writing 3 (Nonfiction)
[Words pulled to describe a traumatizing moment endured by yours truly]
I sat upon the cold, smooth, wooden dock. It did not move and neither did I. I leaned backwards to feel the damp texture against my palms. I could not feel splintering fibers; my skin gently rubbed in the direction of the grain. Therefore, I presumed the structure safe. There was no rocking, pushing me to infer that the wooden poles were stabbing deeply underneath the bottom of the pond muck to secure our supportive raft. I steadied my blurry vision to focus on my feet and watch the arch of my legs pull my bones upward to the fold in my knees and then into my hips. The hard pressure on my haunches from the wooden seat did not interrupt my comfort at all. I situated my position so my hand could linger towards yours with hopes that my lack of words would be warmed by your hand, caressing my emotional discomfort with your uncertain devotion.