I never write about water

Water. I’m terrified to write about it. And sand. It just seems like everything’s been said already, every metaphor made and remade, all the originality long since carried out by the tide. And the truth of it just isn’t that appealing: It’s either clear, or one of a few different shades of blue-green-brown, depending on the weather overhead, and the diet of whatever animal chose to defecate in it upstream. It’s lame, and I’m scared of being a lame writer.

But it’s useful.

Need a sweet first kiss? Try this:

Jack and Jill sat on a hill overlooking the brown pond that filled the caldera below. The little pond, where they had skipped rocks and chased frogs as children, gave ripples to the setting sun that burned orange and brown on its muddy surface, and in the waves of dying sunlight, Jack’s heart rippled too. He leaned forward, parted his lips, and stole the kiss that no book had ever given him.

Need a good death scene? Check this out. We’ll add some darkness just for kicks:

The swollen black river claimed Jill’s life beneath a sea of stars that spun like dying fireflies on it’s surface. She was lost to the undercurrent, gone like so many others who had challenged the bridge and lost. There were no screams, and even if there were, the river took them, too.

Need a moment of quiet reflection?

Jack stood in the warm waters of the pond and watched the tadpoles dance across his feet. People always likened life to caterpillars and butterflies; maybe because frogs are such ugly creatures. Ugly like him. He was a frog, and Jill had replaced him with a butterfly with bigger muscles and a tanning bed membership. He had seen them, kissing beside the well, Jill’s tongue darting inside Dick’s open mouth like she was the frog and he had a fly in his throat. He closed his eyes, made a fist around the stone in his hand, and wished they would fall in the well and drown.

Need some resolution?

Jack dropped the gun in the sand and screamed at the cattails he had once tried to eat (they looked just like corndogs to him), “Damn you, Dick! Damn you for what you made me do to her!”

Jill was in the well now, lost to the dark and stone, and soon he would come tumbling after.

Water. Scary, boring water.

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