The Great Write Way
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Yeah, deb. I find it compelling. Makes me wonder about the rest of my brain, and what it's doing with all that smell processing of whichI remain unaware.
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Tongue red, teeth pink. And a little plastic-wrapped ball of fiery doom. Hold it between your teeth to let your tongue recover from the heat. Then let it explode in the back of your mouth to get past the hot part to the sweet. Crrunch! The sound of victory reverberates in your head as you bite through the nuclear part to the bit where it tastes like candy.
The other kids would buy two candy bars with their dollar. Me? A bag full of atomic fireballs. Fifty, at two cents a pop. It would last the whole week of camp.
Oh, man, yes. Hard hot candy. Ours were a cinnamon thing, and there were very hard hot spicy peppermints as well. For me, it brings back long trips as a kid.
I absolutely love catching up in this thread.
And smell is, to me as well, probably the strongest memory-trigger. I was sitting once in a bus, and suddenly found myself thinking non-stop about a workshop I attended in highschool, and the man who ran it (who was wonderful, and I liked him lots, and haven't been in touch with for years). It took me some time to even ask myself why am I remembering it all so vividly on that bus drive, until I finally realized that the man who was sitting in front of me was using the combination of the same aftershave and the same brand of cigarettes as the man whom I kept remembering, and the unique combination of scents made him jump into my brain.
OK. This was a painful one to write.
Eucalyptus
There's a scent on the autumn wind: eucalyptus, sharp, fresh and clean.
They say it's good stuff, kills fleas, whatnot. People buy the leaves, the oil, warding off the bloodsuckers.
But for me, eucalyptus is the bottom of a gorge off Highway One, Marin County in September, thirty years ago. Far above me is the crumbled edge of the road, where our car fell. Behind me, the wrecked car, the reek of smoking metal, overheated rubber. Under me, the ground littered with eucalyptus buttons. The world is full of people screaming.
Eucalyptus is a dead child in my arms.
Oh my. If, as I assume, this is based in reality, I'm so sorry.
All my memory drabbles are based on real memories. There's no fiction in there.
It was a long time ago, but it's amazing how the smell of those damned trees stiffens my nervous system.
(edit: cat walked on computer. Thanks, PC.)
Kristin, she wasn't mine - I was seventeen. She was my three-year-old goddaughter. We were forced off the road by a drunk driver in a "borrowed" car (he had no license). The area's simply gorgeous, West Marin, Stinson Beach, Bolinas, Muir Beach.
But I no longer travel those roads, either as a passenger or as a driver. Never got over my terror of cliffs.
No matter who she was, it is a very painful, poignant memory to have to bear (though I'm selfishly, for you, glad she wasn't your actual child). Cliff roads scare the hell out of me too, but for much less reason.
So what are the drabble rules, anyway? I'd like to play.
