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Went to a friend's writing group tonight and ended up writing this based on the prompt "Freedom".
Thought it came out fairly decently and would love any feedback or thoughts.
Freedom. It means something different when you're this far away from home - all but lost in a place you don't recognize. A place where nothing is familiar - not the sights or sounds or smells.
It's different when you don't know if you'll ever make it home.
Back home it's a simple thing. Overused, almost. Something taken for granted, overlooked - deeper meaning ignored.
Teenagers whine about wanting more of it. Professionals talk about how much or how little of it they have in their jobs. Commercials on TV go on about how much more of it you'll have if you buy their products.
But here… it's something different. More… real, maybe. When you know your actions can mean the difference between life and death for your team. When your choices can have an unimaginable - unthinkable - effect on the people left behind. It can't help but mean more.
He thought about it sometimes. All the things he'd taken for granted. All the little luxuries that just didn't exist out here that he wouldn't have been able to live without back home.
Coffee.
Real, hot, good coffee.
Not the freeze-dried stuff they got here once in a blue moon. He dreamed about it sometimes. Woke up with the scent of it so strong in his nose he'd have sworn it was real.
Stupid things, too.
The jingle of keys or coins in his pocket.
Being woken out of a sound sleep by his neighbor playing Aida at full volume first thing in the morning.
Thunderstorms.
Though maybe those weren't so stupid. Sitting on the little excuse for a balcony outside his apartment, watching the black storm clouds sweep across the sky. The brilliant streaks of light spearing down, bringing with them the sharp clean smell of ozone. Feeling the rain spatter against him when the wind shifted enough to drive it in under the overhang. Thunder so loud and so close that the feel of it reverberated up his spine and sent the cat dashing for cover.
He missed the cat.
Hadn't left anyone back home who cared about him. Hadn't been anyone for a long time.
Which made things both easier and harder.
No one to worry about, to miss with the ache he saw in other people's faces. No one to haunt his dreams at night or distract him during the day.
But also no one back home to miss him. Pray for him. Think of him. Watch the stars at night and wonder if he was out there watching them too.
No one to go home to if he ever did get out of here. Or help him find a way to fit in again.
Freedom.
Just not the same out here.
~Meb
6-29-06
Just kind of made me think.
Thought it came out fairly decently and would love any feedback or thoughts.
Freedom. It means something different when you're this far away from home - all but lost in a place you don't recognize. A place where nothing is familiar - not the sights or sounds or smells.
It's different when you don't know if you'll ever make it home.
Back home it's a simple thing. Overused, almost. Something taken for granted, overlooked - deeper meaning ignored.
Teenagers whine about wanting more of it. Professionals talk about how much or how little of it they have in their jobs. Commercials on TV go on about how much more of it you'll have if you buy their products.
But here… it's something different. More… real, maybe. When you know your actions can mean the difference between life and death for your team. When your choices can have an unimaginable - unthinkable - effect on the people left behind. It can't help but mean more.
He thought about it sometimes. All the things he'd taken for granted. All the little luxuries that just didn't exist out here that he wouldn't have been able to live without back home.
Coffee.
Real, hot, good coffee.
Not the freeze-dried stuff they got here once in a blue moon. He dreamed about it sometimes. Woke up with the scent of it so strong in his nose he'd have sworn it was real.
Stupid things, too.
The jingle of keys or coins in his pocket.
Being woken out of a sound sleep by his neighbor playing Aida at full volume first thing in the morning.
Thunderstorms.
Though maybe those weren't so stupid. Sitting on the little excuse for a balcony outside his apartment, watching the black storm clouds sweep across the sky. The brilliant streaks of light spearing down, bringing with them the sharp clean smell of ozone. Feeling the rain spatter against him when the wind shifted enough to drive it in under the overhang. Thunder so loud and so close that the feel of it reverberated up his spine and sent the cat dashing for cover.
He missed the cat.
Hadn't left anyone back home who cared about him. Hadn't been anyone for a long time.
Which made things both easier and harder.
No one to worry about, to miss with the ache he saw in other people's faces. No one to haunt his dreams at night or distract him during the day.
But also no one back home to miss him. Pray for him. Think of him. Watch the stars at night and wonder if he was out there watching them too.
No one to go home to if he ever did get out of here. Or help him find a way to fit in again.
Freedom.
Just not the same out here.
~Meb
6-29-06
Just kind of made me think.
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