On Writing Epiphanies

There is a moment, an epiphany, when a wave of black, glossy crows shudders in the hot blue-air. Calling to each other, Beware the writer in the field. He is watching their world: eyes magnifying every morsel of movement and perspicacity, for an all-encompassing consistency; to place the soul of creation onto parchment.  They break into a hundred, ashen, volcanic projectiles: separated, diminished, and finally dispersed. All but one.

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2 thoughts on “On Writing Epiphanies

  1. Aloha Wendy, I read your epiphany and admit, I’ve never understood what epiphanies are.  But you hooked me.  I want to know about the ‘one’.  Since you are not going to tell me – I decided to tell you.  (this was fun – a writing exercise for me.)  See below. A Hui Hou, Wayne   There is a moment, an epiphany, when a wave of black, glossy crows shudders in the hot blue-air. Calling to each other, Beware the writer in the field. He is watching their world: eyes magnifying every morsel of movement and perspicacity, for an all-encompassing consistency; to place the soul of creation onto parchment.  They break into a hundred, ashen, volcanic projectiles: separated, diminished, and finally dispersed. All but one.   Albert was his name.  He was big for a crow, and a handsome guy – perfect glossy black feathers with purple highlights when the sun caught them just right; dark gray muscular legs with shiny black claws; a long, orange, sharp, and intimidating beak; and crystal clear yellow eyes that seemed to see everything.  He was indeed a fine crow, but what made him special was that he spoke perfect English.  I sat on the grass and Albert landed just out of arms reach. He studied me as I pulled out my clipboard and pencil; first with the right eye, then turning his head, with the left.  He waited until I was ready. “What do you have for me this week, Dave?” Albert asked. “Vanilla Waffers,” I said. “I have heard about those.  I saw a television commercial.  Let me try one.” I pulled the bag out of my pack and made a show of ripping open the top.  Albert watched with those calculating eyes.  I took out one cookie and laid it on the grass before him.  He coldly eyed the one cookie, the bag, and me – but he began eating the cookie. “These are good.  Much better than the crackers you brought last week,” he said. “They cost more too.  What have you got for me?  What’s been going on in the flock?” “There is quite a squabble happening.  Johnson is getting in all sorts of trouble.” I began writing, but he stopped talking.  “Go on, who is Johnson?” I urged. Still Albert was silent.  I watched him dip his beak toward the bag and point to the ground with his right leg.  We stared at each other, neither blinking.  Careful not to lose eye contact, I took another cookie from the bag, held it up, then put it into my mouth. “You are a real bastard Dave.  But you win, Johnson is a mutant.  He has a single bright red feather growing down the back of his neck.  The hens can’t resist it.  They all want him.” He again pointed at the ground, I gave him another cookie. “So what about Johnson?” I asked. “Two nights ago he spent the night in the nest of a fresh young hen named Marcy.  Charlene was pissed about it.” “Who is Charlene? “She’s Johnson’s wife.  Poor thing is still on her eggs.  They will be another two weeks hatching.” “So Charlene started the squabble with Johnson?” “No, Charlene can’t leave her eggs.  It was Ethan, Marcy’s Dad, that tore into Johnson – and what a fight that was!  It was quite a show, the whole flock was up cheering for one or the other.” “Who won?” I asked, but Albert was again pointing at he ground and I had to give him another cookie before he would answer. “Well, he may grow another one, we will just have to wait and see, but Johnson doesn’t have that red feather anymore.” During the next hour I got ten pages of flock gossip – and Albert got the rest of the cookies.  I was satisfied, it was a good exchange. As I got up to leave Albert burped, we both chuckled at it. “Why do you want to know all this stuff?  Why do you write it down?” he asked. “After I change the crows to human characters, I sell it to television as a day time drama series.  That’s how I get the money for the cookie.” “Fair deal.  Same time next week? “Yeah, same time next week.  I can’t make this stuff up.” ###

    • Hi Wayne,
      Nice to hear from you 🙂 Well done on continuing the story. I enjoyed what you wrote and feel good that you were able to relate to what I had written 🙂

      Thanks for the read,
      Wendy

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