The drenched wings of a narrative

“We are going to do one of the most interesting and creative exercises in writing today,” I began the class.

It evoked nothing more than the usual response: a few sparkling eyes and others which said something like: “How can any writing exercise ever be interesting?”

“Narrative writing,” I went on.  Having explained what a narrative is and how to write it, I give them a question to write a narrative about a cycle ride on a rainy day.  Riding a cycle when the rain is dancing passionately on your face is an exquisite experience, I started off for an example.  A few more eyes sparkled.

I was bathed in the rain’s dance. I went on.  I whistled my favourite tune.  But the rain sealed my lips with its kiss.

A gasp escaped from one of the students.  That sealed my lips.  “Ok, start writing now.  That was only an example.  You imagine your own ride and make your own romance with the rain.”

“What happened after the kiss, Sir?” asked one student.

“You can’t whistle when your lips are sealed, can you?” I asked.

“So what did you do?”

I savoured the kiss and broke out into a song.  I sang about a bird caught in a rain.  Its wings were drenched.  The bird was struggling to fly. 

I don’t know why my rain had to drench the wings of a bird.  I stopped my narrative.  “Come on,” I said, “create your rain and get wet.”

I turned to the board.  I realised there was some moisture in my eyes.