I’ve started writing a short fiction story, set in Java. I haven’t written any fiction since I was in school, so it’s a challenge, but I’m getting into it and have written about 2000 words so far. It’s hard to fit in around the other writing I do, like academic editing work and writing my own essays. But I’m determined to push on and finish it.
Here’s a little taste. Constructive feedback is welcomed!
For some reason, riding on the back of a motorcycle was one of the places she felt most at ease. One of the only places where the niggles and the anxiety went away. Someone else at the handlebars, smoothing out the bends. Other drivers making the decisions to collide or miss. Wind and scenery whipping by, unable to be grabbed and de-constructed or analysed. Left in mystery, already kilometres behind them before she could even think about how many blades of grass there were or how many families could have been fed on the yield from half a hectare in a good year or who else had spat their daydreams onto that last lick of the gale.
Sometimes the Java green was just a blur. A colour swatch waiting to be labelled next season’s runaway runway hit. But if the fashion designers came, they would never be able to catch it. They’d be chasing the colour around the paddy fields like a cat chasing a mouse, watching the shade flex and change every time the breeze ruffled the limby Oryza sativa. Thinking they’d finally pinned it down, they would go home and dye and dye and dye, trying to make a match, but instead, every time, they’d end up watching the soggy cotton dry to an inferior shade of emerald.
They’d scratch their heads and wonder what was missing, but only the farmers would know.