Use at least 10 of the above words to create a story or poem.
Without my sense of sight, I had to focus on my other senses. The drone of the spinning disc was thus overwhelming- I could hear nothing else- yet it was strangely calming. As the ceramic rotated on the spinning disc, the dull bombination lulled me into a pleasant reverie. My hands moved on their own accord, modelling the slant of the neck, while my thoughts wandered somewhere else…
Every footstep I take returns with a deafening echo, and I warmly welcome the interruption in the otherwise silent tunnel. In this fantasy, I could see again. And I see my left hand trailing along the edge of a shelving, while I watch absent-mindedly as my fingertips skim over emboldened fonts of gold set in the spines of these books of every shape, every size and every shade of color.
I continue my stroll, but I lose my patience to read all the titles that passes by. My vision follows the shelving to see where it leads- it seems never ending- but a particular volume draws my attention. I maintain my pace, and take my time to reach it and when I eventually do, I slip it off the shelf. If I Could See Again is emblazoning the cover of the exquisite, rich, black corduroy jacket. I know this is the perfect book for me.
I nestle myself with my volume on the posh upholstery of a nearby armchair, and bury my consciousness deep within its pages. The chance to relish this rare quiescence from every day life was bliss, and I am seizing it. Alas, it is short-lived. Her footsteps alert me of her approach- a dainty maiden inadvertently impinging my sacrosanct activity. I bristle with exasperation and turn to face her.
“Sir? The store is closing soon. I’m afraid you must continue your work on another day.” She informs me authoritatively and assertively.
The fantasy stopped.
Abruptly snapped out of my reverie, I lifted my hands off the ceramic, reluctantly submitting to the fact that I must complete the finishing touches and intricate details the next day. I wistfully clutched onto the fading traces of my reverie and its vellichor as I killed the spinning disc. I fumbled around for a rag, and my fingers closed around a rough fabric. I scrubbed my hand thoroughly to rid it of clay, sighing and reminiscing the times when I could see and could read.
Here, I tried to write in present tense as I narrated the reverie. If you did not notice it, good! It means it worked out fine. But if you did notice it, bad! It means it was awkward and stuck out. Do leave a reply and let me know if you did or did not notice it.
There might be errors too as I re-edited this several times, and eventually grew impatient to revise for errors. Do let me know.