Lost in the Attic

A face can tell a thousand words, but looking deep into someone's eyes can reveal a whole story.

A face can tell a thousand words, but looking deep into someone's eyes can reveal a whole story. Recently I’ve been working on creating delicate descriptions. I want to give the reader enough to paint a picture but not too much that the scene becomes a game of Where’s Wally? I’ll let you be the judges, comment below and let me know how I did. If you fancy having a go yourself, why not drop your attempt in the comments?

She tugs at my arm, and I follow her, ducking through the frame of the small door my forehead likes so much and then up a creaking staircase. The air is alive up here. It moves through the shards of light that have navigated past the cracks—specks of dust bob like a buoy in a calm sea. A draught follows the sunlight; I can feel it hit her skin. She’s shivering. I glance down at her wrapped around my arm. She looks up at me, looking down at her, and we giggle. Sit down, she says without moving her lips and pulls me again. Her father’s old suitcases rest in a pile in one corner, and they rock a little as we hop on. I no longer have to look down; she’s at eye level. I’d do anything to have her stay there for the rest of our lives. A streak of light cuts her face in two, but her eyes don’t squint; they breathe it in as if it might be the last time. In this light, her features look like a figure skater among holiday skaters: mesmerising. How do they do that? I ask myself. Her eyebrows are the canopy shading the jungles below. These two round jungles of hers are unforgiving, casting glances you’ve no chance to navigate or understand. These jungles are wild places. Filled with beauty, rage, worry and confidence, my eyes fall to her nose before losing my way. The freckles that climb onto it scatter themselves messily. I wonder: are they climbing for recreation or survival? The ridge is bent, distorting the straight line that was intended. It’s a happy accident or a bold choice. Either way, it’s decidedly more beautiful than anything I’ve seen. I think it’s the light, but similar thoughts have come to me under grey clouds, dully lit dorms and twinkling stars. It’s just her; I correct myself. She has my hand now; we’re talking about converting the attic into something special. A studio or a home gym? My glances move again. I’m looking at her cheeks; they’re soft skin and delicate designs. If I look for too long, will their surface crumple into a million pieces under the weight? Something so fine has to have a weakness. They are works of art, pinks, reds and creams layered to perfection. I’ve said something to make her laugh, and she giggles more than usual, bringing her hands to her mouth. She pulls them away, and I’m left with her smiling lips, both corners pinned in place. She hates it when I look at her lips, or at least in that direction. Her self-consciousness comes calling, and she lifts her hand again. But they are addicting; they’re responsible for the words I admire, the laughter I crave, and the kisses I adore. I’m only human. Stop looking at my lips, she says, and I do. We’re still at eye level, and we’re still talking about ideas for the attic. I return to the jungles, but something grabs me and yanks me in: I can hear their sounds: squawking, singing and hissing. There are scents, too; wildflowers, moss, fresh air, and somewhere in the distance, the sea. I’m lost, so I sit perched on the suitcases until she lets me go.

It’s always a pleasure to write something for you. If you liked this post, why not share it with friends? Every little helps. Subscribe for more and to keep up to date with all my news/publications (novel coming soon…).