The River | Creative Writing Day Two

I’m trying a thing where I do a piece of creative writing every day. Cos I used to love that shit, but I realised I’d not written anything but angry essays and rants for about 5 years. Because I’m desperate for validation, I’m gonna share the things I write with you here on my blog. Feel free to tell me what a creative genius I am or compare me to Harper Lee or one of the Bronte sisters. You can catch up on previous days’ work here

I had never planned on being a river. A pond, maybe. A nice puddle, perfect for jumping in, sure. But a river? Never. Rivers were intimidating. Murky. Divisive. Cutting cities in two and forcing people’s hands. Can’t build there, the river flows right through it. Don’t walk there, the river might swallow you up.

No one really likes you when you’re a river.

Oh, they pretend to like you. They flock to your banks when the sun comes out, drinking cheap cider and smoking cheaper roll ups. They say ‘Oh, isn’t the river beautiful today. Look at how the sun makes it sparkle.’

But as soon as the weather turns, it’s all ‘The river is so dirty right now’ and ‘I wouldn’t want to jump in that.’

The bodies don’t help matters. Bodies, falling from bridges night after night. Their arms hitting my water with a thump. Heights high enough to turn my droplets into concrete. The crack before I swallow them whole, dragging them to my depths..

I don’t mean to keep them. The bodies. I always plan on releasing them back to the surface. But they’re always so lovely. Lovely and lonely, just like me. So I tuck them into my beds and promise to keep them safe and warm.

Of course, that makes people angry. The police blockade my borders. Parents grab onto their children tightly as they walk past me.

No one really likes you when you’re a river.

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