This past week has been a long and tiresome journey of train tickets and shopping. From sleeping all day and through the night, to not sleeping at all. I am fairly sick, but I still managed to get in some creativity in the past few days which I hope will make up for my lack of brain power and general lethargic state.
The following are a list of tools for the cards I made, and an exercise from a book called “The 3 A.M EPIPHANY- By Brian Kiteley. As well as writing and crafting I have done a few rows in my knitting on both my purple and blue scarf.
sketch book paper
pattern card [I used the back of the card packet]
Creative Flower Embellishments [pink]
Creative Alphabet Embellishments [Pink]
Wrapping paper [left over from a gift]
Creative Flower Embellishments [Pink]
Creative Butterfly Embellishments [Purple]
Sketch book paper
*Journal Prompt -Reluctant- Use [I, Me , My only twice]. Word count: 600 words *
The sun rose early in the morning, far earlier than anyone in my neighbourhood dared to witness. It's blood-red radiance blinded the early morning walkers, tracking their paths along the mud stained roads of the development estate.
In the winter the cold chill travelled from distant mountain tops through the suburbs. Each burst of wind wrapped itself around everyone daring enough to step into it's direct path, and carried them into the land of alertness of the day that await ahead.
It was a warriors journey into the city where the hustle and bustle was nothing more than white noise against a silent backdrop. It was the city of hope and desperation. No one wanted to take in the beauty that could be heard in the small talk and diverse engines that hummed a lullaby as they polluted the idea with toxic fumes.
On the hill overlooking the estate, a camphor tree stood aging. It stared down at the little people waiting for the comforting heat of the morning buses. It swayed, laughing silently, content in it's coat of luscious foliage and small inedible nuts that were it's all seeing eyes.
Many drifting morning eyes had diverted their attention to the untamed hill. Wandering with their imagination across the only piece of land the development agency couldn't get their hands on. Most had succumb to believing the stories of the tree whispers and the haunted farm stead that was left in ruins behind the hill. No one knew the truth, and all were too scared to challenge nature.
When the buses began to transport people away from the small inner village, I walked through the broken fences and across the rusty autumn foliage to the construction houses in progress.
To my left, a small childish fire rose from a stack of scrap wood the builders had thrown into a mesh circle to keep the chips from escaping. The men stood around, hands out-stretched and laughing along with the crude radio host who was cracking sexist jokes to please consumers.
A gust of wind carried a handful of ashes across the sandy road, along with the lingering scent of freshly sanded wood and burning metal. The noise of the power drills and nail guns blocked out the immaturity of society's future, and began to sound more like the farm with each step taken.
Over the view of the double story houses and their complex, designer roofs the monster tree stared down at the workers beneath the hills, and smiled, hushing a soft song into the air. It was a haunting melody. One that made every hair on the body stand to attention.
It had caused many people nightmares, and more lore stories about the spirit of the tree walking in the night whispering to children and urging them to act on mischief. Even in the day light it was a frightening tune.
“Hey, are you lost sweetheart?” a worker called out, wolf whistling.
Ignoring his calling, I kept walking in the direction of the bus stop. It wouldn't take long to get to the mountains, following the dirt path that lead to the curve at the bottom of the hill would be the best choice.
“Have you got some important place to go girl,” a hefty man wearing a fluorescent coat asked, holding his hand out to halt.
“What business is it to you?”
The man scoffed, pressing his hand firmer against my chest.
Who did he think he was? The man certainly had a God like complex. It seemed in this lifetime it was the only kind of men women ever had the pleasure of interacting with, and this was our strongest downfall.
Photos later I hope.