Hey, I'm doing a creative SAC based on the short story 'The Lost Salt Gift of Blood' by Alistair MacLeod and I really need help because I'm so baaaad in English. Please read through and give me ideas. I feel its a bit bland.
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The sun bathes everything with warmth as it sets before me and the cold body of water collides with the granite cliffs as the ivory doves fly off to the distant sapphire sky. The ancient battle between the land and the sea continues as the cold salty air rushes inside the house. The atmosphere that holds memories of my youth, my friend's youth, my children's youth and my grandson's youth has not been touched yet from a world we don't plan to explore. The light our eyes all share, from the kids on the rocks to the people beyond the horizon slowly dissipates, shining hope of the next day. I close the window shut and watch from the window that separates me from the outside's beauty. I take a step back and see its wooden framed window, and the reflection of an old woman I hardly recognise - my reflection, within these uneven walls and the hayed filled bed beside the handmade table.
On the table that shares the same grainy knot as the bed sits a candle and a letter. Words of Mom, Dad and John written on the envelope lure me hands to reach and open the letter. The contact of me skin and the paper sent emotions through my heart, evident in the tears in my eyes. The paper is so light, yet heavily pulls on my arms full of rheumatism. But not just my weakness as a little old lady is weighing the letter, but the uncomfortable truth that lies in the letter.
Inside the envelope is a metal fish hook. The metal of stainless steel felt different to the hooks here, a hook that reflects my eyes is nothing like the hooks I be use to. Down to the tip of the hook is a note that reads:
John. Although it may look a little different to hooks you use to, it reminds me of the one back home. Honest, true, reliable. And even if you're not use to it, hooks are kind of all the same. They're all wrapped around by a worm and they're all thrown to the sea to lure and capture the swimming fish. No matter where you live they all work the same. Love, Mom.
A fog grows and surrounds me, and can only disappears when fully read. The words painted on the letter expressed with such grace that they elude memories, of mine and the memories of others here. An uneasy feeling falls deeper into my soul. The last handmade letter we've received. Oh, I wish they didn't go so suddenly.
A shimmer escapes from the sun as is quickly devoured by the harsh wave of the horizon. With the scent of brine from outside accompanying me downstairs, I walk down the frail wooden stairs and unsteadily clutch the wooden bannister. It be time to start cooking dinner. I tell the husband to get John. He be sitting down like he always be on a couch that's been with us. He replies with a nod that assures me he'll be back in a few minutes with John. I catch a voice calling out 'hook' but would be gone when I turn around. It be my imagination. The sound of my shoes and the wood echoes now the silent house with a pattern but it wasn't going to last long with the three of us.
The surface of each piece of furniture, all rough and torn with age still functions. I pass the room Ira has just left and turn toward the kitchen. I grab my apron and tie it on me. The rope, almost disappearing as the threads loosen and free themselves through the years I've had it
My hands naturally moving on its own to cook the fish, that be caught by John yesterday on the heated iron cook stove and as the oil seeps through the lines within the pan's face, the fish begins to sizzle and oil starts bouncing. The dense smell of fried fish floods the kitchen and the wooden walls start to absorb the scent. The waves that collide between rocks outside competes with the sound of prancing oil on the pan filling the room with sound.
Words from the letter repeat inside my head in her angelic voice. Home, hook, love. These three words follows me in kitchen as if she was behind me. My ears fragile from the oil prancing like fireworks is now listening to her words that seem to taunt me, making my heart become unstable. Oh why does she have to die so suddenly, for I had thought that death was only departing of a physical thing, but now my mental state feels empty. But as her eerie tone calls for me, she expresses this feeling with such warmth that memories of love and family surfaces into my mind. My days with John warms me like the sunset outside, assuring me with care. My body starts to settle and as I step back to get a second to myself, the table behind me stops me.
A knife, hanging over the corner of the table dropped to the floor. The bad omen attracted me to its falling motion, and the sound of contact between the knife and the wooden floor echoes with the fog that gradually grows inside my head.
Someone must be coming, I said to myself. A man indeed. I flip the fish one more time and turn around as the door opens, letting a flood of fog flow in. The husband, John and a figure walks in and as the fog from outside clears up, my eyes open wide with hostility.
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