My project in Short Story Writing: Create Fiction from Personal Experience course

Sunrise on Blockhouse Island

I tip-toed gingerly out of bed this morning, the cold floors beneath me seeming to be a very long bowling alley to get to the bathroom before I might pee on the floor just getting there. Relieved to have gotten there on time I set about my daily morning ritual of opening the blinds. The darkness surrounded me with a great disc of cloud overhead. A sparse strip of cloud-free space sat along the horizon and I anticipated a fairly colorful sunrise would soon emerge. I decided to go to the grand waters to watch. Checked the mirror to look at my hair... Gah! I turned on the tap and slopped water on my head. Still no good. I put on my hat. That’ll do. I heard a cough from Mom’s place and whispered, “Mom?”

“Yes?” a little voice squeaked from her room.

“I thought you might be up because I heard a cough. I’m going out to see the sunrise. Would you like to come?”

“No! My bed is so nice and cozy right now.”

I laughed, put the coffee on, and got my camera. Off I went. As I rounded the corner to Blockhouse Island the visual display of rich color did not disappoint. I sniffed in the heady aroma of hot, black java as it swirled up and into my sleepy brain. Finally, at the marina, I got out and immediately started my photoshoot as the vista changed almost every second. The waters had turned into a swirly-textured ice rink in the calm of the bay. Patches of green grass were interspersed with clumps of snow and ice along the river path. Large rocks that beckoned visitors to sit in the summer held no such invitation today. Stepping out on them could lead to a slippery slide into a frozen after-life. My fingers now matched the icicles, so I hopped into the car and turned up the heat.
A portly old fellow walked along the waterside walkway, nodding a greeting to me as he listened to something on his headphones. Without warning he stopped about twenty feet past my car, turned to face the water, and did ten push-ups on the metal railing, demonstrating his vigorous physical prowess like a proud peacock before carrying on with his workout. I think he envisioned himself a Tom Selleck while the rest of the world saw Captain Kangaroo. I laughed out loud at the entertaining performance I had just witnessed.

I drove over to the other side of the peninsula and was delighted with a plethora of oranges, pinks, purples, and yellows. I stood by the guard rail and observed two honking geese flying overhead... apparently on a mission of some sort. A few seagulls hovered before me, checking me out to see if I had brought them breakfast. A cormorant speedily dashed perilously close to the water’s surface to some unknown adventure far off in the distance. The colors now dimmed to the lighter hues of yellow and I steadied my frigid finger-sticks to capture the glimmer of sun now peeking its sleepy head over the hills of the States. And my heart said, Ahhh...this is a gift. I have been blessed. Thank you for this new day.
***
Sunday Morning

The sun is hidden behind a veil of clouds this morning. It makes for a misty, romantic view. The dusting of snow from last night coats the tree branches like icing sugar donuts. On one of the trees a fat, black squirrel nibbles on a treasure he's found. Can you see him? Even the birds are hushed today. It's a lazy Sunday morning.

And there it is... the sun, popped up so suddenly, like a kernel of popcorn sizzling in a pan, and quickly rising as I write. My room is now bathed in a comforting blanket of light. It's a good moment.

There is a warm glow on the horizon. It is cold and the plumes of smoke from a distant stack are colored in peach and yellow. A lone cardinal calls out... birdie, birdie, birdie, chup, chup, chup, and I'm longing for the day when the trees will be in bud and the grass is green and the birds come to visit in the back yard again. It is a day of hope.
***
The cellulite underbelly of the clouds is swathed in shades of purple, crimson, and gold. The rising sun casts a glow of flaming red, cerise, and honeyed-amber over the blood-orange dappled waters of the tranquil St. Lawrence River on this peaceful morning. I stand in awe of the wondrous beauty of the work of the hand of The Master Painter.