Sunshine and shadow, good and evil, action and inaction, cold and warmth; life is full of contrasts and so are mysteries. Sometimes, I like to try my hand at painting pictures. Subtle shading, use of dark colors, highlighting, all make a painting interesting and give it depth. Writers use the same techniques.
In the following Paragraph of Best Left Buried, Darcy returns to her roots and is enjoying the sunny morning at her grandmother’s old home place:
Parking my car on the grassy edge of the dirt road, I scooted out and straddled a sagging wire fence. A little creek, old-timers called it Lee Creek, flowed lazily along the bottom of a knoll. The spring-fed stream was so shallow that it was easy to hop from one flat rock to the next and get across Lee Creek without getting wet. Clumps of water cress poked out of the water. Breaking off a piece, I savored the tangy, sharp taste. I paused under a tall pin oak and gazed at the forest of trees and azure sky, listened to the gurgle of the creek, and basked in the feeling of coming home. Trees, sky, creek, all seemed to soak into my very bones, a part of me and I, a part of my surroundings.
But, things don’t stay peaceful and serene for Darcy. They never do. If they did, would you keep reading? Would you keep turning pages? Here is the paragraph which I laid down beside the previous one:
Another sound broke the stillness of the morning, a noise that clashed with the rhythm of creek and leaves. I held my breath and listened. It sounded like metal striking flint rock. Maybe a pickax biting into the side of the cliff somewhere? The ringing of the pick seemed to come and go with the breeze and echoed off the high sides of the bluff.
Or, once again, a contrast in Moonlight Can Be Murder:
Trying to block the frightening episode at the Decker home from my mind, I carried my warm cup of comfort back to the dining room and sat down on the sofa. Penny finished her milk and came in to sit beside me. The warmth of the fire and hot chocolate, Penny’s hypnotic purring, relaxed me. My mind fuzzy with sleep, I was dozing off when the newly installed door knocked jarred me awake. I jumped, every nerve on edge.
Paintings, stories, life, all have contrasts. Sometimes the shadows are not evil or threatening; sometimes, they give depth and add interest, such as my container garden on an early sunny morning. I enjoy the tension in a story, the spine-tingling, chilling shadows that move with evil intent throughout a mystery. But, I like my shivers and goosebumps to come from a favorite mystery while I’m in my comfortable chair, maybe with a background of a stormy night crashing and banging outside. In real life, I prefer the sunny day or the warm fireplace, or the shadowy depth of a flower garden. How about you?
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