I haven’t been posting on my blog a ton, most of my writing is being published on the 48 North and American Sailing Association websites. I am taking writing classes to get better at the craft of it. Here is an example from a micro essay class I took this weekend. I hope you enjoy, and would love any feedback.
He was wicked smart. A diva, he liked to socialize. He had specific preferences for people, particular with who he would interact with. Sometimes he would come out and play, curiously watching us through the glass. He would boldly mimic and follow our movements. Sometimes he would hide. He covered his soft body with anything around him while suspiciously popping up an eye over his cavern. He built an intricate maze in his small world, with multiple tunnels and caves. He rearranged at will, seemingly for amusement, maybe from boredom. He opened jars to get his food. He solved puzzles we would hilariously create. Each was more elaborate than the last. Often, we wondered if we were his pets instead of the other way around.
He would let us touch him, or more accurately, he touched us. He changed colors with his mood and shape-shifted to any configuration that fit his need. Sometimes it was hard to find him in his camouflage. When he was adopted, he could squeeze his body through something as thin as the width of a piece of paper. He was an escape artist by design. We had to ensure everything was pristine and air-tight for his own safety. He still only lived a year. When he died suddenly, stretched out, he was the size of my hand. How can such a small creature have such a large personality? How did he take up so much space in such a short time? I grieved hard when he passed, remembering how his eight legs with tiny tentacles felt against my fingers. They were light, exploratory, and sentient. He was from another world and visited mine. I put him in a zip lock bag and placed him in the freezer, waiting for the day we could give him a proper burial at sea.