Rose colored glasses

Here's the exercise:
“WAG #8: Rose Colored Glasses” Go out and choose an unfamiliar object (in other words,
one you have no history with) that strikes you as ugly, repulsive, annoying, etc…
some ideas might be: a wad of squashed gum on the pavement, a dead squirrel on the
side of the road, an ugly sign, a loud construction site, a tacky sculpture in a
charity shop… and write about it in such as way as to make it appealing to your reader.
Really sell it! Use whatever words you want and cheat as much as you want, but do
your best!

Totally unplugged, my writers’ block a thing of the past, I was up most of the night typing my blues away. And with the help of some pretty strong black coffee and a whole lot of quiet—I added three chapters to my suspense thriller. But suddenly, the caffeine kick fizzled out, leaving me dead tired and dragging. I could barely hold my head up. So with the dawning of a new day, I turned down the sheets and rolled into bed. Ah…that pillow felt like heaven. The window was open, bringing in the brisk morning air and the delicate scent of green grass and lavender. And with the birds sweetly chirping, I dozed off into a world of total bliss…
No sooner had I closed my eyes when the roar of bulldozers blasted from outdoors, followed by a massive boom that shook the earth. Then the grinding started, producing a vibrating shriek.

My temples throbbed. Reality filtered through my brain. The neighbors mentioned something about having their diseased oak tree chopped down this morning. Moaning, I pulled the comforter over my head, shrouding out the world. But the hissing of saws grew louder and louder, slicing through my last nerve. Then the bellowing began, robust male voices rising over the extricating of gnarled branches.
“Timmmmmm berrrrrr!”
Crash. Bang. Grind.
In the distance, a dog began yapping. Then the screeching of brakes across the street, a heavy slam of the door. Within seconds, the growling of a power mower on the neighbor’s terrace from across the street. The sound of my own blood thundered in my ears. “Noooo!” I wailed. Tuesday. The elderly woman across the street had her lawn manicured every Tuesday morning.
And so it continue—the hiss of the saw, the massive bang of tree limbs plummeting to the ground, the bellowing of male voices, the zinging growl of the power motor. And in between, the yip yip yip of the dog.
How could I sleep. Too tired to get up, I listened, hypnotized by the steady sounds assaulting my eardrums. The mingled noises reminded me of a motley crew of amateur musicians. And if I used my writers’ mind, my creative muse that got me into this predicament in the first place…maybe…just maybe…

I was sun bathing on a Caribbean island in the tropics, the smell of coconut oil invading my senses, hot sun baking on my skin, a chilled margarita in my hand. Beneath the undulating palm trees, a calypso band played reggae music. The steady beat of the bongo drum, the blast of the horn, the vibrating zing of the brass cymbals banging together. They sounded so peaceful, so surreal…like paradise.
And before I knew it, I was dreaming I was in the islands, relaxing in the sun with my rose-colored sun glasses, toes buried in the coppery gold sand, sipping on a tropical beverage. And in the distance, the calypso band played on and on and on…

Would you like to join the writers adventure group? Visit Nixy’s blog for details:
http://www.nixyvalentine.com/index.php/2009/02/writing-adventure-group/