Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

October 20, 2019, 04:49:50 PM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti

Saturday-Homesick



Word of the Day
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Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 12
1  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Leaves on: January 01, 2019, 05:29:36 AM
The deep shade of the Bodi tree is believed to be full of shadows and ghosts. The buddha died in its cool embrace and no body here wants to plant one in their garden. In the street the shade covers the street stall. It's not busy now, the afternoon heat has only just started to hum in the air. I can smell the cooking food. I wade into the shade and pick young perfectly shaped leaves. The cooks watch lazily from under sleepy eyes.
The leaves are deeply and intricately veined, the bifurcating system of rivers and veins embedded in their smooth surfaces. They seem weightless as I paint them silver and hold them against an intense blue.
2  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / wine on: December 30, 2018, 12:19:53 PM
The days around the winter solstice are hot and humid, the rain comes at night and shouts from the bars puncture the air. The duff of music vibrates and swifts squeal and glide over the glowing sky. I can smell my own sweat and the skin on my hands feels dry, slippery on the keys.
Days all end the same way, sometimes a glass of dry cold white wine sends me to sleep while the cars slosh along the road. The fan's drone and its shadow create strobe effects on the wall. I have to look away my eyes glazed over.
What next? A book with its solid pages and paper weight in my hands or a blue light screen. The day ends with my silence, just as it began, my secrets remain untold.
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Sunscreen on: August 31, 2016, 04:48:19 PM
My skin felt rough. I ran my hand down the length of my arm, the bracelets jangled. I could see rows of bottles and heard the hissing of an espresso machine. My eyes, pinholes, took a while to adjust to the darkness, the bar was nearly empty. I saw long legs and an effete show of hands. A barmaid clinked glasses as she dried them. The long legs in beige linen unfolded stork-like and a tall man looked my way. His eyes perfect orbs of artfulness. Black and ringed in black, startled against his smooth white skin, tempered by years of sunscreen. I walked toward him, my eyes adjusting, my hand lifted from my dark rough skin as he said, "You've changed."
4  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Puppet on: January 20, 2016, 05:16:11 AM
The puppet was huge. It took 10 people to move its massive limbs. The grey dinosaur lumbered over the music festival’s grassy hills. It danced in the sunshine and children dappled with sunshine and mud screamed with mock terror and joy. They followed the cloth dinosaur to a valley and the puppeteers capered with other strangely dressed characters and creatures, all larger than life.

The stories began. In the gentle shade of an oak grove the storyteller started to sing and instruments gradually added to the music. Percussionists with drums, bells and xylophones got louder as the chorus of magical beings sang from every branch.

The children were enchanted, transfixed by the stories of the woodland creatures, swathed in flowers and leaves and lumbering gentle giants The stories unfolded all around the grove of trees. The unicorns sniffed the muddy children all under the ceaseless rhythm of the rustling leaves under the blue canopy.
5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Nun on: January 12, 2016, 10:36:49 PM
The day was passing slowly, the sky grey and dead, the trees hanging in the air like discarded stage props. The muted clicks of computers and a distant murmur of voices drove home the lonely dull day in the open plan office.

A woman in a black scarf, carrying a large bunch of yellow flowers walked through the vast acoustically flat space, all eyes followed her progress. Her thin arms clutched the brown paper wrapped stalks tied with a black ribbon.

No body noticed her face so taken up with the yellow flash of color in an otherwise grey room. She put the flowers on an empty desk and looked around, we could all now see the nun’s habit she was wearing, not a Muslim woman then? She picked up the flowers and retraced her steps and was heard to mutter, ”Oh, God help them.”
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Wood on: January 06, 2016, 02:23:26 AM
I was half way into the room before I noticed the smell. Preoccupied with some compelling thought or other I missed the soft scent of lascivious hope and urine. A musk perfume and the smell of ammonia, fuck the cat had been locked in again.

The house had been closed for a few days, the daisies on the table had withered and the statue of Icarus on the windowsill was aptly knocked to the floor by my father’s evil cat.

The wood on the floor was old pine covered by thick carpets. I found the damp stench under a chair and on a pile of old newspapers. My OCDish nature started in on the room with garbage bags and grief.
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Stick on: December 11, 2015, 02:27:56 AM
The stillness and heat was unbearable, no breeze to dry the cascading sweat. Sounds seemed to come from a long way off. Birds’ sharp cries and desultory frogs moaned and other reptiles shuffling’s and darting’s sounded like dry skin scraping.

The soldiers lay still, ignoring the bites and stings of mosquitoes. They’d been hot and walking for what seemed like forever, the end was near death was close, the smell of fear, decay and swamp.

A monkey chattered in alarm and the men tensed and readied their weapons. No sound, just more waiting, death stayed her hand for another time.

The still yellow water reflected the sky and dense forest. A single stick stuck up from the surface creating its own current and reflection. Its fate was to fall and be carried by the slow current, the men too.
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Muscle on: December 08, 2015, 03:45:46 AM
My head was dreaming of taking a step, lying curled on my left side. The dream was in yellow tones and there were noises, people happy talking and somewhere the music of Built to Spill. I guess dreams work by association. I looked down and saw a yellow slick of oil, my foot, in an orange shoe, slipped, my legs jerked and I woke without completing the fall.

That was the end of sleep for a while; my muscles shuddered for a few seconds but the reverberations streamed into old loves and houses I had once lived in. I tried to remember their smells. The old love smelt of cigarettes and musk, while my old house smelt of jasmine in the summer and sandalwood in the winter. I remember most vividly the dinner parties where the house would echo with laughter and smell of roasting garlic.

I struggled to sleep and finally remembered my breath, it had grown jagged with memories. The short precise and filling inhale and the long exhale sent me again dreaming into the tropical night. This time I dreamt of birds and murmurs of starlings swirling into the dawn.
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Feather on: December 02, 2015, 03:58:58 AM
I answered a question a few days ago with the words, ”As light as a feather.” People enquire about my health or well being without really wanting an answer so despite my sore knee, my bad attitude and my predilection for solitude I have some ready answers. “Like a frog in the rain.” or “Camp happy.” All said with an upward inflection and a smile.

If I answered truthfully, describing my physical discomfort and cynical outlook, it doesn’t translate well. I dislike the little faces I talk to crumpling into a facsimile of sympathy; that has the validity of an empathetic house brick.

I can see the lips part, the eyes open and move downward. The head tilts just a little and often they make a sweet single note whimpering sound that to all intents and purposes looks like empathy but is really an avoidance mechanism. The key is my avoidance. My truth is unpalatable and I know it, so I keep said truth of how I feel enclosed within where I can confront and sooth its savage effects.

My inhale I keep short and deep into the back of my lungs. The exhale is long and smooth and I return to the silence where all words are lies.
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Sled on: November 30, 2015, 03:23:01 PM
Sled Eh? What do I know about such things? I can’t imagine anyone going on a holiday colder than where they live and deliberately putting their bodies on small ice sliding thingys to race down a mountain strewn with obstacles hidden by deep snow.

Yet there I was, talked into a snow trip. All I had was an extra pair or socks and a duffel coat. Okay lets give snow a go I thought. So out came the garbage bags and flattened cardboard boxes, our ad hoc sleds.

I have never been so cold and wet, my feet went white and the tips of my ears kinda lost all sensation. Yes the rush down the hill was an epic fail, sludged down or slid on ice. The cold air cut my throat to ribbons and my head pounded with the altitude and the cold.

The bus ride home was hellish, jolly people reduced to frozen and now thawing, ouch, misery. So I don’t take cold holidays, just that once when I was 12. So what so I know about sleds?

11  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Stroller on: November 30, 2015, 10:56:15 AM
I was run over by a pram. When I say that people presume that I have said something completely different, like run over by a tram, or a truck. It kinda diminished the injuries I received but it’s funny nonetheless, in hindsight.

A sunny day streetscape, shops, cafes, cars, laneways, summer breeder’s territory. Stroller city. More prams than frocks. I strolled out of a frock shop searching as it turned out fruitlessly for the perfect outfit. And as I stepped onto to pavement a pram ran up my leg, I jumped and time slowed down, if I had landed safely, I saw that I’d take out the toddler in the pram, so I twisted and landed strangely. I grunted and dropped to a crouch.

The blond breeder behind the pram asked, “Are you okay?” and I grunted again, she took that as an okay, I guess. Meanwhile my back seared with sharp pain and my legs felt like flames had engulfed them. I couldn’t breathe only grunt. I stood slowly watching the retreating arse of the blond and leant against a wall. The indifferent passerby’s ignored my stress, maybe I looked drunk or like I was casually leaning on the plate glass of the shop window. Two years later I leant to walk normally again.
12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: cone on: November 29, 2015, 03:43:23 PM
Lovely piece of writing and funny, made me laugh outright.
13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Cone on: November 29, 2015, 03:40:17 PM
You could hear them from a long way off. The singing carried over the trees and a bike bell ringing, marking the beat, was particularly penetrating.

Five teenagers all in various stages of inebriation, youthful exuberance and generally ripped, danced along the center of the dark road.  One girl in a long skirt twirled on the road wearing a safety cone, its bright orange visible in a street light, its reflectors catching the light as she turned. Her hair a dark stream lazily following.

The troop following the dancer started shushing each other in exaggerated clownish gestures their index fingers in front of their pouting lips. It really didn’t help the noise level as they broke into fits of giggling and loud guffaws.

I wondered where they had been. I stood by the window a hot cup of chocolate in my hand. I reached up to pull down the blind but my hand stayed raised and I left the window exposed, I felt a little of their happiness still seeping in.
14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Sweet Potato on: November 28, 2015, 08:38:25 AM
Baked, steamed, fried, sautéed, grated into a salad, wedges, stir fried or roasted I will eat sweet potatoes any way they come. The orange flesh, the natural sweetness and above all else the smooth texture are a tongues delight.

Diced into small pieces and stir fried with caramelized onion and garlic, is a personal favorite. My mouth is salivating just thinking about it and I can feel my stomach saying a great big “Oh Yeah.”

When I choose a sweet potato from the pile at the grocery store I take my time, I reject manky bits, or broken tubers. I like a Goldie Locks size, small enough to bake quickly should I be so inclined.

The baking tray fills up, sweet potatoes, turnips, parsnips, heads of garlic, brown onions and regular potatoes. A few hours later the house fills with an aroma of deliciousness.

I prepare a platter spread with rocket and radicchio and slice the tubers into wedges, then I spread moist feta over it all and a feast is ready. The first mouth full is ecstatic and it gets better until the last scrape and drop of accompanying fruity red
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Norman Rockwell on: November 27, 2015, 02:26:56 AM
The walls were covered with paintings, there didn’t seem to be any theme and the effect was chaotic. I had come to think of the house as The Decorated House. On the surfaces stood African carvings and beautiful totems probably from New Guinea. My eyes were sore, I could hear buzzing and a headache forming over my temples. The House was fusty and I opened a window fanning my face with a random catalog of Impressionist painters.

The kitchen was more open; large windows meant light and the wall above the appliances decorated with colorful plates. The rear courtyard was a haven of fragrant herbs in terracotta pots. I crushed a lavender flower between my fingers and inhaled before reentering the house.

I looked again at the paintings, each one a masterpiece, jumbled next to another and another. A small sketch, framed simply, caught my eye, I felt my pulse quicken, a cheeky urchin grinning, “My god A Norman Rockwell drawing.” My inheritance.
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