Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

June 26, 2019, 02:30:30 PM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
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1  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Seesaw on: October 14, 2018, 01:27:45 PM
Thank you!
Indeed - and what a lovely feeling that is!
2  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Kitchen Table on: October 14, 2018, 01:27:02 PM
A man sits by himself at an oval-shaped table, beginning to dig into his store-bought frozen dinner and bread roll. His place mat is set perfectly – plate in the middle, utensils and napkin on the right, glass of milk above the plate.

As he begins to take his first bite of Salisbury steak, his eyes raise to gaze upon the other side of the table. The head of the table, the counterpart to his position. Another placesetting resides at this far side, although the chair remains empty, for many years now. Dust gathers on the chair’s cushion. Three candles glow in the middle of the table, beside the salt and pepper shaker, which remain in their eternal spot.

The candles’ flames dance and fill the room with vanilla and memories that match the pictures on the wall….man and woman, young and tender-eyed, dressed in black and white, standing on the front steps of a church; another of a family, the same man and woman, but with a little red-headed boy and a strawberry girl on their laps; and finally, one of the many and woman alone again, with the same flicker in their eyes, but this time with wrinkles lining the eyes and mouth.
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Seesaw on: October 13, 2018, 02:00:50 PM
Fall leaves sprinkle the ground with red and yellow hues. They fill the cool, crisp autumn air with a slight tinge of mold and earth. They crunch underneath the feet of children, who add laughter and giggles to the air, their joy rippling through tired eyed parents and grandparents who sit with items in their hands, Starbucks cups and blue screens. They peer up from time to time to see what their tot is doing, only to return their gaze downward.

A 2-year old boy and his older sister fly off the swings and scurry to the seesaw. The girl assumes her position on one end, the boy on the other. The boy is immediately lifted into the air. The force of moving so quickly nearly dislodges him from the toy completely, but he holds on to the handle with tiny claws, skin kissed with a red glow from the chilly air. At first, the jolt scares him. But then he laughs, a smile growing instantly on his face.

Blue eyes beg Sissy to do it again. And she does. Without a word, she straddles her own end of the teeter-totter, pushes her feet against the ground, and bolts herself into the air. The boy’s only option is to drop, which he does for only a moment, then assumes his position in the sky.

There, he feels close to the clouds. He can see everything on the playground, all the mommies and daddies, all the kids buzzing around, the loose dog that always seems to be there and steals crumbs from kids when they are distracted, a blue ball, and even his own reflection in the puddle beside him.
4  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Tree on: October 11, 2018, 04:48:19 PM
Tired limbs dangle by her sides. Four generations they have held, hundreds of new babies born through the welcoming cup of her hands.  Once young and nimble, they now house crinkled paper mâché and spots of leopard.

She turns her tired hands over to gaze upon palms. Lines come to a center point at the base of her palm, giving rise to limbs that spread to all five of her fingers. Lines run to a fro, in no apparent pattern or direction, yet they represent the clear indent of a life well lived, full of pain and sorrow, life and hope, and years of turbulence in between.

This tree of life remains with the woman. A part of everything she does, her compass, her navigation. Some people say the lines mean something, but she shakes her head when they do. Perhaps the lines are left up to fate, perhaps they’re just coincidence. She can’t help but wonder if she gets a new line each time she delivers a new life, as more seem to spring forth with each passing delivery.

The woman returns her bare hands to her lap. The scent of vanilla and coco butter from the bottle that sits beside her remind her to reapply her lotion, try to keep them soft and nimble, welcoming for new indents to form. The calendar on the wall says her hands better be ready: five more names are listed this week. Fluttering joy fills her stomach and spreads like molasses, slow and steady, through her core to her extremities, finally reaching the tree of life in the palm of her hands.
5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Fire on: October 10, 2018, 01:49:12 PM
A blazing fire sits upon a pool of ice 30 yards ahead. A visual contradiction on this December morning, where two men sit around the fire in awe. The men’s hands are covered in gloves, with only their fingertips exposed to the chilly air. Embedded in down coats lined with fur collars, they ramble on about whiskey and catching dinner. Their voices pierce through the air and announce their presence to the forested world that surrounds them.

Beside the men are two fishing poles, dangling thin lines, immersed into small openings of ice. For a brief moment, one pole dips. The men take notice and look over, with one grabbing the pole. Soon after he takes it in his hand, he sighs and returns the pole to its resting spot.

Beneath the surface of the ice is a world unknown. Dark waters carry life, although this world would only take life from the men that sit above. The glowing fire is a sun in the fish’s eye. He darts and scampers round the ice hole. He is tempted by a dangling worm, hours of going without eating remind his body that he is growing weary, but an instinct that lives even deeper than hunger tells him to avoid it like the plague. Still, he encircles the worm, if only to remain alive with the conflict within himself. His own fire burns bright, like the sun ball above.

The one man takes a sip from his thermal flask and with it comes a belly laugh, exploding from his insides and ripping through his vocal cords. The fish stirs, feeling the vibrations through the water and seeing the threatening line move ever so slightly in its wake.
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Cigarette on: October 08, 2018, 02:13:45 PM
Ambulance alarms ring through the midnight air, disorienting him to their exact location. He raises his head to the left to see nothing but an empty street, black road illuminated by rows of street lights. A single car passes by with its windows rolled down, taking in the humid August air. The man hears rap music coming from the car and something else, the promising scent of a cigarette.

The man brings his head back to center, only to stare at the ground. His eyes burn the concrete as he attempts to draw courage from the pits of his stomach. Nothing. His fingers twitch. He reaches into his pants pocket and his hand is met with a little round medallion. The softness of plastic, smooth, and flexible. He bends and twists it with his hand, trying to gain strength from its inorganic compounds.

“5 years, 5 years” he says to himself. As he takes in another breath of the lingering aroma, his nostrils flare. The air begins its descent through his airways and his throat clenches in return. Embracing the air like his grandma on Christmas, it begs to be held but only for a moment. It escapes, only to continue down his lungs. He coughs softly, as his lungs try to push out the poison.

The man loosens his grip on the token. He takes another breath, and this time, it is of fresh air. A sigh of relief signals that he survived another day without smoking, another day without caving in. His hands stop shaking, his throat relaxes, and his nostrils regain their normal tune of inhalation and exhalation, in rhythmic sync with his heartbeat.

Looking down at the road once more, he notices his white shoes and the stopwatch on his wrist. 10 minutes have passed and he’s due back in surgery.
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Chair on: October 07, 2018, 04:33:20 PM
Early memories all but consume him, he now spends his days
Recalling childhood mornings of wings unclipped
Flying free in the schoolyard, soaring and diving
With arms and heart outstretched to the world
Hands linked with those of dear friends,
They sang of roses and posies, spinning free of worry
Only the bell’s roar would signal their descent,
Falling into cool blades of grass, smiles turned to frowns
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

A few years older and wiser too, still green at the gills
He now rules a play yard full of gunpowder and rockets
Little room is left for fun and such frills,
Running in circles is now only for survival
Watching brothers fall to their graves in surrender,
Beads yanked off a chain, too many to count,
Their pieces scatter all around, remind him that
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

Where has the time gone, where has it hidden
The little boy that once dwelled inside
Who looked upon the world in wonder,
And all its truths still left to discover
Life and love became discolored

Now locked inside walls of concrete,
Years form scars far from what eyes can meet
The man sits in waiting, rocking to and fro
Near a window, peering six floors below
In a chair meant to move, its brakes keep him grounded
From taking flight one last time, he feels stranded
Scrambling to find his wings, he finally does
Ready to soar, he’s met with the threat
Of a blaring arm, and the army that forms
But they’re too late, efforts a waste
He’s already the phoenix rising above,
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Rainbow on: October 06, 2018, 02:32:20 PM
Majestic mountains of green span the horizon, as clouds waver over their tops, threatening to retreat into vapor. Cutting through the mountains is a prism, with colors just faint enough to discern. Red flows into coral, coral becomes orange, orange fades into golden sunshine, then transforms into an emerald that mirrors the mountainside, green then becomes blue, and finally settles into indigo.

The prism of colors grows brighter, forming an infinite range of color possibilities within its short range, and beyond it’s borders a shimmer of silver glows. Seemingly within reach, I hold out my hand, but I cannot grasp the colors. Air slips between my fingers, although they are left with the remaining condensation of the passing storm.

Sounds of birds, deer, squirrels, and all sorts of furry and crawly creatures break the silence of the storm. They speak of hope, of life, as they scurry across the meadow to find worms flooded from their own homes and the sweet taste of green grass.

The sun continues to break through the clouds and the rainbow fades for a moment. Its colors become evanescent against the sun beams, although it’s presence is still known. I open my mouth to take in the sunshine and taste the earth’s clean air. It tastes of damp soil, earth, and new beginnings.
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Photograph on: October 06, 2018, 02:13:33 PM
Thanks for your encouraging words! Glad you enjoyed it.
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Tennessee on: October 05, 2018, 02:12:43 PM
The brown, ceramic bottle sits on the fireplace mantle for years, undisturbed. Only a couple ounces of fluid still takes residence inside – enough to hear a swish when you pick the cold neck and tilt it sideways.

With each new morning, the man shuffles his journey to the mantle to gaze upon the bottle, and the journey is quite great journey these days. Today is different – he picks up the bottle, smiles, and reads the bottle’s label silently to himself: Centennial Tennessee Whiskey, 1868. Rocking it ever so gently, he hears the swish of fluid and is tumbled by a flood of pride, joy, wanderlust, and prohibition rebellion.

He returns the bottle to the mantle, perhaps not so gently, and a small clatter fills the morning air as it meets glass. Before he steps away completely, he sets his gaze on the bottle once again and the promise it holds.

He knows he’ll never drink those final sips, the ones before were drunk by someone else, someone before him who did not know their limit but who’s fire still burns within this old man’s veins. That fire is what carried him and his family through two world wars, the Great Depression, death, and despair. That fire is now liquefied, sitting on the old man’s mantle, Tennessee freedom personified.
11  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Photograph on: October 04, 2018, 05:03:47 PM
Morning dawn announces a new day, a new chance to stare at the polaroid stolen from the card box under mom’s bed. Legs crisscrossed, the young boy sits on his bed, dreaming of the unfamiliar man now within the palm of his hands.

Although he’s a stranger, the boy takes note of the man’s similar features, features he’s seen in his bedroom mirror. Emerald eyes, mocha skin, and freckles that line his nose and upper cheeks, creases at the sides of his mouth when he smiles. Seagulls line the man’s background of teal waters and a skyline that matches. Saltwater fills his mouth as held-back tears jerk the boy into the here and now.

Knock, knock, announces someone on the bedroom door. Heartbeat hastens, but it cannot meet the speed at which the boy throws the picture underneath his pillow. He’s met with the returned odor of melted chocolate, warm and sweet, lingering from the candy bar he hid the night before.

The door opens, just as the boy is patting the top of his pillow, ensuring the safety of his treasures beneath. At first, the woman on the other side displays a look of concern: the corner of her eyes crease like the man’s mouth. Black shadows surrender to her tired eyes. Dressed in scrubs and walking shoes, her worried look transforms to adoration as she engulfs the boy in a silent, full-bodied embrace. Not wanting to come up for air, the boy snuffles his final tear and returns the embrace, refueling his strength, and curiosity, for another day.
12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Estate on: October 03, 2018, 01:42:13 PM
Decades of family dinners, holidays, and growth spurts passed through the century old house. Now completely disemboweled, the white farmhouse stands empty 100 yards past the dirt road.

A weeping willow stands near, branches falling like tears. The wind blows through her leaves and the sound of shaking seashells rings the air. Black wings take flight and carry off a family of crows that once called the tree home.

The zoom of a car signals the arrival of a person. The car pulls to the curbside in front of the house. A middle-aged woman, blonde and astute, hops out of the car. Firing on all pistols, the red blazered woman marches to the front yard. She has two objects in hand, a yard stake with a sign attached and a hammer.

The smell of lavender hits her as she proceeds up the slight hill. She ignores it, trying not to think of the family that lived here or the aromatherapy business that carried them through all the years, gave her work for the summers as a teen. Instead, she focuses her sight on the objective ahead: the little mound of dirt in front of the birdbath. Setting the sharp end of the stake into the ground, she begins pounding the top with the little metal hammer. Bang, Bang, Bang, three pounds was all it took. A splinter breaks way from the stake and enters her manicured finger.

One last attempt for vengeance from the family estate.
13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Eternity on: October 02, 2018, 04:26:47 PM
The clock ticks and with it another second passes into what feels like an eternity. A circle spanning multiple generates fills the room. Surrounding a hospital bed that is his thrown, an elderly man lays and waits for death with a welcoming grin. The only sounds in the room are the ancient Austrian grandfather clock and Kleenex unfolding.

The old man takes a deep breath. Every bystander in the room holds their own while they wait to see if he exhales. He does, and with it, they do too. The group takes in another premeditated breath and with it the smell of death, cancerous decay, bedpans, chlorine, and the stench of medical grade equipment.

Skin as thin as tissue paper lines the man’s withered body. The tales it could tell, if only its mouthpiece were working today. But it did live and tell many tales, 90 years’ worth from the appearance of wrinkles, calloused hands, and beige freckles among hair of grey.

The room stirs as a new sound emerges, one that brings with it the tingling raising of goosebumps and hair on their arms. The man whispers, but to no one present in the room, as he opens his eyes for the first time in days, turns his head to stare at an absent place, and asks the invisible person to take him home.
14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Dosage on: October 01, 2018, 05:30:25 PM
Very moving! Thanks for sharing
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Dosage on: October 01, 2018, 05:03:17 PM
Thank you!
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