Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

October 20, 2019, 05:00:53 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 / Gondola on: May 21, 2019, 05:51:41 PM
Wrote, but didn't have time to type out yesterday.

“Gondola,” the word glides back and forth on a spit wire, from cheek to cheek, rolling over the tumbling ribs of the roof of my mouth. Nothing rises to my mind, Ah! Except blue skies, so blue you want to dive in, breath visible in quick flashes of frosty air, grey mountain peaks, craggy and heavy, capped off by white slatherings of snow frosting. The mountain sides are jagged lines darting up and disappearing, shadowy wedges where the sun can’t yet reach, countless shades of grey, softer, harder, shiny and dull, fractal structures of ledges upon ledges, Penrose staircases leading nowhere. Red and white bubbly gondolas bobbing slightly on their way up, hanging from threaded steel cables. The piny smell of the dark green firs below, the chirps of birds which peck peculiarly at the ears causing one’s head to tilt slightly, thirstily trying to drink in just a bit more of the melody. A startling pitched screech from a darting bitter blue jay sends the lighter songs scattering, like a beater car with too much bass rattling down the street shattering the window of clam, rattling sounds like a canned giant fart. Smelling the gas and seeing oil leaking out in drops upon the wet pavement where it spreads into iridescent rainbows of toxicity, a luring dangerous beauty. Little bunnies hop through my mind with wide gazing cartoon eyes, now scampering frantically away form the plodding hungry tank tracks holding up the steel beasts. Black smoke billowing out of dragon like mouths, dirt sticking to teeth like coagulated blood. A scream stabs the air, falling over itself like a dust storm cloud, causing hackles to rise like Reich soldiers descending on a Jewish village.
2  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Net on: May 21, 2019, 05:37:02 PM
Tight, tautly wound strands, sharp as razors in crisscrossing pattern descend down into frigid, salty and pitch black waters. They float in the darkness anchored by steel bowling balls, waiting for the innocents, the silvery scales of a school of fish on their speedy way, following a pull at their insides, a whispering stream of life, not knowing why they follow, blindly, yet not stumbling in the least, a confidence that cuts through the darkness until they encounter the razor webbing hanging unseen like spiderwebs attached to the floating orange bob 100’s of feet above with a pulsing, glaring, red tattle tale eye, calling out to the chugging grating ships with wolf men howling out their own hungry and drunken cries to a night sky, blinded to the sparkling crystalline overture of stars above. Red and yellowing eyes, crusty salted and wiry beards meet greasy matted hair under stinking sweat-fossilized hats. Oil slick oceans on soft golden beaches, trapped within the sticky death spit are birds wrenching their way out of the thick gurgling quagmire of blackened breakers, wings heavy, unable to fly. Meanwhile  4 miles on shore a domesticated child unwraps his teddy bear shaped future diabetes inducing sugar cereal, a ingrained and trained, a sugar addict already, as mom pats him on the shoulder and pours out the white murder, that looks so innocent, washed clean of any notions of kidnapped calfs by plastic packaging with the word “Organic” smiling on the label. In the milk, unseen, lurks the chemicals of heart wrenching anguish of a mother robbed from her young, from her nature. The mother smiles, rubs her soft hand through her boy’s silky blonde hair as he slurps down the pain that would cause her to kill herself if she had to feel it.
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Gas on: May 19, 2019, 04:06:12 AM
Thick with sense bound descriptions. Bravo.

Seeing Eloisenm's comment about having a hard time following the story highlights the tendency on this site to create story lines, which is simply not the point of object writing. It's about letting loose, letting our senses do the driving, getting everything else out of the way (grammar, sentence structure, etc.). Pat even says this. It takes courage to step outside structure and I feel you demonstrated this courage here. Not that this is all that hard to follow.

Eloisenm, I want to see your never-ending sentences. Your writing is fantastic too. I desire to see where your senses would take you if you release the need to wrangle them up within a story. I get chills at the thought. Don't even give it a second glance.

For that matter I'd like to see my own.

10 minute story writing is a different practice. Mixing the two together results in luke-warm development in both areas.

I'll get off my dilapidated, low rent, cockroach laden soap box now. : )
4  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Gas on: May 18, 2019, 04:44:02 PM
This was a fun read and intensely relatable.  I am unsure exactly what Mary's circumstance is, I can tell it has to do with betraying bodily functions. I believe the ambiguity adds to the fun.
5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Gas on: May 18, 2019, 04:40:16 PM
Bright red, course and hard and thick plastic exterior, a sign of caution, a signal for help and in his case a neon light for escapism, a luring finger into twisted entertaining alleyways. He holds his sock in other hand, still warm and freshly washed, smelling the artificial flowers from the dryer sheets. He reverently holds it up to the black spout and lifts the opposite end of the gas can, ears drinking in and relishing the sloshing liquid, nose breathing in the appetizer fumes. No one’s home today, parents gone for the weekend, he walked home from school in a hurry, ignoring the sweat on his face, focused only on the dangling and dancing juicy ripe and ready to be devoured carrot. Finally the time has come, he’s put on some Glitch Mob for ambience, lit his incense, turned on the black light, silenced phone, has put in meticulous energy into building his meditative cave of solace, an architect worm weaving the cacoon around his gateway to his metamorphosis into controlled madness. He wrings out his sock into the piss yellow plastic wash tub his family uses to do dishes in when they go camping. He holds the sock to his nose and inhales deeply, luxuriating in the sweet burning sensations and shooting sparks, enjoying the screaming decay of brain cells. He lets out his breath tasting the gasoline, an aggressive metallic taste, reminds him of malfunctioning robots and evil chemists with swirling red and yellow eyes. He inhales another deep storm of insanity, brilliant toxic green blooms of radioactive flowers flash in his mind, a deep throbbing begins to pulse in his brain and body as if his heart has found the drum of the Universe and has begun pounding on it, trying to escape his host, banging and beating on an ethereal door  for help from a higher being. A deeply creviced grin cracks his face wide open just before he inhales again. The flowers melt into deep purple clouds with orange bursts of lightning. He senses he is crossing a shaky bridge over an impossible void, he wants to run to get to the other side, but his feet have disappeared into a horde of tingles so intense he imagines he is being eaten alive by ants and each bite sends shockwaves of euphoria vibrating through his core.
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Speaker on: May 17, 2019, 03:22:17 PM
Five kids gather around, black, blonde, red and more black hair sticking up in tangles looking like a rough sea, still messy from sleep. They lay on their bellies in a semicircle, hands holding heads up, feet bobbing up and down, toes poking out of holes in socks, slippers ragged and fraying, dirty bare feet. At the center is the little tattered speaker about the size of a small pancake, tears throughout the soft cardboard and dents in the cone from curious finger pokes. Red, white and black cables snake their way to the green board that always reminds one of the boys of a miniature city. A tube glows out a soft yellow glow into the morning air, dust tumbles and rolls in the single ray shining through the bent potion of the blinds. The smell of oatmeal coats the air, they don't notice it, but their stomachs do and let out tiny grumbling conversations, which is another thing they don't notice for they are transfixed. After the familiar distorted musical entrance a staticy voice telling stories of scientists and their discoveries lures them all of into a new world. Shivers of excitement and vivid images of well lit laboratories with test tubes bubbling with green concoctions, white microscopes lining metallic tabletops with eyes gazing in concentration into black cylinders bringing to life the once invisible and mysterious worlds. Oblong bacteria looking like tiny yellow pills, dancing green balls of chloroplasts moving through the rectangular and almost invisible plant cells, amoebas in globular shapes engulfing one another becoming one looking like paisleys come to life. The voice is distorted and crackling but the boys don't mind at all. Every morning they rush out of bed throw blankets skyward which descend back to earth like parachutes. They shove and push each other laughing, shouting, whining, trying to get the middle spot in front of the speaker. The roughness of the floor, the dirty walls, the sounds of angry screaming through the walls,  even the hunger pangs fade away and for a brief moment in time they are immersed in fascination.
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: QUESTION on rhymes... on: May 17, 2019, 01:23:17 AM
My take is that Identities seem to have the recognizable word in the word chosen to rhyme with it. Fuse/confuse - "fuse" is a recognizable word. Same goes for the other examples you used. In the case of peace/piece, they are only really recognizable as different words when written, as well as based on the context of the line they are found within. The problem in my mind with peace/piece is that they sound exactly the same. This is a problem (in my mind) because rhyming in songs is 100% aural and there's an expectation with rhymes that a different word be used, a word that sounds almost the same, but not 100% the same. I believe this is also why the other examples aren't rhymes, but identities. Sure "confuse" has an extra syllable in front of "fuse" and technically is a different word, but ultimately the part that is being used for rhyming is the same exact sound, which in this case is also a recognizable word.

In the case of sorrow/borrow and follow/hollow, the portion being rhymed is the "orrow"/"ollow" and that is not a recognizable word, which means our mind simply must go to what precedes it to make the rhyming sound make sense and in these examples the sounds preceding the rhyming sound (s and b/f and h) are different, thus different word, thus rhymes and not identities.

So in the case of "unleash/McLeash" - that be an identity yo.

As for the feminine and masculine I am not sure if it matters so much. I could be wrong here though. Shoot I could be wrong about all I said, but it seems to make sense to me.

Thanks for asking the question. I hope this answer has helped you as much as it has seemed to help me in writing it.

8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Change on: May 17, 2019, 01:05:40 AM
I just got through listening to a Tool song before reading this and your words with the memory of the song created some interesting imagery in my mind. Stephen King's Dark Tower was also echoing in my mind. I felt like the topic was hidden in a neat way. Not obvious and yet very much present. So many of the words you used were excellent seeds for my imagination to take hold of and grow into enchanted forests.

I am always unsure of how to leave feedback on these because they're written with such a tight deadline that being too critical and thinking too much will get in the way of actually writing anything. I don't sense that was a problem here, I am just stating the conflict between my desire to give useful feedback and the actual reality of these writings, which is to not think too much, just go. Also what I feel is "useful" may not be useful at all.

Your feedback on mine have been encouraging and perhaps encouragement is all that is necessary. My mind wants to give more though, yet again this may not be the context for that and this may be an overactive need for more that can get in the way of me giving anything at all.

My question to you is: what kind of feedback do you feel in this specific circumstance of timed object writings is most useful? (Perhaps this is a question that would do good in the forum...)
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Change on: May 16, 2019, 05:44:26 PM
These object writings have become more and more burdensome and I realized why and it is this: I have been trying too hard to create coherent story lines and scenes and the pressure of doing so punctures my creativity like a rusty knife blade sinking into a newborn babe. Yeah, it’s that bad. I had to go back to read the beginning of “Writing Better Lyrics” to get grounded again. If a coherent story line comes out that is fine, but I am no longer going to even try to do this anymore as I don't feel it is the point at all of doing these. As Pat says “Save more focused writing for your songs.”

Quarters shine brightly in the hot and invisible rays of the sun, looking like drops of white fire, pools of electric mercury. A metallic smell wafts up from my sweaty palms, a nervous jolt coursing up and down and through my body, goosebumps poke their way out like moles that can’t quite break the surface, white fibre optic hairs stand on end like periscopes. A wind slices through with its icy blade sending shivers biting and attacking my edges. The sound of teeth chattering, porcelain cups banging together too hard, to the point of shattering, spiderweb cracks start to crawl out their crooked legs, earthquaking tremors now, breaking apart the hard concrete surface of my psyche separating it by deep cracks, the screaming sounds of sirens, the flashing red and blue lights darting through the darkness like the criminals they chase, babies sending out their raspy cries, poking at ear drums like devil forks, serrated edges rubbing against soft pink flesh, biting in, droplets of red start pouring out and pooling together, the taste of iron and metal as a warm pink thirsty tongue licks them up with a slimy slithering motion. Two dagger fangs resist biting in for a moment and then give way to the exploding powder keg impulse, popping through the flesh, a long sigh releases from the gaping mouth of the woman, her soft silky blonde hair curls and curves over her hare tan shoulders, a deep moan of delight follows as she sinks into the pain, letting the quick sand of pleasure swallow her whole, feeling each burning grain rub and grate against her soul, scrubbing away the dull throbbing she feels with every hammering tick of the clock. The fangs are better than the claws she scrapes against the concrete walls of the prison of her existence. The stale, bleach smell of the air is replaced by  oniony body odor and the rotting blood of the vampire breath. Coagulated muddy red droplets cram between yellowing teeth.
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Ski Lift on: May 15, 2019, 02:31:21 AM
Sitting on the hard plastic bench padded by my new thick black gortex pants, being careful not to rub the legs together to much to avoid the gag inducing sound as much as possible, feet hanging down into the 20 foot void, feeling pulled down sand awkward due to the two blood red fiberglass talons jutting out in a V in front of me. Riding up to the top of the mountain, the morning sun just cresting the peak. We’re like a conveyor belt of angels on their way to Heaven. Big furs, dark green and heavy with frosting straddle the lift, like silent sentinels assuring safe passage. At the top I clumsily shimmy off the bench, fall on my butt with a burst of laughter, feel the coolness and hear the crunch of the snow. I lift myself up, poles clanging in one hand, then position myself at the lip of the drop like a frozen roller coaster just before the plunge. I prepare my grip on the poles through thick red and black striped gloves, take in an icy drink of breath, adjust my goggles over my face, turning the world into a green tinged paradise, feel electric anticipation rip through me and push off. The wind screams into my ears, numbing them. I carve left and then right, feeling my weight shift and bounce back and forth over my rail feet, feeling a powerful surging balance between chaos and control, riding some fine line, a razor’s edge whose blade is sizzling with a fine white hot line. Fellow skiers and borders dissolve into colorful tracers, my vision tunnels, I see the bottom way down below, little pin pricks of people, pinks, and blues, reds, and blacks. I tuck in a bit more, feel my leg muscles tense like steel cables, turning myself into a blade that slices the wind into shreds, my speed increases, ski poles shooting out behind me I imagine them warping their shape like the Starship Enterprise just after the spoken “engage"
11  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Chandelier on: May 13, 2019, 08:16:02 PM
Clinging to the dusty and yellowing almost brown popcorn ceiling is a what was once shimmering gold and is now a dull rust bespeckled brown pedestal with angels that look like chubby little boys dancing around the circumference in some sinister game of tag with their little bow and arrows. Cracks extend in firework patterns out from the pedestal, tired wrinkles of a tired ceiling tired of holding this damn tired chandelier up for all these years. The brown and dull arms have little Polyanna crystals hanging from them, however more of them are now missing then are there, like a hillbilly smile and each missing tooth recalls throbbing skull bashing memories from standing up from the table too quickly. Old crusty brown candles protrude in awkward angles from the end of these bicep like arm. The chandelier swings back and forth ever so gently in the cool spring evening’s breeze. Outside the gurgly coos of a couple doves sitting atop the neighbor’s dinosaur skeleton TV antennae that sticks out from their roof. Gramma’s in the kitchen humming a raspy tune cooking bacon for dinner, the air grows thick with the saliva inducing greasy smell and polka dot crackles. Little kid sits bravely below the guillotine chandelier coloring with a purple crayon everywhere but inside the thick lines of the naked race car. The sun is setting in the west facing window, there’s just enough direct sunlight still shooting through the chandeliers few good teeth scattering the light into Pink Floyd rainbows, which sway back and forth magnifying the chandelier's movement. Kid’s feet also swing back and forth, each upward kick hits the bottom of the wooden seat sending out a thud along with a sequential line of purple, red, orange, and blue light along the edges of his ninja turtle sneakers. He’s humming some song from the TV shows his gramma lets him watch (their little secret) while she steps outside to smoke what she calls “her medicine,” the pungent odor of which the kid now directly relates to the comfort of his grammy’s house.
12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Matchbox on: May 12, 2019, 09:41:07 PM
Sitting legs out in a wide V in the soft dirt patch with dried grass ringing the edges, extending out in a sea of yellow which crashes against the dark grey and tired looking boards of his backyard fence. Between his legs an array of matchbox cars extend outward in 2 parallel lines which are headed by his favorite, the sparkly red corvette. He picks it up and relishes its heavy comforting weight in his hands, his palms fold in gently encompassing the smooth curves and edges. He sets it back down in the tire prints left in the soft, sand like dirt. To his right sits a small box with a rusty red and smooth checkerboard on one side and another black and rough edge lining the opposite side. Picking the box up he gives it a little shake and relishes the hollow percussive rattle of those magic sticks as they jostle from edge to edge. A spark of excitement ignites in his belly. He quickly covers the box with closed fist, eyes darting left and right. Assured no one saw or heard he gently pries open the little cardboard drawer revealing a dozen or more tear drop shaped green heads atop bright blonde square sticks. He slowly pulls one out, rolling it in his finger tips the square shape creating an interesting vibration. He rubs it slowly and softly against the rough edge of the box and a wisp of white smoke ascends and disappears leaving a faint smell that reminds him of 4th of July and fireworks and hot dogs sizzling on barbecues. He rubs again this time harder and faster and with a clamoring hiss the green head gets eaten up like bait in a piranha tank by a hungry flame that quickly changes from a vibrant purple to a white hot orange. Breaking his fixation on this mini torch in hand he reaches for the cheap plastic car at the end of the pack, a feeling a hot excitement pulsing….
13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Curtain on: May 11, 2019, 04:58:08 PM
Thick curtains hang like armor over all the windows in the house. The material black and hard to the touch. It takes the strong arms of the father to pull them shut screeching and grinding over thin metal and rusting rails not made to hold such weight. The lights in the house are dimmed to a whisper, blackness pokes and prods at the womb like edges of the soft orange glow emanating from the old lantern. Memories of campfires and ghost stories try to play in the child’s mind, but these attempts are left palsied and malnourished in the incessant bleating sound of the air raid sirens which scrape against all nerves and beat holes in ear drum membranes, roughly textured plaster walls doing little to diminish. No one says a word. All just stare transfixed by the small dancing gypsy flame in the middle of the curving glass cover of the lantern whose top is layered by a ring of thick black soot. The mother is moving her lips silently, praying for safety, blanketing all souls with unheard pleas. Far above a low hum grows louder and louder still. A crack in the plastered wall shifts back and forth in the flickering flame light, looking like a worm, reminding the child of the fishing trips to the lake with papa, walking down the grey cobblestone road, pole over shoulder, dancing up and down with each boxing step, basket in hand packed tightly with sandwiches and cookies made by mother. Now he feels like the worms on the hooks impaled by helplessness, waiting to be eaten alive by some gaping black maw of a monster's mouth.
14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Shed on: May 10, 2019, 04:55:38 PM
It was the fall of my life, storm clouds hung black, dense and sedentary smothering my mind, raining down icy bullets. The once green and vibrant habits that I wore like badges of honor upon my branches have led me only to this cliff’s edge. A billowing furnace of red hot fire spewed out its heat, sweat beads covering my forehead even in the chilled atmosphere of my room. Within my heart I felt a crack emerge. Through the crack a white hot light started to break its way in, a monster tearing away the flimsy metal walls of the shed I had made for myself, my shelter against pain. All of a sudden I smelled the sweetness of bright red roses in the midst of my room which was scattered with old growth mold covered meals on yellowing crusty paper plates, stale beer and overused cat box. Those green leaves started to turn red and orange in my mind as if catching fire in the light now exploding in my heart. The leaves as if in a time lapse video quickly turned brown and cracked and fell away. I felt bare and vulnerable with my bare branches, picked apart like a carcass at the center of a vulture feast, yet I was still standing. I gave up the fight as the brilliant white light grew unbelievably brighter and started to send bubbling pearlescent tessellations surging and tumbling up and down my limbs like Mandelbrot fractals. Tears started to push their way out cascading down my face washing out the rot I held inside. Dead skin shedding away, raw pink skin left vulnerably bare, gently kissed by a warm and soothing wind. A hammer of a promise in my hand, ready to tear down these brick walls of pain of my own creation. The tree stood there in the light now, the storm clouds have been blown away. Actually there were 2 of me. I could see the me under the barren tree in the midst of the storm, yet this me was far back in the distance now, the me I was was here under this new tree, tiny bright green bulbs starting to emerge in the warm glow of a vibrant sun raining down its angelic rays through the ocean of the blue sky.
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Magician on: May 09, 2019, 08:22:38 PM
I enjoyed the theme you went with here. It all seems to be unified by the mask theme presented in the first line. There's an external mask that's trying to hide his intentions of pilfering money, and there's another layer of an internal mask where he hides from himself his shame/embarrassment. On top of this he is unmasking the tricks, revealing the "man behind the curtain" to all breaking the fragile egg of wonderment and awe. Neat stuff.

"What was once a vibrant, colorful egg full of wonder and mystery is now an empty shell, the innards removed and used up." This is a cool description.

Great job! Cheers!

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