Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

October 20, 2019, 05:20:07 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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1  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Sticker on: February 02, 2016, 06:37:54 AM
Fresh out of its rustly sheath, it has a gentle curve, like a cut section of pipe. It feels dense, light but solid. The gaudy colours and black print look rough close to, layers of congealed dust. The window's reflection is diffused like a ghost on the matte sheet.

The laboratory perfume of glue and varnish rises determinedly, stronger than its size should be. I pick at the blunt edge with fumbling giant fingernails, touch at first delicate and increasing in strength as concern for the object is overtaken by impatience. A corner is corrugated by my clumsiness and the curved card clings as if to a child. Like a fault-line the crack smoothly opens and curls away
2  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Shrimp on: February 01, 2016, 09:21:28 AM
Cousin of an insect, sharing legs, head and antennae, but no wings to fly through fluid instead of air. Grey threads like guitar strings waving into the current. Eyes glass black like peppercorns. Armour glistening, overlapping like a pile of glossy magazines, jointed like the pages of a fan. Mouth breathing salt and weed, actively seeking out the cloudiest patches and inhaling the food. Legs like a forest of sticks, a boatload of linked oarsmen moving in unison.
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Shovel on: January 28, 2016, 06:23:21 AM
Yes, I think there's something good-sounding about those words.
Many thanks
4  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Vodka on: January 28, 2016, 06:22:08 AM
Like a test tube of glue it sits. The bar is dark and the cylindrical cartridge is a moment of calm, picked out by a spotlight. I touch the cool glass; it feels small but weighty like a tiny grenade, smooth like a jewel.

The aroma of instability rises, a sweet sharpness, pure perfume, not true that it has no smell, it's a complex communion of dark depression.

I tip back my head and release the bomb towards my demons. Like a mouth and throatful of smoke, it cleanses away all other tastes and sensations. I feel its warmth covering the interior of my head and spilling through my eyes and cheeks. The chatter around me dulls as I am consumed for a moment in enjoying the damage.
5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Shovel on: January 27, 2016, 07:07:27 AM
The handle is rough and streaked with time, rasping on the nylon of my gloves. My hands are like dolphin's flippers, rigid and barely clasping the wood. I strain my insides to try to lift the weight of the snow. Too much. I shakily retreat and retry. Like a cake I remove the white block and carry it away.

My breath warms the inside of my hood, moist and clammy but needing some filter to block out the chill air. Each breath tastes of fibre and glue. The zip dangles inertly like a blue plastic key.

I pad back with snow squeaking in complaint as it is compounded by my feet the size of baskets. A scrape of a metal car crash as the jagged blade of the shovel strikes the mottled brown of the ground and a small pass for elves begins to form. My mind rebels momentarily at the enormity of the task but I tense my abdomen again to lift out another slice of glacier cake
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Insult on: January 26, 2016, 07:01:29 AM
His ears ring like a bell slapped with an unexpected hammer. But it's not there it's felt - it goes straight to his heart which takes a moment to understand the surprise and then to his stomach where it cuts and aches like a swallowed fork. His throat is paralysed with an egg of rage. His eyes double in size, wet like a shark's.

More words cross the air like thrown knives and searchlights glaring to make out the attack. Saliva and dust bubble up round the hubbub. A few steadier voices try to intervene and douse the fuses. But a taste of blood rises through the gums, as if cut by the words themselves and instincts are sucked up like fuel into a rocket. Red lights and dark targets pound behind darting eyes
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Shadow on: January 25, 2016, 06:47:23 AM
The braziers give off an oily smell of wood-smoke and sardines. Like totem-poles the skewers surround the fire's haze, bubbles forming on the snakeskin hides. Glasses and cutlery clank like some industrial orchestra warming up. A shout pierces the murmur from time to time.

I move under the dark green awning, no difference in temperature but the shade takes the suns insistent puppy off my neck. The tables are dressed like white plaster floors, covering cheap construction underneath. I try to catch the eye of a scurrying waiter but am left with lips open and a taste of sea salt, sun lotion, perspiration and a cloud of fish perfume, leaping through the breeze-less air. The sun's jellyfish strings my foot between grainy leather straps and I move it into the huge homely shadow. Rivers of television newsreaders ripple in the background, and bright captions appear on their hanging screens
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Glitter on: January 22, 2016, 07:07:41 AM
Like a heap of miniature slag or coal, the sticky glitter rests defiantly in its glass corner. Looking light and airy, it sits with a metallic heaviness, as if pulled downwards by a gravity greater than earth's.

Like a gem we see facets of brightness mixed with shadows of foreboding and every other tone of purple scattered like ore through a rock. A smell of bitter butter glue hangs in the air. I touch the hard tube with padded fingers and pour a lava flow of soundless colour onto my palm. The tube rings like a cracked wind chime as I replace it. I can't resist touching the space dust with my forefinger half expecting it to burn or eat into the warm moist skin. I make a crater before pinching and sprinkling the metal salt onto the paper, gavity again taking it straight down resisting any draughts
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Piano on: January 21, 2016, 06:42:26 AM
(No word this morning so I got this from a random word site...)

It fills the room with its black hulk. Like a Cadillac on stilts, polished until you can see your face. The tempting and mysterious trunk lets through a crack of daylight by the lid if you crouch to see it. I touch the smooth warmth of the wood, like the shell of a sleeping beetle. I move round to the front, seeing gold letters staring out from under the ice in the pool of black.

The heavy flap intricately fits into the body. I see the troops of keys, far too many to know. There is a smell of wealth and knowledge, care and study. I touch a key lightly and hear a soft bell ring far away. The keys feel solid and resistant, needing a boldness that I don't understand. I am tempted to sing the note, my throat opening to feel the wavelength but feeling dry and unworthy.
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Puppet on: January 20, 2016, 07:07:03 AM
Like a crashed zeppelin, limbs and clothes lie, crumpled and unnatural. Straight lines of wooden bone, shrouds of felt and a collapsed mast of string rigging. Dust has gathered on the shelf leaving dark patches where I touch and making the air smell like an old cupboard.

I hear the adults downstairs tweeting with chatter and rumbling with laughter. The floorboards give off a gentle ship's groan to remind me of where I am. I start to rouse the unconscious puppet, stomach not breathing, tight from focus on the precious cargo. Strings stretch like upwards rain and grow, clinging onto body parts on the way which tense and fall like small incompetent arrows. The head rises as if from sleep and I look into wide domino eyes, wild curls of hair and bottle top red checks. I imagine the fixed smile is for me. One arm falls loosely and swings from the shoulder
11  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Valley on: January 19, 2016, 07:02:07 AM
The grey stones kick up milk clouds as we start our descent. Flat and sharp like flints, slippery as tectonic plates, our legs become elastic and our eyes dart looking for grip. No-one speaks and the sound of small stones drizzling down is interspersed with the gravel rumble of boots skating and digging into the wild surface.

My eyes narrow as if in pain, shielding against the grey soot, smelling like last night's ashtray and swarming round us alien invaders. Occasionally there is the respite of a root or a boulder, my foot gratefully resting and conducting the tension out of my body for a second.

My mouth tastes sawdust toothpaste, trying not to inhale. As I set off again I slide away, my stomach a passenger in an out of control car, bracing for impact and mentally searching for an invisible bake. My arms gyroscope involuntarily as if a handhold would appear through the fog
12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Igloo on: January 18, 2016, 06:51:12 AM
It's twilight. It's always twilight but my eyes are tricked by the white expanses to feel dazzled until the sun is nearly gone. No-one speaks. The sleighs glide and dogs snuffle and clank in their harnesses but the main sound is the flutter of my clothing in the wind which like a persistent child relentlessly tugs and forbids me to forget it.

The snow smells like freezers, a metallic smell of solid rain. I nestle my face deeper into the crusty folds of my headgear, perfumed by the damp warmth of my breath. My body is tense from miles of travel, bracing itself against nature.

In the distance, our destination waits quietly like a discarded tennis ball. A shadowy blue patch on the flat smoothness of the quilted landscape. The ground starts to become less even as we begin to bump over the braille junction of rutted tracks we and others have made
13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Candle on: January 14, 2016, 07:14:07 AM
Cold hands fumble with matches which try to escape a clumsy grip. The wind in the shack seems colder than outside, like spiders finding any crack to enter and enjoy. My fingers seem rigid like chopsticks, the Novocaine cold making them feel swollen like grey balls of yarn.

A scratch of tiny Velcro and a flame is released from its mother reaction. I dab at the wick, sunken like a fly in amber, balancing between pushing deeper and not dousing the flame. The smoke baby smells like chimneys, barbecues and better places.

A small blueness precursors the light, it fades when I tentatively distance the match, but eventually independent life is sustained and like a volume knob the candle's light expands to meet the gloom. With a metallic scrape I set its brass boat down on the quiet wooden table. It wanders in the draughts and pinballs shadows around the room
14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Nun on: January 13, 2016, 06:58:18 AM
Like chess pieces they move through the town. One white and one black and white. Two silver crosses and pairs of sensible shoes. They look slightly furtive as though we are judging them. We feel a little awkward inside, also sensing being judged.

There is a clean feeling to them as they pass, no chatter, a ring of shoes. Their robes seem to be formed of intricate layers impossible for the uninitiated to understand. Flat, thick and immobile like cardboard. Like their world, impenetrable. But they seem ill at ease in ours.

I imagine how they speak, kindly, voices dusty from quietness. Sure in themselves but apprehending the blank faces of some. An aroma of bleach and calm.
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Fir Tree on: January 12, 2016, 06:57:43 AM
The dense black shroud of fur lightens and becomes greener as we approach. Instead of a blanket we see sharp peaks and within the peaks sharper needles of green.

The forest smells like warm butter, as if glued and baked together in a giant kitchen. The air still bites at my cheeks like a cold shower. I try to walk in a bubble of my own breath but the wind goblins carry it away to a decontamination zone somewhere and I am left with the fresh grey cold.

Underfoot the miniature trees splinter and crack under a soft army of boots. Some cones have fallen closed like grenades, others have spread open like seaweed, seeking the earth's cushion, allowing themselves to be fragile to the touch.

Birds call busily, going about their business from tree to tree whisking the air with feather blades and the thud of branches
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