Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

February 21, 2018, 01:53:40 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
Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 10
 on: Today at 10:32:46 AM 
Started by Kalester12 - Last post by Kalester12
Tendons stretch like tiny bungee chords as the valves move up and down like machines in a factory. The overpowering sound like someone talking into an air horn. Chiseled thin metal, chapped lips, and a looming frustration. The taste of old saliva and tap water because anything else would hurt your throat. Like being locked in a box, a peaceful metal box with people staring as they walk by rudely. Every note a strain on your lungs and it's only making your headache worse. Playing by yourself; locked in a room you're trapped; but out on the field in the sun playing, competing with your friends you're free. The inside of your arm sore from playing...

 on: Today at 06:27:09 AM 
Started by tbones - Last post by tbones
A warm winter night in New York City where the fog lays over the streets and the lights are filtered through it. We walk out of the subway station with a slight buzz and smiles on our faces headed to the Blue Note to see Kenny Garrett and his quartet. The line is long and everyone is eager to try to get in. We manage to get a table and order some drinks before the music. Kenny came out and the sound of his saxophone filled my soul with refreshing ideas and creativity like a glass of ice cold water on a hot summer day. After the show there was a jam session where a boy that must have been 13 walked in with his pants too short and a trumpet in his hand. He walked up to the stage and started playing a tune with the band and schooled all the other players with soaring, fast be-bop licks. He was an old soul trapped in a young body. I imagined Miles Davis as a young kid, precocious and incredibly talented. The session ended well after 2 in the morning with other jazz players walking in like vampires, staying up all night because thats when jazz happens. Making the dead of night alive with spirit.

 on: Today at 05:43:37 AM 
Started by andrewpayne55 - Last post by Prosper
I am obsessed with Bell. She’s the heiress of the brass family but with a heart of gold. She sounds like no one. Her body doesn’t look like anybody what makes her sonically very, very, attractive.
Her style is unique. Specially her flair. One of my friends Horn, who is somehow related to her family, told me that anytime they would have a family reunion, she would always breaks the silence first and sounded very sharp. Always. Rumor has it that she only dates experimented man, or virtuosos and would never downgrade.
Bell and Her last partner broke up because he thought that she  was too tensed and constantly causing  him chest pain.
Same story all the time. Everywhere.But I like her.
I hope that one day somebody else will have the chance to place his lips again on her and blow into her soul a wind of love that she would transform into another mellow sound.

The Proper Kid

 on: Today at 04:57:16 AM 
Started by andrewpayne55 - Last post by andrewpayne55
They move as one in unison
Silence all around.
Heads bowed in solemnity
Staring at the ground.
The names are read in monotone
Emotion too hard to bare
The list of sons and brothers
Who never made it there.
The trumpet breaks the silence
With a song we’ve heard before
Those first two notes of heartbreak
Open up the door.
A gateway for the living
To stand beside the dead
Poppies on our chests
The bright shock of red.
We remember all the fallen
Yet we send them off again
Another generation
Sent to join the slain.

 on: Today at 02:41:44 AM 
Started by ?Ian? - Last post by ?Ian?
Leslie was staring Albert down with a gaze that could break the mountain rocks if there only were any between two of them. There was no trumpet section then. Just a one handsome trumpet player with his fingers tightly griped on the brass ,and a pleasant looking chestnut haired girl griping the edges of her sit just as tight.

 on: February 20, 2018, 11:20:39 AM 
Started by Kalester12 - Last post by Kalester12
Hard, brittle graphite scraping against soft paper. As emotions rage inside; your heart beating faster, words becoming less and less legible as the tears rain down. Knuckles crack, the yellow light getting dimer and dimer. The battery in your car giving out, the warmth on the soft leather steering wheel will soon go away. You hair standing up like you're around an electric ball; being gelled by your tears . Lies and deceit riddle these pages which someday you will no longer read. When your house gets bigger, when your heart is fuller and your life plans out.

 on: February 20, 2018, 11:05:20 AM 
Started by iamwomps - Last post by iamwomps
Scribbled through with the dusty remnants of blackened graphite, pleading for the truth to be put down. Fiery topics pushed harder than the light touch of how the day began. Hundreds of blank pages, unaware of what is yet to come, just waiting for their time to shine. Tears down the seam, like the rugged landscape of the mountains of Appalachia, showing the hatred and fear of what was enclosed in the secrets of the past, the memory of which sharpened against the force of time. Hopes and dreams, tears and sweat, all equally placed down with the belief that all will be achieved the harder you try. The lonely pen, ink dribbling out the point, placed by itself at the center of the page. Its history shown, the ink cartridge dropped below the point of visibility. A book at its simplest, but to others their own tracker, their own wishlist, and the drive to push them to see what they can do in the short time left alive, yearning to make a name for themselves. Placed by its own on a shelf, away from bias, to give one its own place in life.

 on: February 20, 2018, 10:31:05 AM 
Started by djevans - Last post by djevans
Tears pour out on tissue pages, where I hide my bruises and injuries.  My old trusted friend who keeps my most intimate thoughts safe.   She’s the one who’s stayed with me over the years, when most everyone else was nowhere to be found.  I told her everything, things I wouldn’t even tell my mom.  We cried together and we laughed until our stomachs hurt.  She’s getting old, worn and tattered just like me.  My hand glides over her skin and it's rough, not smooth and slick like when she was young. Her red leather coat is turning brown and the edges are no longer sharp.  But we don’t care,  we’ve shared a life of ups and downs and what wisdom we’ve found.  We meet every morning and chat over our cup of  sweet green tea.  Someday she’ll be cremated just like me.  We’ll both take our secrets to the grave, friends forever.  

 on: February 20, 2018, 07:14:11 AM 
Started by tbones - Last post by tbones
The Ink bleeds thoughts and desires into a worn leather bound book. Hidden secrets of the soul seep out of the mind letting go of the inner baggage like a feather in the wind. There's a lock on the cover, ornate and with a engraved pattern etched in the tarnished bronze. The leather strap is frayed and the pages are gold leafed. Buried underneath the dust is the voice of unbridled honesty. The words are laced with sweetness, anger, depression, bitterness, hope, and joy. Looking back into the past and shining the spotlight on times and memories not thought of often, but not forgotten. Nuggets of what was, What could be, and what has been achieved can be painful but gratifying. An enigma of emotions battle through your mind as you taste the sharp realities of your thoughts.

 on: February 20, 2018, 05:14:07 AM 
Started by GLMansell - Last post by GLMansell
Pencils marks scrawled over the moleskin bound cover, scuffed with character and years of use. The binding creaks and crackles as yellowed pages wave with the breeze, blowing its words off the paper into the surrounding world. Leaning forward, the book was fitted with a faint smell of moth balls and grandma's entry hall. Memories taste like coffee and tea as they muddled old entries into splotches of blacks, and browns, and grays. It lay in its usual place, where a ring of dust has found its home outlining the book on the bookshelf.

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