Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

March 22, 2019, 02:29:59 AM
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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
Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 10
 11 
 on: March 20, 2019, 03:07:44 PM 
Started by leowriter - Last post by leowriter
There was a wall of plates of all colors, translucent, there in the gift store ... we grabbed them very carefully, slowly, making sure the balance was perfect ... like a tightrope walker ... in Haydn's park they put a flat yellow rope from one tree to another, I walked there with Joe my Jackrussell, he practically dragged me, you could feel the pull as if you were skiing, I bent my body a little backwards to do the counterweight, I remember the carpet of orange flowers on the loose earth, the walkways and the dew on the grass, ... the precipice on the side ... one or another sunset I liked to photograph it, the west was painted orange and red, leaving the silhouette of the sun perfectly drawn, the big and respected ball of fire, those small transparent waves that appear when there is something very hot, sometimes it happens with the asphalt, you can see the images distorted ... the dry trunk, the skeleton of the crunchy cicada ... its legs are small Needles that remain stuck in the bark of the trees ... my aunt Marta had a cork wall in her drawing studio, smelled of crayons, creativity ...  Music studios also smell like that, the new music equipment, music stores smell of creativity, like when my mom went back from the United Kingdom with lots of towels, unzipped her worn purple suitcase and there was that smell of Wallgreens, variety, the rubber of the new shoe along with the chocolate, the sound of the M&M's bag, the yellow bag with the muffled noise muted by the new clothes, the labels clogging ... the plastic paper mountains beside the suitcases and the atmosphere of celebration in the house, eyes wide open to see what's new .... like when my dad gave me my first pro skateboard, I took it out of that blue jean where it was hidden, I could feel the smooth and polished board in my hands, the bright colors, blue, violet ... like the ultraviolet lights in the school canteen, forming a strange halo around, the vision becomes blurred and the grid lines ------

 12 
 on: March 20, 2019, 01:24:45 PM 
Started by FunkySea - Last post by FunkySea
The curved sides gently rise and the roundness of the plate and the smooth edges are pleasing to the touch. The film of grease from oil and cheese. Scrubbing the plate to get it off. A heavy Venezuelan artisanal ceramic plate and the hot water with plenty of air swooshing like a waterfall over it and the brush traveling in long sweeps. The stiff bristles bend and strain but come back in almost perfect erectness for years. The sink is stainless steel and it sits quietly and the sound the brush makes against it. Like a drum a steel drum. An industrial sound of bouncing and swaying African music. Dancers clad in animal skins and the sky is black above the fire. The sparks rise in droves and the music is intoxicating. The time and place to lose yourself in dance and the songs of the tribe. Outside the village the savannah lies dark and teeming with life. Yellow eyes glow in the dark. All two eyed creations. So close to us and yet so foreign looking. The monkeys’ fur is tough like the brush bristles and its arms and legs feel incredibly powerful and supple at the same time. The black fur shines like a laquer coat on a car and the lighter face is furless and the eyes gleam at me before the ape takes to the sky and swings with lazy effortlessness bet

 13 
 on: March 20, 2019, 11:46:24 AM 
Started by kurtiz - Last post by kurtiz
Serving you absorbing the deflecting the nourishment that you hold.  your presence keeps everything at bay, holding on to the things that will soon be me.  the alter of the almost me almost consuming me until your offerings are one.  you are stable and unmoving you must hold still and be the support small lipped edges imploring the food to stay within your devine circle of trust.  You congregate like church gowers on the sacramental table of our life.   Laughing, loving crying you are a stoic participant to our daily lives.  Crisp scent of soap and hard porcelain formed forever ago in a place far away.  I am forever in service of you cleaning and drying, like a new family member.  And yet I always take advantage never thanking your support and dedication to my sustenance.  Forever you will be my saviour.     

 14 
 on: March 20, 2019, 07:21:54 AM 
Started by Eloisenm - Last post by Dorian Black
A white disk, carefully placed on a colourful field on the table. Surrounded by silverware in a military precision, it waits like a faithful soldier to serve it purpose for the day. It is Sunday and they will come to visit, they always do on Sundays. She woke up early as always, but today her dull routine they call life is sprinkled with a dash of excitement, she has a purpose. Plates are laid on the table, the good silverware are polished and ready, crystal glasses like watchtowers inspecting that everything is in perfect harmony. In the kitchen next door a perfectly organised chaos, everything must be ready when they arrive. Smells of bread and roast beef and gravy fill the room, the kids like roast beef. Now everything is ready, and she smiles as she moves to the bedroom to put on her nicest clothes to match her biggest smile. They sill soon be here. Her loved ones, her life.

 15 
 on: March 20, 2019, 05:45:25 AM 
Started by Eloisenm - Last post by Eloisenm
Easter was always cold at Glen Innes. The charm of autumn hung in the air itching to break into winter. It was a relief from the unbearable summer days where I would get sweaty just from breathing. Summer did seem like a cruel punishment sometimes. Glen Innes came to signify the first track pants of the season and big ill-fitting coats, not to mention the fluffy and warm ugg boots. Evenings came with multiple layers, a roaring camp fire and a makeshift dinner. Although, my parents, being seasoned campers, could make almost anything at a campsite. There was one point when we needed new camping plates, the old porcelain ones just weren't cut out for the tent-life. Mum and Dad grabbed a set, deeply scooped at the sides to prevent any dripping of sauces. They were decent sized plates too but were made of metal. It didn't take long for the plates to cool, chilling the meal upon it.  Our options were to eat fast or enjoy a cold meal. Even when mum heated...

 16 
 on: March 19, 2019, 08:41:26 PM 
Started by John M - Last post by John M
what is this foreign icy surface beneath my feet? its not rock, its not dirt, its definitely not the soft green grass i'm used to traversing outside, and why is it littered with squares, one beside the other, on top of the other, squares compiling squares, but how many squares total? its like guessing how many jelly beans fill the jar, winner takes all. lets have a lick; tastes like dirt, crumbly, grainy, unswept, not slick like when the linoleum gets wet in the bathroom, yet smoother than the rough pavement of the driveway, it doesnt taste bad, but not particularly good either, and what's with the colors? black then white then black then white, every row the preceding rows opposite, is it meant to be a game? checkers? chess? my nails scratch and click across the floor when i move, as if i were wearing shoes made for tap dancing, but they don't make those kinds of shoes for creatures like me, though i'm talented in other ways, sitting, staying, laying down, shaking hands...


 17 
 on: March 19, 2019, 05:27:01 PM 
Started by mattvs86 - Last post by mattvs86
Ancient tile is spread across the locker room, little squares of brown and green pointlessly trying to create a pattern pleasing to the eyes.  Suffocating fumes of chlorine and body odor, filling my airwaves and clouding my thinking.  I shiver as I undress, my feet touching the cold and ruthless tile.  As if the tile detects the warmth and life in my body and wants to suck it dry.  I take my swim trunks and head to the shower.  I turn on the hot water, yet all that comes out is cold, only confirming that the entire point of this place is to snuff out any warmth and life.  The cold water chills my spine and only heightens my fear of what's to come.  I walk to the pool, and the echos of voices surround me.  The taskmaster orders us in the pool; the ice cold water again jolting my body.  White tile covers the bottom of the pool.  Under orders, I dunk my head under water, the last thing I want to do.  The ugly bone white tile just as lifeless as this entire place.  I burst up, the slight taste of chlorine in my mouth and a searing pain in my nostrils.    Year after year I endure, until I'm declared a failure. 

 18 
 on: March 19, 2019, 04:13:38 PM 
Started by leowriter - Last post by leowriter
the earth-colored tile, the rocky slope facing the sea, the cyclists pass like boliders by the seashore, a shore worn and eroded by saltpeter, craters form and you can see the gray concrete, pale ... Kingston Town seems like a ghost town, bent and rusted iron towers, children walking barefoot taking their hands to the mouth, while other ladies walk slowly to the edge of the street, with their hands on their heads holding the yellow, white, red and brown cocadas ... one that another fly flies ... the buzz that threatens and passes inches from the ear, Rudy went with the racket up dragging his panda slippers, looking to electrocute the giant green fly,  like those green Chevrolet ... George had one red wine, he laughed like a magpie, then he stared at you in the eyes and let out an insult between his teeth ... sad his episode where they let themselves be influenced by Rick, ... his gummed false hair, his chemise rolled up, ... that day in the school festival, Jordan was very bored, he wanted nothing, we played the game of the hammer, the hammer was sticky, it stuck in my hands like grey chewing gum, it was hard to get away from the expired rubber, imagine the sweat and the smell of musk in all that ... yesterday the man in red overall in the market, smelled like grease from a mechanic's shop, in the background the colorful fruits were the only salvation, he had grease spots all over his pant ... he walked careless and I avoided at all costs to pass him near, maximum stench ... like shop floor, grease stains and dogs that lie under the cars ... that day we went to find the battery, we managed avoiding the gaps, we wobbled from one side to another trying not to fall ... every once in a while the car falls and punishes, like a whip that hits under the car, a sharp blow and you think that the rubber burst, like a rubber flower with incorporated threads and everything ...

 19 
 on: March 19, 2019, 03:45:13 PM 
Started by kurtiz - Last post by kurtiz
Hardening beyond what I can feel, within the senses of my skin.  Always feeling hard forever will be under me surrounded by the grid which defines us.  tongue is teased by its dripping wet drops every person forever changed always.  Never can I leave this surrounding of my soul repeating into infinite without an end in sight,  sliding across the forever sound of my soul within all that can never be seen.  sliding down dew filled musty event we call this moment never changes or fades forever together.  Hate the way you can never wait for the next step around a corner or full of anxiety never to be freed from the grips of a room that is always so small around the corners of my mind.  Rough grout criss crosses and tells you were to go.  Contrasted by the every smooth tile.  So smooth with such a rough line throughout it.  Will forever take you to your destination point.

 20 
 on: March 19, 2019, 07:13:12 AM 
Started by Eloisenm - Last post by Eloisenm
Cold and white, laid out in rows like an army. In summer you could swear they were at your command, keeping you cool and offering the same to the home. In the winter however, those dastardly soldiers envelope themselves in the cold, almost enjoying it like some obscure competition. The worst is the early mornings when the rows almost shiver with their own chill. Vulnerable bare feet tread reluctantly over the tiles desperate for relief. Some carpet, a rug, socks. The bitter chill absorbed by the frostbitten tiles spreads like blight through the home making winter a more unpleasant adversary than he need be. Even through deep layers the chill tiles seem to penetrate, so determined they are to share. One could consider that perhaps the tiles prefer warmth and are instead sucking it from human limbs like their life blood.  Or perhaps it is revenge for the chill we drained from them for our own benefit in the steam of summer. A little sympathy would be in order if any cognitive capability could be attributed to a tile however, on a bitter winters morning it could never earn my empathy.

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