Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

September 26, 2018, 05:16:46 AM
Welcome, Guest. Please login or register.
Did you miss your activation email?

Login with username, password and session length
This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
Pages: 1 2 [3] 4 5 ... 10
 on: September 24, 2018, 02:11:58 PM 
Started by SongBirdTakeFlight - Last post by SongBirdTakeFlight
Sweat. Perspiring, releasing from the inside outside. Changing from a solid to a liquid to a gaseous state. Vaporizing into thin air.

Anger. Anger dwells inside and begins to boil inside my veins. As the boiling blue rises to the surface of my skin, it begins to escape through my pores. Smell of rotting flesh. Droplets of clear look innocent enough, sitting against alabaster skin.

Piercing sounds of a kettle brewing, I am nearly ready to explode. As the boiling builds within, so does the ear-piercing screech until I will do anything to stop it. Fingers on a chalkboard combined with the scream of a mother who’s lost a child.

Unwilling to cower to the anger, I let it escape me. I cannot fight it any longer. It does not belong inside me. Darkness cannot exist in the presence of light. The dark must leave. As I surrender to the darkness, the screeching stops, and it begins to ooze from my cells. All I had to do was let go.

A hastened heartbeat stabilizes. So does my breath. Skin becomes cool to the touch, although it is clammy and pale. The world is no longer a carousel, spinning out of control. I can focus on one spot and see ahead. Feet drawn to the ground, magnets on the soles.

As I tilt my head back, I take in the fresh, clean air. Hope fills me from my head, to my torso, down to my toes. Knowing I will survive another day, I wait for the next attack.

 on: September 24, 2018, 02:10:49 PM 
Started by SongBirdTakeFlight - Last post by SongBirdTakeFlight
Thank you! I'm really glad you enjoyed it. I'm just getting started with object writing and excited to continue on this daily journey.
Have a great day!

 on: September 24, 2018, 12:17:15 PM 
Started by SongBirdTakeFlight - Last post by Lowwraine13
I really enjoyed this! Had me hanging on the edge of my seat there for a little bit.

 on: September 24, 2018, 11:47:57 AM 
Started by Lowwraine13 - Last post by Lowwraine13
                     It's a quiet morning under the street lamps of our little town, Sue's Kitchen is fully lit up, however, and Frank is turning on his open sign. I notice the haze of his neon light reflect off the frost on the window. The sun is just starting to stretch its neck over the Superstore, scattering light on all the overnight accumulated snow. I'm already in the midst of sweltering in the layers of warmth I have put on myself. Our little northern town got hit hard last night and I am the man in charge of these sidewalks. That means getting up early, grabbing my mittens that are still drying from the day before, and trusting that my blue plastic shovel will make it one more day. It's not an easy task but Ms. Sue sure appreciates it and Frank finds it helpful. The snow that once braced itself like an army now sits along the curb lined up perfectly in the road behind me as I near the end of the sidewalk. I'm about done. Soon the big orange trucks with plows will come and I will watch as they roll the snow away I have lined up for them. Ms. Sue will have a gentle cup of hot cocoa sat out for me before I head off to school.

 on: September 24, 2018, 10:58:26 AM 
Started by Dreobject - Last post by Dreobject

We are in line at the Bluebird for first come first serve tickets, three hours early, sweltering. We are not even first in line. The sun has moved from its perch to a lower position, and it is radiating heat, seemingly directly at us. Sweat floods our brows and our bodies. My shirt soaks, first a few drops on my torso, and then the small of my back soaks my shirt, and now just about the whole thing is wet. The parking lot bakes in the heat, and reeks of decomposing food, garbage, and car exhaust. But we in line are happy to be there. We want our music fix for our sanity, and all the sacrifice will make it sound that much much better. Gentle strums and tender melodies will cut through the swelter like a cold shower. And the beer we have inside will taste delicious.

 on: September 24, 2018, 09:56:52 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
The swelter it dealt her
Lingering heat
Still after midnight
Forearms damp
Spin the ceiling fan.

Roll on the mattress
Sigh for a breeze
Crickets still singing

Heat’s still on for the morning
Coffee’s like a burning broom
Chilled fruit
Stove boycott
Brew sun tea.

 on: September 24, 2018, 08:21:19 AM 
Started by cheeky_panda - Last post by cheeky_panda
Stuffed into the central line carriage like clothes in a teenager’s cupboard. Bodies on bodies, dirty and crumpled, crushed in as the doors slam shut.

The tunnel’s air is heavy, thick with the stench of stale sweat. July turns the knob of this underground oven all the way to the max, not caring for the over-baked passengers inside.

Suffering eyes avoid contact with any others.  A film of sweat gathers into beads on my brow, I feel a cool tickle on my temple as a tear slides down. The perfume of the lady pushed into my left shoulder is sweet relief from the armpit above me on my right.

Only four more stops...

 on: September 24, 2018, 12:59:46 AM 
Started by FunkySea - Last post by FunkySea
A hurdle is at once a powerful obstacle and a fragile one. Watching the Olympics as a kid with dad, I’d look at the racers with their incredible powerful looking bodies. There would be African women with thighs like big black oak trees. The ground sends the signal through the feet. The foot comprises the rubber of the sole which deforms grotesquely and quickly like a madman exposed for what he is by his expression; then regaing control and acting. The tendon engages and holds both end of the calf muscle as the racer sets off the knee with its meccano like construction and many parts, is ordered to stretch and it does. The front of the thigh helps as well and now like an abstract sculpture the woman is ready for takeoff. The next step includes the command liftoff and she’s airbornee, the hurdle in front of her the sweat drying as fast as it forms on her forehead due to the wind and there’s not one neuron taking a break. Everybody’s helping, her face intensely focused. And

 on: September 23, 2018, 09:24:59 PM 
Started by Mott - Last post by Mott
His thoughts flashed as his left foot left the ground.  A mixture of panic, worry, second-guessing at the amount of force exerted... was it enough?  Is the right leg high enough?  This was a higher hurdle than he had ever attempted to clear before?  He had already considered the consequences of failure... fear of ridicule was a powerful motivator, but one that sometimes gave rise to feigned confidence, and a boasting about things he couldn't make good on.  Was this one of those moments?  As the cool breeze jiggled the beads of sweat on his thighs, and the leg hairs waved at his onlooking peers, a sense of peace flew on to him.

The worry was replaced by a comfort, a reassurance that he would make it.  There was a burning as he stretched his leg ever more.  The strain was so tight.

But there was nothing to do but hold.  A fluff of pollen slowly passes by his ear.  The buzz of a distant cicada lingers...

 on: September 23, 2018, 03:50:40 PM 
Started by daflem - Last post by daflem
Laces pulled tight, spikes dusted off, the rows and rows of the crowd, buzzing like a swarm of bees, waiting until it starts. He takes his towel and wipes off the beads of sweat, one last sip of water, and walks to the starting position. If he can only get over this hurdle, he can take care of the other hurdles he wants to tackle before the race to the finish. He’s been training for this moment for so long, yet after every hurdle seems to come another one. He smells victory and comes close to tasting it every time, but the actual victory itself is a paradox. The never ending cycle tastes more like the venom Loki endured, searing his face, smelling his blood, sweat, and tears and seemingly accomplishing nothing. We strive for victory, to leap over the hurdles of life, and we can accomplish them, but we are too paralyzed to move forward and enjoy the race. The gun fires to start, piercing my eardrum. I look down and the runners are off, but one body lies motionless on the ground.

Pages: 1 2 [3] 4 5 ... 10