Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

September 26, 2018, 05:20:18 AM
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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 ... 8 9 [10]
 on: September 14, 2018, 09:50:51 PM 
Started by FunkySea - Last post by FunkySea
As a teenager we spent a lot of time in France. Dad was a French literature professor in college and we lived in Brussels and spent summers in France. Paris has a lot of boulevards. Boulevard Saint Germain and so on. A boulevard is broad and has so much life. Street life in the sense of old men sitting in benches talking, women shopping and conversing with shopkeepers. Men playing pétanque and children playing soccer or hanging out in groups. There’s a sense of a lost way of life but a precious one. And the frenchness is the same as culture. The best of French culture: the books the incredible language the movies the sensitivity all around. Something slightly dreamy and bittersweet about it. I’d love to live in France. Grenoble with its mountains so austere and commanding. Taunting and a bit menacing. Okay let’s climb this route and you see the mountain from afar and can almost taste its immobility, its refusal to even acknowledge you. It doesn’t need you want you or care. It just is. Built of iron and other impersonal material it is of another universe and therefore it’s supremely peaceful and soothing. It can’t add to your human condition but it may kill you if you’re foolish and don’t know yourself. I put my hand on the cold damp surface and briefly commune with this massive pointy object. Let me find good footholds so I can rest and let me enjoy this trip and please keep me alive. And up we go. The sky is breathtaking and surreal. The air seems immediately thinner but I know it’s an illusion. Just my mind playing tricks on me. And far below the boulevards of Grenoble the tiny little trees and the gravel in the center and all the stories unfolding there and the juice of life the sweet existence and every speck of love so mu

 on: September 14, 2018, 11:28:22 AM 
Started by Dreobject - Last post by Dreobject

There is no end in sight for this street, Providence Boulevard. We are on foot and we are just going to have to keep walking. Grease and oil stain my shirt from a vain attempt to fix the car, which is broken down a mile back. Sweat covers our bodies from head to to toe. Anxiety hangs like a knife chandelier over us as we make our way to the concert. Sounds of music playing in the distance are muffled so our imaginations make sure it is not one of our favorites. Our “roadie” beer we walk with energizes us with hoppy delight. How are we going to get home? That question will haunt us during the show, but for now, we are going to do our best not think about. We’re at the gate now, and we move like cattle.

 on: September 14, 2018, 04:03:31 AM 
Started by FunkySea - Last post by FunkySea
A red fish with two heads or three eyes that’s what a mutation was when I first heard the word. It seems that random mutations are how nature picks new and improved designs for its living creations. Actually you always say DNA when you say mutation so really we’re talking about chemistry. The world of atoms and bonds which when scientists really investigate, disappear, leaving only space and energy. So a mutation is a subtle shift in energy a discreet suggestive wink slight pursing of the lips minuscule bulging of the eyes an entreating stretching out of the dominant hand followed by a waving in the air of that same hand. Like releasing a handful of white butterflies they tickle in the hand prior to being released squirming around and then the hand opens and they fly straight up except a few to the side and a giant moth sits in my bathroom ceiling I know I just know and want to look at it up close I want to study it. Its wings are beautiful I just know it as I’ve seen the pictures. If I took the incredible pattern of its dramatic wing drawings in black and about 200 greys and recolored it in photoshop. It would look incredible  and this was done by mutations too. And it took a long time to design. One little pigment at a time and off she goes grows and flies off to test her mettle. Her tiny feet hold on to my ceiling without effort or is there some offert? Tiny suction cups I think just a force beyond comprehension compared to their tiny size and her relative weight. A Hercules of the nature world. The sunlight playing with her wings. “Her” as if she’s a beautiful woman as if nature is well but it is feminine. Somehow nicer to think of

 on: September 13, 2018, 09:45:41 PM 
Started by Lowwraine13 - Last post by berkley84

 on: September 13, 2018, 09:43:29 PM 
Started by berkley84 - Last post by berkley84
   They ignored it for a while and life went on like normal. It was easier to ignore than the night’s soup being in need of salt. It became as normal as a lamp on a nightstand or a reef on a door. It was like a haircut or a depleted pantry: the tumor was simply there, jutting out of the patriarch’s neck, like the little arm of a critter stuck in a chimney trying to claw its way out.
   They didn’t use analogies or similes to discuss it, when it finally became couth to talk about. Mother came in to the dining room carrying a pot in mitted hands saying, “It sure was a nice warm day today.” This was code meaning: “Looks like the tumor might be shrinking.” You don’t say it’s a nice warm day in January, not in Northern Ontario. Father would say, “Feels cold as hell to me.” I’m guessing you understand what he meant by that. No need to interpret; the man was open as a Faulkner book.
   He shoveled the soup into his mouth until one day he couldn’t swallow. His body was depleted of nutrients. He became a skeleton in a flabby blanket of skin. I told him one day, “Pops, you should really do something about the tumor.” He said, “You should really do something about your face.” I should have seen that coming from a man who had avoided this question for 9 months. And to be fair, he was right about my face; it isn’t much to look at. But I really feel that he’s more responsible for that than I am, but that’s also not the point, is it?
   And then one day, father wouldn’t get out of bed. I said to mother, “We need to do something.” Mother grabbed a pair of scissors and started walking to the bedroom. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I screamed. She said, “Something.”

 on: September 13, 2018, 03:50:59 PM 
Started by Gabriel Alvarado - Last post by Gabriel Alvarado
My body is liyng on the bed, covered with white and soft sheet.
I can't remember my dream but I got a terrible feeling, rising
from the deepness of my chest. Fire spreading in a dry forest
in the middle of June. The smell of medicine reaches my nostrils,
bringing me the memories of the night before. Did it worked?
My mind starts to spin as I make great effort to remember what
happened. Did it even happened? A flashback crosses my confused
mind, claws growing out of my hand, the smell of blood turns stronger.
Another memories, of flesh, I can feel it as I put my fang into it's softness.
Redness spread, coloring my world in a vicious horror. Everything moved
so fast, the amount of information was to big to process for a human brain.
And blackness is upon. I can't remember anything else. I try to get up.
My body hurts. I see multiple scratches covering part of my chest and arms.
They weren't there last night. On top of the wood table next to the bed,
there's a letter directed to me. It says: "The mutation was a success."

 on: September 13, 2018, 01:18:28 PM 
Started by Lowwraine13 - Last post by Lowwraine13
               It will always be a rock at its core. A sphere dangling near the sun and offering up a place to dwell. The moon always on it's dark side but it's seen the highs and lows this big ole rock has trenched through and it will tell you it's gone through its phases and changes. Mutating ever so quietly from one piece of land into numerous amounts. Nomads that have haunted the grounds of this Earth, and continue to, have pushed this big ole rock to limits it may never have foreseen. Although many cherish it, I may be wrong to say, but I believe some take it for granted. It's never asked for much but what if we offered up a hand in keeping its appearance the best it can be. Besides, styrofoam has never looked good on anybody and, really, neither has plastic.

 on: September 13, 2018, 12:18:57 PM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
What once was love becomes a story
A story to chew on at night
A story with joy tinged with regret
A story of what-ifs trailing bright.

That’s what happens to endless love
It’s fictions become permanent
A story of times of confidences
To tell and remember again.

And maybe that story becomes a new song
A song to pull at your soul
A song on the radio or out in the air
New lovers will call it their own.

Love's old sweet song with threads of regret
Passed on again and again
Love’s story mutation, mutation to song
To sing into Love’s sweet romance.

 on: September 13, 2018, 10:49:41 AM 
Started by Dreobject - Last post by Dreobject
“Dude, that’s not a zit, that’s a mutation!” He corrected me. He wasn’t wrong. The bump on my face had grown overnight, and the slightest touch was enough to bring eye watering pain. Next day, the mutation mutated into a red bump with a white head on top. A small squeeze, and then a hard squeeze, and whoosh, pus erupted like a Yellowstone geyser. The smell of death faded quickly, and the relief from the pressure felt like wrapping up in a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night. Few days of healing, and it will all be over, mutating back to a regular teenage human.

 on: September 13, 2018, 06:28:12 AM 
Started by oohl90 - Last post by oohl90
9/12 - ashes
The crisp winter air hangs heavy on our hearts as summertime nostalgia wraps around our minds like the thick mexican blankets draped on our shoulders. Flames frolic in a shallow pit filled with ash, pinching our cheeks and thawing our hands. Bittersweet marshmallows melt on our tongues with a peppery after bite. Burning wood pops and chars our red, freezing noses as each and every one of our breaths linger in the air. Ashes twirl above the flames until they are taken by the wind, out into the dark scary seas of a dismal empty coastline. My stomach shuffles on a line of content and restlessness. Laughing behind a half smile, I dream myself as a piece of ash wandering into the sea late at night.

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