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91
Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Snow
« Last post by Microbass on January 09, 2020, 05:09:10 AM »
Nice. The sighs of mild dissatisfaction with a cold but not snowy winter. Interesting views.
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Snow
« Last post by berkley84 on January 08, 2020, 11:56:55 PM »
Out in the field, we listen to our boots trudge through the snow, creating a path for the little one behind us. Heís pulling a sled and enraptured by the magic all around us. Iím captured too, falling back into memories of winter afternoons walking to the same sledding hill,where all the moms brought us to enjoy the weather that made our hometown unique and amazing.
I can hear the echoes of complaints from my coworkers. How they hate the wind whipping their faces. How they will settle for hibernation instead of life. And I look back at the little one as he lifts his boots and clumsily falls forward. He laughs at the wet flakes all over his face. He pulls a clump of snow together and I pause to show him how to make a snowball. I throw it at a nearby pine tree. He makes his own and tosses it in the same direction. Itís a skill weíll work on. Heíll go pro by May, when weíre all so burned out on the cold days that we complain when the temperature only hits 69 degrees.
Heíll be a native of this area and weíll always share that in our hearts.
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Snow
« Last post by curtisgarrett on January 08, 2020, 07:37:17 PM »
The earth was covered in a fluffy white blanket of snow, glistening spots capturing and reflecting the midday sun like diamonds. I scoop a patch of fresh snow from the garden and look around to make sure no-one is looking. I take a small bite into the icy ball, the instant cold embrace shooting across my tongue, deep into my teeth before numbing the cheeks and roof of my mouth. The taste resembling one of those cheap melon ice lollies you could get as a child. Flavourless, yet somehow refreshing. My hands were beginning to throb and burn, with trails of newly warmed water trickling between my fingers. I set my sight to the horizon and pull my arm back before launching it through the air. Sparkling like a peal cannonball as it flies into my neighbours garden. The crunch underfoot as I press my boot into itís multiple layers. The cold was beginning to set in and I was filled with regret I left my coat inside. Now Iím left to tackle the elements, which to East Anglians felt like a blizzard.
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Snow
« Last post by hezta on January 08, 2020, 03:37:28 PM »
Never eat the yellow snow, cold clear crystals falling from the sky, no one knows where they come from, we know the science behind it but we donít know how and why they were created, the human brain is like a teenager in an adult society, you try to understand everything but sometimes you just canít, like animals, helpless and dominated, even the king of the jungle is dominated, the sun burns your skin, you might feel the strong power of the sun change your skin, you wonít be able to look directly at it, the sun is stronger than all of us, and the sun is winning the game, itís strange how heat is supposed to be something you feel, but you can see it in the colors of the sky, the colors of the dry land, the blurry lines that appear when you look into the distance, and youíll smell the muffled scent of sweat, infected with bacteria, hidden by a soapy and flowery scent, the drops of sweat on someoneís forehead making their hair darker and stick to their cheeks and neck.
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Snow
« Last post by randy_o on January 08, 2020, 02:07:09 PM »
Powdered sugar laced on the rim of dough spread out the same way the streets of New York are early in the winter morning. Kids scream at the sight of those white waves in anticipation of "No School". You can hear the crunch of snow against the boots of passerby's. Each stomp filled with determination and angst to get to work, distinct to New Yorkers alike. The coolness of the air juxtaposed against the harshness of the steady beat means it's heavenly texture will only last but a day. Everyone stops in admiration at it's sight. Sometimes the reflection of it against the sun will do it to you too...
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Snow
« Last post by Mikael on January 08, 2020, 12:03:37 PM »
Angels and all their cliches of love. It`s hard to be creative about the powdered doves. Winter this year feels different. It`s disguised in spring, but we all know it isn`t spring. You can tell by the darkness that creeps up and jumps over the city at 4 o`clock. The snow would have made the nights brighter but the mornings colder. So winter feels different this year. Like the edge of climax, but theres a safety net that catches you mid-fall. You were so looking forward to this, but you only got half of what you expected. People just talk about it like it`s a little weird, but no one dares to speak of the global reasons. I`m a bit tired of those words anyway, so I`ll leave them out. After all, not every conversation needs to be injected with those things. The snow is never really welcome in a big city. All that it does is melt into
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Stool
« Last post by Microbass on January 08, 2020, 04:22:08 AM »
Smooth burly wood, seemingly polished by decades of sitters, none known to me. I shyly stroke the finishó it is not coarse or artificial but speaks loudly to me, demanding my worship. Just by looking I can smell the sweetness of something like sandalwood, enveloping me, capturing me. I once was a woodcarver, and used my hand tools to refine the native shapes of found wood. Sometimes a thread of red ran down to my fingertipsó my tools might let me know when the dayís work was done. In the end, the sensual shapes of wood always won, and now my stool has a petite table to sit with. Next will be a large and lovely root stump, smoothed to lusciousness by wind and sand, placed at the front door to my heart.
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Stool
« Last post by randy_o on January 07, 2020, 10:06:19 PM »
A wet but polished stool stands at medium height in the shower made of a mighty oak. The type of oak that the Acorns App refers to where I keep all my money. Money that sways in in the wind like palm trees on a Sunday morning. Where the weather is beaming and the people have a dot of sun screen on their noses to protect whatever it is they need protecting from. The smell of too much vaporrub and an assortment of ointments that my young skin has never felt and hopefully never has to ever get some use of. I think I of my mother on that stool unable to move around as she once did. I wonder if she'll end up just like them or if she had the same thoughts like me as a "younging". My bones ache a bit and my knees reassure me that my time will soon come as I call up my to confirm my PT appointment this Thursday. Oh the joys of putting on some years as if they...
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Stool
« Last post by ccwandco on January 07, 2020, 09:02:32 PM »
The stumpy wooden stool my tailbone folds itself upon is digging into my thinned skin. Iím using my lilied hands to form a perfectly smooth ball out of greying clay, but it doesnít seem to be working that nicely today. Creased imperfections and cracks of unanswered question fill up both the creation and my psyche. Itís a lot for one four year old to grapple with. Those sketches of narwhals and Bionicles adorn the decades-old walls of the bedroom I inhabit with my brother. All clearly formed by him. There was a little piece about me, a little chickadeeís voice tweeting towards an artistic side, yet Iíd never be able to toss out a finger and truly be that person. Even now, as I see trunks being chopped down around me, I cannot follow the song. Maybe collecting up other peopleís air isnít actually horrific, but it sure feels like it is. The stool awaits me somewhere in storage, but the one who treasured it before may still remain in the flatness of its woodwork. A home built from unknowing edges of the way my existence truly came to be.
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Object Writing Word Of The Day / Stool
« Last post by curtisgarrett on January 07, 2020, 12:50:21 PM »
The nerves and vulnerability of performing leaked it's way into today's object writing. Your thoughts?

The spotlight beams light down on the Mahogany stool placed in the centre of a Persian rug, The plucked fibres of age glinting their array of colours to the crowd. A chorus of voices flooding the room, yet failing to drown out the anxious thoughts of my mind. Itís two minutes to show time and Iím already forming a layer of nervous sweat on my hands. The smell of the fog machined filling the lungs of the capacity crowd, as they wait for the next performer. Iím standing at the side-lines, out of view and shaking with anticipation. The taste of what I call liquid confidence still sitting on my tongue, itís alcoholic burn clawing at the roof of my mouth. My guitar clasped tightly in my right hand, the left scratching at the patchy beard Iíve managed to grow over the last half a year, I take a step forward to the stage. The crowd begins to welcome me before calming down. Silence. The stage can be a prison if you let it. Trapping you in a small space of vulnerability. I place myself upon the stool and position the guitar upon my lap and look out to what feels like a sea of people. The set went well that night, witty to-an-fros with the crowd and a whirlwind of emotions from both parties as well.
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