Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

March 21, 2018, 03:27:11 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 ... 8 9 [10]
 on: February 28, 2018, 09:46:02 AM 
Started by AlohaAlex - Last post by AlohaAlex
Awoken by the enticing and instantly recognizable aroma of breakfast, savory smells cut like light through blinds splashing on my face.  Still warmly wrapped like a burrito, I blink my eyes to make sure I'm not dreaming anymore.  Listing out each ingredient in my mind as I imagine all the flavors being tossed around a perfectly seasoned frying pan.   Spatulas and forks play like music pinging against black metal.   My senses are ready for the day, but my body is still sluggish.  I taught myself until I finally roll over and thud my heavy feet onto the floor.  My eyes set sights on a fluffy steaming folded omelet waiting to be devoured.  Cold utensils become my surgical tools as I dissect this feast in front of my.   It tastes like heaven and feels like love.   I realize how much we show gratitude for each other, when we cook for another person.  It's my turn to return the flavor.   My thoughts scrabble until I utter out my appreciating.  "Pancakes tomorrow?Ē She gently nodded, and smirks in agreement.

 on: February 28, 2018, 08:57:06 AM 
Started by vncolbert - Last post by vncolbert
Cast iron skillet, a pat of butter dropped in, sizzling, melting, bubbling, browning a bit. I lift up the pan and swirl the butter around to cover the bottom of the pan. A handful of real bacon crumbles from the refrigerator dropped in, let them fry and sizzle a bit. Two eggs cracked on the edge of a bowl, the white shells cracking, white and yoke oozing out. Two little suns in the bowl surrounded by a translucent atmosphere. I take a fork and swirl vigorously obliterating the suns into a cosmic disaster.

My mind jumps to watching the total solar eclipse in Wyoming. Mini van parked on the side of rural streets, covers, sheets, foam mattress pad, coats, sun coming through window. The smell of recycled air in the van tent. The windows are fogged from our breathing. The periodic blast of a train whistle coming through town on schedule. We wake and scout out our spot. Two camping chairs unfolded, placed on a strip of grass between street and house fence. A few others set up watch around us. Cardboard channel 9 news glasses cover our eyes, we look skyward one at a time, sharing the glasses. A small sliver of black eases across a circle of gold. We check back 5 mins later, a slightly larger sliver, and so on for the next hour. A grey-haired man beside us is setting up his tri-pod and cameras, heís got one on the tri-pod...

 on: February 28, 2018, 07:12:29 AM 
Started by vncolbert - Last post by Ingonuts
That howling sound the pipe organ makes on Sunday mornings, that pierces your soul as the preacher serves up a weekly sermon. Itís massaging the soul while the smell of burning incense invades as your nostrils flare and you canít decipher wether you dislike that more or the smell of Mrs Weathersbyís Sunday best perfume. There is something about the way old people smell.. do they mask the smell of inevitable decay by dousing themselves in perfumes that linger and permeate the room even after they have left your periphery? The song hits a peak as the pipe organ shrills out the chorus and the entire congregation belts out praising God for all that is good and right in the world. I wonder if God invented old people smell as a reminder to us all where we are eventually headed. The grave is calling, that six foot deep rectangle in the ground where most of us will end up retiring our physical selves inside of a wooden box. Perhaps made out of oak, or cedar, with velvet lining and a plush padding to rest your expired self on. I hate the way dead bodies look in the casket, as though the mortician could possibly accurately capture the essence of a person he never knew. Its all so fake to me, as though we are trying to mask the reality of death. When I go, there will be no worms. No dirt nap for me, ill be cremated and spread out across the land.

 on: February 28, 2018, 01:24:54 AM 
Started by oohl90 - Last post by AlohaAlex
"grinding my teeth on tart teenage lyrics."   That's rad!!!!

 on: February 27, 2018, 11:34:05 AM 
Started by vncolbert - Last post by vncolbert
Cold metal pipes reaching toward the ceiling of the sanctuary. I touch my hand to the metal and feel the cold, smooth surface. All different lengths and diameters, all reaching skyward. My mind jumps to the Mormon Tabernacle. An organ recital. I almost donít get in, the cute young smiling girls have already partitioned off the entrance with ornate ropes. The concert has begun. Suddenly a nursing mother comes out of the entrance and they move the cords for her. She motions me to come in as sheís leaving, so I get to see the concert in person. Mostly empty pews, a few people scattered here and there, the small man on the stage controlling a massive instrument. Flutes and horns echo rising in a tumultuous crescendo. The man stands, turns to the crowd, and bows. He is dressed formally, suit and tie, hair slicked down. The sound of his voice bellowing from a small lecturn as he introduces his next number. Wooden pillars that look like marble holding up the balcony. Pipes that rise like huge phalluses. The air smells musty, you can see dust floating in the air caught in sun beams coming through stained-glass windows.

Now Iím taken to the basement of my house growing up. Dirt floors, cold black metal pools holding up house and home. Cement floors, cold on barefeet, small curled up dead worms in the corner...

 on: February 27, 2018, 10:12:31 AM 
Started by sbw015 - Last post by sbw015
String together words, string together thoughts. Everything is tied together in a great, big knot. Interrelated creatures, interwoven cultures. We sit together and sing songs, but tomorrow we'll fight for flesh like vultures. We flap and squawk on interwebs strung together with the binary tether.

 on: February 26, 2018, 09:57:28 PM 
Started by oohl90 - Last post by oohl90
2/26/2018 - String
Fluid tonal vibrations reverberate, bouncing off a hollow wooden body escaping the ping pong dance as a harmonious major chord. Smooth wire wrapped steel strings erode shallow canyons and calluses into my left handís fingertips. My right handís index fingerís cuticle is bloody and bruised. Memories of lonely afternoons locked in my room playing for hours on end waft into the air fragrant and sweet as momís fresh baked cookies. Deep robust lows billow throughout my apartment as I travel back in time grinding my teeth on tart teenage lyrics.

 on: February 26, 2018, 08:11:33 PM 
Started by AlohaAlex - Last post by AlohaAlex
You pulled them all.  I was a marionette tethered to your long slender hands, following every twist and turn.   Leash me cause I like it.  I didnít know better.  My heart strings tight as violins and just as sad playing symphonies of unrequited love.  Puppets master make me dance, cause I have nothing left to give.   Wood chips on the ground and familiar aroma of saw dust hangs on the air where you chiseled the best pieces of me down to stubbed fragments.  My family and friends no longer recognize me.  Knocking on my hollow head, the sound of emptiness, the light of my dreams used to filter through the cracks.  Your bitter kisses wonít solve this.  Hang me in your closet until the next time you feel like using me. Run your fingers along the tangled frayed twine, watch me jerk.  Dead to the world, at least I donít feel anything anymore.

 on: February 26, 2018, 04:42:04 PM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
I sit low, rubbing my baggy eyes with bony hands. Numbers glow from the screen, I stare and work until my mind is seeing in binary, words become string theory, conversations of jet propulsion and Higgs Boson. Cracked leather compressed beneath my butt, swivel chair, one wheel sticking to the laminated flooring, rain falls, pushing puddles down the empty street. I tug at my beanie, loose thread sticking out I pull at it, breathe minty, covering the dank sweaty room, taste of papers and film of disturbed dust. Soon lunch will wake up my senses, salty crackers and meat covered in fake cheese, washed down with warm coffee. The day seems to--   

 on: February 26, 2018, 10:35:05 AM 
Started by vncolbert - Last post by vncolbert
White thread tied to a plastic bag, a mini parachute holding a GI joe. I climb the rusted bars up to the top of the slide. Rusted screw heads holding the slide to the swing set. I stand at the top on the small flat place. I feel the plastic beneath my fingers, crumpled up bag, GI Joe held by white string to mini parachute. I throw it as high as I can off the top of the sliding board. The sun pierces through a backyard apple tree, rotten apples filled with worms cover the ground. The parachute opens and gently falls back to the ground. I slide down the board to get it, my bare feet smushing soft fallen apples.

Smooth, shiny green apples. Grey Michigan sky. Perfect orchard rows. Cinnamon donuts and apple cider. The smell of farm. Friends from back home all smiling, holding crates of apples. Crisp fall air on my face. I zip up my jacket a little tighter. High green grass between apple trees in perfectly straight rows. Hot apple cider poured from a stainless steel thermos.

My mind jumps to fishing with my dad in MichiganÖ

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