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Author Topic: Songwriting Without Boundaries- Challenge 1!  (Read 32164 times)
mastermeri
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« on: February 19, 2012, 02:32:52 PM »

Day 1

Sky
Fluff and fog, the cloudy cream stains the bright blue screen. The fresh air falls into my lungs and drops them into a bellyflop. I can taste the musky sprinkles of condensation and feel their damp coolness in the little space between my eyelids and eyebrows. A constant race, a battle played out between the clouds where troops of fearless soldiers form swirls and patterns as they fight, crashing into lightning and settling into a pastel grey. My nose crinkles and my eyes awkwardly shut- forcing my face into a quick scrunch as a moment of…

Crash
Like a slow motion sprint, amongst the backdrop of a crowded market aisle between towers of glass. Suits and campaigners intermingle and collide like excited particles in a kid’s chemistry solution. Energy rebounding and crowds on constant alert to surrounding movements congest at road corners. The wet on the pavement, mixed with an indigestible combination of dust, rocks and scraped rubber floats centimetres above the ground, occasionally getting kicked up into the noses of passers-by. Enemies crash into one another in bitter hits, ever so slight, but unforgiving. Like a game of pinball, a hit is a loss and top players with years of experience raise their nose at amateur rookies who get pushed from corner to corner. The horns, shuffles and chatter of the congregations as they merge and diverge wheeze into a cacophony of grumbles. A constant, but inconsistent ebb and flow entertain the ears of the tattered telegraph poles, sticky with remnants of ignored pleads for flatmates or test subjects. The leftovers of a late meeting or yesterday’s take-away lunch keep the poles company in a daggy pool of muck. All too frequently a pen dropped by an uncaring worker will crackle under the weight of a…

Lily Pad
Little bubbles of green that bop along the mirror surface, licking the horizon. They lay together like lovers, stuck in a daydream and moving only tiny steps as the slight currents underneath wile them with a seductive song…
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« Reply #1 on: February 20, 2012, 12:58:16 PM »

Day 2

Bathroom Mirror
The puddle on the wall shines back making me snap my eyes shut. I feel the slight tingle on the back of my eyelids as its glow flashes and moves around in a hypnotic circle. The flashes are every colour from a dulled neon pink to a sickly green-grey. I furiously throw my sight around trying to shake the lights off but they stay. I open my eyes and blink, with the tiniest crashes each time they shut, the lashes only slightly cushioning the fall. I can feel the scraping as they shut, across the surface of my eye. I can taste the mint of the toothpaste already shredding the…

Dentist
In a white gown, as if poised for a wedding or christening, with all the faith of a stockbroker, the Dentist swaggers forth behind me. I can feel his slight sways, playing with the air around me and stirring the scent of anaesthetic and soaps. He moves stiff and distant, despite his physical closeness, I can taste his disdain. He grumbles incomprehensible words that I throw back in an even more scattered show through a mouth that’s open for operation. He chucks his machinery between his hands with a silent swoosh and breathes a quick sigh into his lungs, loud enough for me to hear his lack of enthusiasm for the task. My heart drops with every exposé he bellows at me, I garner my expectations to account for a sure-fire slack job. I feel aggressive pangs of worry at letting such a passive plumber attack at my body- the only body I have, the only teeth I have. Slightly tainted with tea stains and plaque, that I innocently have harvested between a wet pink cave. Never more vulnerable, I can feel the blood swirling around them, I can almost feel veins running through my teeth, I tell myself in a quiet voice to have faith in my indifferent angel…

Screwdriver
Round like a children’s play slide in a metal swirl, echoing as the kids slip through as if climbing down the milky walls of a seashell, enveloped in a salty breeze, howling in harmony, long and towering…
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« Reply #2 on: February 21, 2012, 01:02:21 PM »

Day 3

Umbrella
With drops of residue like sap bleeding from a tree, shining- staring into each other’s eyes and flashing light around in subtle specs like a platter of mini-disco balls. The plastic surface feels the cold of the water as it sits and they speak like friends about the ways of the weather and other non-substantial topics of conversation. Their chatter is so quiet, one could confuse it for the silent drumming of the rain outside a firmly sealed stained-glass building. The oily surface of the umbrella, that is present only in its infiltration of the miniscule hairs that weave into its fur are arguing- like an opposition to a political party that can’t change their sway- with the baubles of light. The tension grows like a stench even…

Hair
He brushes his fingers, like little arms from a bush, between my hairs. I feel the slight resistance as the tangles bicker with his hands, but eventually give in to the lucid tenderness in his touch. The roots of my hair willow back and forth in tandem with the strands, sending tiny prickles of joy through my soft skull directly to the incomprehensible translators that reside in my brain. I don’t understand how it happens, I struggle to think of it, instead I fall into his shoulder, breathe his shirt and listen to the slow, warm blood flowing through his veins. We meld into a huddle, in a room without walls in our own tiny universe, where the space around us glow with the tiny movements and heartbeats of one another. I look up at him, to find his gaze fixed on the distance and look back down slowly- the world around plays into my view like a slideshow, being turned from scene to scene, playing like an irrelevant presentation and speaking to an ignorant crowd. His breath falls, like autumn leaves, gently on the top of my head and carries with it a glimpse of the morning’s toast and a plethora of fond thoughts for everything and anything in the world. An irrepressible barricade, that a…

Feather
Little Brussels of grey-white fluff, that shelter a larger epiphany of tender flames, the feather holds the air in its whisk and dances with it as if to a chamber group down towards the sparkling grains of the earth below. It…
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« Reply #3 on: February 22, 2012, 01:06:06 PM »

Day 4

Curb
Round like a liquorice bent across the edge, with cars stuck to it’s slippery surface melting into it’s salivating skin as the sun rebounds in an endless churn across its head. The boy dips his feet alongside the curb down into a fanciful bop, courting the glistening rocks of tar and bending to his own dance. He returns to the level of the street with his bones crackling and his senses raging, the slight dip causes a counterpoint spike of adrenalin in his chest. He keeps walking, at pace to his own personal tune- the one that pulls bows against the strings of violins and kicks up at his merry will. He bops again, ever so occasionally, when the scent of the surrounding brush wills him into an uncontainable show of…

Bouquet
The wilting leaves wrapped in a beetroot plastic, pushed under with forceful hands and ripped from their apartment along the trunk of their blossoms. The florist plucks out wasted inventory, carefully dissecting her loot and removing the wariest of the hung-over blooms. The splashes of colour transpire across the cloud of dry leaves and plastic, hiding the rotting underbelly they lay upon. One would have believe that their smooth, fluorescent sheets rest softly upon the loving hands of a sugar-cake or caring friend. They lie through their tissue-thin teeth, desperately holding their post as workers for the florist, preaching their worth as if pleading to their buyer. The bouquet is a thick opus of interweaving tunes that are barely glued to one another and rub harshly against each other- like the reigns of a boat, with their dirty, twisted ropes. The ocean breeze splashes against their long elastic, smearing salt across their hapless surface. The passengers stare out, holding their hats in tight grips, supressing their lungs- holding them from exploding out and fragmenting into little wisps amongst the cool, freshness of the clean surrounding air. Static, a constant white-noise shrieks in the backdrop, waves giving way to…

Rain Cloud
A rain cloud is a soothing grey that hangs in the air like an unwanted cross-stitch woven across the sky. The rain drops are like a musk that wet the surface of your skin and waste the efforts of your tongue with their bitter, melancholic drones. The wind flies through its channels and plays havoc with its…
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mastermeri
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« Reply #4 on: February 23, 2012, 01:08:17 PM »

Day 5

Movie Theatre
With the dark glow of the chairs, reflecting the fluorescent screams of the screen, the greasy drool of popcorn infiltrates every corner of my senses, I can taste the salt and feel the smooth leathery polish on my tongue. The chairs are a congregation, like a congress of professors, lighting up perfectly in tune with their speaker, still and attentive- plastered to the littered, furry ground. The crackles and whimpers of the cinema-goers push their way through a timely patchwork soundtrack. The heads of sedated people, slowly being divulged by the hypnotic glare, spike out above the seat tops like sprouts pushing their way through a marsh, mulchy soil. The gentle…

Cigar
His grey fingers curled around the cardboard beige of the cigar like tentacles, wrapping again and again, gripping on to its surface like a forlorn fiend, clenching between them desperately- as if his whole life surmounted to him retaining its grip. The tendons of his hand are frozen tense in their grab and the muscles pump a slow, repetitive tension up his arms and through his body. His eyes soak up the smoke, more so than his lungs, as he watches the milky grey mirages tearing apart and re-joining in playful swirls in the space directly in front of him. He adores the aroma of a slightly stronger brand, but has to put up with its less desirable aftertaste, as it lingers rubbed into the crevices in the caves of his mouth, unable to be washed away by waves of saliva or through directing his thoughts to someplace else. He shakes the tiniest amount and feels the unforgiving graze of the aged wooden bench on the back of his leg as he does so. The slightest bruises tease him, right behind his knees, in that area with the skin is so soft and scared that the slightest scratch can feel like a slap across the face. An expected fling of breaths and wheezes colours the air in its dull tune and the man lets his mind wander between the dreams that float in the fog before him. He sees his love, distant and bare, she stands plainly and one part of her disappears as soon as his mind wanders to another. He flicks through scenes as if holding the remote to his own personal PVR log of daydreams- all widely exaggerated and well beyond reality, with stenches…

Arrow
Darting through, slicing the air with the expertise of a chef, drilling across a plain with eyes pinched together, dissecting the aroma of the fresh grass in a coarse pelt. Faster, beating the timers of champions in a race, the thin lacquered wood nearly splits in its desperation to overtake the restraints of…
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« Reply #5 on: February 24, 2012, 01:20:40 PM »

Day 6

Sailor
Grumbling in a low disgusting- snot filled grunt- the sailor wipes his dirty coarse hands against the concrete of his hairy freckled arm. He can’t feel it scraping across his skin as his skin is so thick and dense that it cacoons him from any distinct sense. The stench of rotting oysters, piled by the side of his shed, shed light on his uncontainable greed and bitterness- as he used to scoop continuous piles of sharp shells up in his claws with menacing snatches and…

Waitress Clearing a Table
She jumps in like a mongoose hopping over to divulge a fresh meal, with eyes bright like a beaver’s and a hop that echoes like a bilby darting across a weedy plain. Her name is Samantha, something she makes sure she tells every guest at the restaurant through giggles and a minty smile- despite the blaring tag that hangs off her collar reading the same poetry. She uncaringly lifts plates off the table in swooshes and swoopes, whilst bellowing short tunes and singing through conversations. The confusion of tastes that you can smell perspiring of her somewhat worn black attire tells tales of her many experiences as the servant to the crowds. But her wide expressions and excitement scream above of an anticipation for something greater- meeting a president, serving a child their first frittata, having a conversation with a man off the streets who for once in his life receives a blessing from a passer-by that allows him the joys of a hot meal. She travels around like a bird gliding through a vast green, quietly observing its territory and pinpointing with a buoyant gaze the critters that bustle beneath it, choosing with a delicate sense- feeling spikes of cool intuition seeping through her chest- whom to attend to and who to leave. Sometimes, those she…

Priest
Rallying an army in a sickly white milk of plastic gooze, I stand in a gown that pulls me closer to the earth- away from the murky dust of the cathedral pylons. The cellophane glass burns colours into my polyester cloak and kitsch gold hums like the singers of the disjointed choral smear…
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« Reply #6 on: February 25, 2012, 01:22:01 PM »

Day 7

Balloon Man
I’m looking around at the blurs, I’m surrounded by pools of reds and denim, swirling in patterns, slowly drowning me in their shrieks and squeals. I try and focus, through a layer of face-paint so thick that my skin feels like it cracks with every movement I make, the paint hard and itchy- craters and creeks forming around my cheeks. Hotdogs and mustard, popcorn and slushie, thrown up, exhaled and melded with the atmosphere. I hold the squeaky surface of the balloons and twist them- the slightest tinge of fear cripple my wrists as I do, what if it would pop? My body is so fatigued from the work it forgets to prepare for the occasional burst- when it does happen the shock guts me and squeezes a hum from my lips. Tight like a band around my waste, tied to the tension of the moment- eyes pasted along the bright rubbery surface as it slowly moulds into a dog or giraffe, the…

Homeless Child
He sings in scraps and tatters, painting cuts and bruises into old clothes that swing merrily as he totters along cement gutters along the fringes of suburbia. His eyes are crystal clear and glistening with the glow of youth and wonderment, whilst the rest of his blue soft body feels the push and strain of a much older life wearing it down like a grind against its supple, retreating pores. He reeks of the months spent running between nameless streets and oozes of the spices of alleys and shelters. His impatience drags him from the orange warmth of fire and protection from town to town as his hungry hands grab at little flowers and shells. He runs like loneliness himself, with streams of unacceptance from mundane kids who yell fake names to him and try enticing him to their glasshouse playgrounds, with spoilt stares and arrogant tantrums. He cuts his shoulder on rocks in haste and watches the blood slowly dribble down his shirt, rather than cleaning it. He considers taking the shirt off through slowly picking it up and examining its newly red surface, without crying, simply feeling the chills. His experiment is snapped short by giant troopers who mumble gibberish and point. He runs, the wind curdling the cold on his shoulder with aggressive jabs and blows, away- unexplainable tears running across his face. The scent of fresh seaside rocks crackling under his feet through tear-drops of exclusion bellowing in pints and glares from the bottom of his sunken bags, under those cut diamond eyes. He huddles with his…

Trucker
An extension of the hard, over-sized seat the trucker sits on, his limbs wiggle with the little jolts of the truck as his voice wavers along to the classic hits station- in the process of churning and muddling with static a song that he’s heard a thousand times before. He snorts at the whiff of old donuts, he considers a stop to shuffle through his piles of magazines…
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« Reply #7 on: February 26, 2012, 01:07:30 PM »

Day 8

Cyclist
Turning, drizzle forming a murky concoction on the rubber of your tyres as you pound on the pedals in an endless push- rebounding, constant effort, constant pressure. The early dusk floats with the cold hanging in the air against your burning skin. Your muscles steam a slight sweetness through the sharp, vinegary pungency of your deodorant. Big green leaflets scoot past you in waves, with rustles and crackles, the little baubles of purples and greys blurring to a cream smeared along the corners of your view. Looping around a globe, in constant crests and toughs, heart rising and falling in pace with the radiation of erupting from the fat earth below you. Loving the cement, hating the marsh, feeling the disgust as your tyres plunge into mud and sneer at its slimy glitter lacing the textured…

Ballerina
I stretch my thin body, like a mantis, pulling the soft white skin over its cage. Every rib, every pump of blood as it circulates is a tingle and a gulp of air into my lungs. My lungs expand like huge upside down trees that grow as if adding branches and leaves in their thousands with each bouquet of fresh studio air. Bigger, wider, each little leaf standing on its end like the tiny blond hairs along my arms and the even smaller hairs that lay scattered on the back of my hands. I watch my hands as they flop into their gentle arch, an oval, like an egg- a perfect shape, tracing out the sterile, flowery sweetness and lacquer clean outline of the lights that fluoresce above me. The wooden beams sanded to a gloss along the floor, throwing light between their surface and that of the towering mirrors- it flashes in such quick oscillations that my mind digests it as a constant beam. I can taste a freedom, mixed with the slight remnants of a passing pain as the boils and rashes from the days of practice poke at me on certain steps. The roar of an overplayed orchestra screeches with occasional static as my leaps shake the reliability out of the old, crappy stereo system. I feel the springs beneath the floor raise me into weightlessness,  strung into the air, held up by the string of sound, blinking slowly and enjoying the silk of the…

Puppy
Eyes glaring through thick watery sleep, slightly closed, thick layers of furry skin hanging over like a slimy aftertaste in an over-fermented oolong tea. The puppy’s paws are like pads of fluff, with claws growing out in grey curls behind little patches, scraping along the floor…
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« Reply #8 on: February 27, 2012, 01:07:33 PM »

Day 9

Summer Rainstorm
Dribbling, like a baby babbling its first words through torrents of saliva, it started meagre but grew over time greater and greater. The growth was so slow you couldn’t even notice, like moss creeping over wet rocks and molluscs, spitting sea water in little spurts as it went. The tatter began in a soundless stillness, where you could feel the humidity teasing little drops of perspiration from your skin and smell the clouds that glided miles overhead. But it grew with the water, drowning out the summer sunrise- scaring it with gushes and sour dewdrops and holding it captive in a mindless march to its drumming- dewdrops turned to...

Graduation
Quietly sitting along long benches, staring up at meaningless groans of ear-pleasing recollections, I sat in the dark hall blind from the whispers of the full room. The principal made lame jokes and the parents made attempts to laugh. The memories pouring from his spiel were mostly fake, somewhat dramatized and unusually warm. I felt an emptiness, like the contents of my body had vanished- not pulled from me in an abusive fashion- just vanished, as if they’d been slowly fading over time and it was only now that they were completely gone. The scent of sweat eroded my cubicle of space, as I hunched between two guys I’d barely seen before, I may have passed them once- I think one of them was even in a class I had at some point but didn’t care to show up often. The under-rehearsed routines of younger students- songs, dances and theatre plays- tempered with my patience as the overwhelming emptiness and niggling rustles of certificates around me frustrated me going on and on. I flipped through my pile of awards and papers, a couple of medals- there seemed to be enough for every geek in the year to make a gallery-sized mosaic. It glistened and scratched at my eyes with its dulled shine, masked by the dusty grey of the old hall and I grew tired of its warm, rough surface about as fast as I did of the rest of the conjured circus…

Wedding Rehearsal Dinner
The kids ran around like freckles of pollen gliding through the air and laughed in tickles of giggles oblivious to the furrowed arguments of the bride and her father. A couple of bubbles were stolen from the pile for the wedding day and the youngest…
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« Reply #9 on: February 28, 2012, 01:10:56 PM »

Day 10

Six in the Morning
Bleary eyed, scratching at the hot covers that envelope me and push me into the sunken mattress of my old, single bed. Dad’s alarm chiming in time with my body clock, soothingly singing me awake with soft vibrations that I can almost feel buzzing against my wrist- gently but irritatingly enough to cause me to flinch at the thought. My skin wheezes at the attack of cool air that smashes against it as I yank my tired body out. My eyes tightened together, forming a frown and a quick whift of discomfort as I try to force them apart and let the morning light bleed in. Stillness rolls in the air like a ghost, tempered by my shuffles and breaths. Like a clam or mussel, I open up with the slight force and slide…

First Snowfall
Drifting down, like a feather dropped from the top of a tower, on a perfect crystal morning. With the still surrounding brush watching in with its curious eyes, inspecting each turn of the fall as the little currents of air poke fun at its glistening white surface. The snowflake screams as the tiny beams of sun battle with it in sharp rebounds, bashing against it as it meanders down, sending out the yelps of bright sparkles. It’s cool surface sniffs the morning air suspiciously and examines its green smell- the snowflake can almost taste the grass with its sweet bitterness rubbing its irresistible butter through the breeze. It melts with its fall, moulding and melding, transforming and reforming, gripling with its identity like a lost teen- holding to its heartbeat like an old man on his deathbed. The movie-show churning around it, the still strangers, smudged in its view, hazy and inconsistent against its smooth surface. Little intricacies climbing from its centre, thin like crepe paper, vulnerable, like the crispy top layer of a crème brulee. Concentrating on its warm heartbeat, melting from the inside out simultaneously with melting from the inside in- so…

Easter Sunday
The warmth of the oven as the buns, with edges slightly charcoaled, sweet, spicy- the wafts of melted butter, the laughs and taunts- exclamations ‘commercialism!’, like every yuppie conservative, insipid tradition, a cosy jumper..
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« Reply #10 on: February 29, 2012, 01:04:04 PM »

Day 11

Late Evening
The black satin cloth, glistening with shavings off craters of star-shine is drooped over the cool, silent sky. I can smell detergent from the clean dinner dishes and still taste the remnants of the hot leek soup dribbling down the back of my throat and massaging it with its hot, smooth silk. In the darkness skittles occasionally patter from the sky- near invisible, cooling the tired leaves with their occasional nudges. I step out onto the balcony, lean over, feeling the straight sharpness of the iron bar below my arms pleasantly pressing against me. The occasional drop…

Loved One’s Funeral
He hunches over, a curve like a giant wooping willow tree, round in a perfect swoop, head bowed like a monk. His black attire sits oddly and uncomfortably on his frail, shivering body as his arms lay haplessly like dead fish against his fatigued limbs. Tears trickle down his face quietly, leaving salty trails of glitter tingling across his cheek as the breeze rushes past. The sharp saltiness of his tears mixes with the warm ooze of his snot as they mingle unobserved below his red nose. His eyes stare grievously at the back of his eyelids, borrowed thoughts of early memories and regrets laying kindled below his chin, in the back of his throat, where the source of all his tears grows aching in a lump that prevents him from speaking a word. He ran across messy grass patches with her, the yellow dress and candy floss pollens, the laughing, perhaps it wasn’t laughing- but just smiling, or perhaps he was so happy he was laughing inside so loud that even reality was fooled by his joy. He couldn’t remember, he brooded and swayed. He kicked up the dirt below his feet, the wet cardboard mulch, the water stain seeping through the black canvas of his shoes, the joviality ironing out meaningful pursuit in his actions. He felt absent in space, one with the atmosphere around him, dark like the sky and lump in his throat, disappearing through his camouflage into slowly distorting memories…

Crossing the Finish Line
Broken, snapped, the line so easily torn, white, sugar- sweetness of victory, burning, the desire so strong it rips shreds into the tiny cells of the finish line paper. My lungs exploding, air pelting in, like a vacuum, the grass- its bitter…
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mastermeri
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« Reply #11 on: March 01, 2012, 12:54:31 PM »

Day 12

A Cliff by the Ocean
Big and stiff, a rock like a sliced mountain, dangling over the edge of a swirling pool of purples and greens, churning back and forth in waves biting at the cliff’s rocky edge. Little sea creatures ride the waves and thrash across the hard mossy surface, tiny shells being scraped off with each successive blow, sand and salt smeared across so it can lick up the sea like a lapping dog. The water peels at the surface as if trying to strip the moss off, as if it were the skin of a banana or the outermost petals of a flower being carefully dissected by a curious child. She stands at the top looking down, seeing the grey skies reflecting back at her through the whirlwind waters in flashes, cuddling her pupils with their gentle war, stifling her senses with their boundless strength and undying energy. The water is so far down, her heart flailing, somewhere between where her feet supposedly are planted and where the Cliffside meets the sea floor…

Park Bench in the City
A forest of glass and cement- leaves of notepads slightly visible through the polished surface of the tower’s trunks. The city is a forest and I sit amongst it, watching the people climbing up and down levels- even if I can’t see them and I only watch them through my imagination. I can smell the hot fans of their printers, spitting out pages of smelly work. Each letter and each word intermingled in an endless mess of fudge that twists and moulds with the passing of time. The sun pokes its nose into everyone’s business, men and women in suits turn their eyes and screens together in a waltz around their desks avoiding the glare. I sit stationary, with the sun’s beams raping my skin into uncomfortable sunburn, unable to turn any which way that will free me of its rays. Around me, pedicured grass and trashcans heaped beyond their ideal point of fullness squat in corners. Pieces of plastic and fliers blow across the plateau before me, trudging merrily along and stealing my gaze. Whiffs of city pollution hug the seductive smells of freshly baked bread and the groans of the morning news. Stock prices fly across tower edges, like nail polish ornamenting the tips of its fingers. People scuttle, like ants in and out- laughing and speaking with as many syllables as they can muster, so it sounds like they’re reciting poetry as the words tap out rhythms in the air. The occasional calls for taxis and pelts for transport stations meddle with the dynamics in the overture, bringing the music to jumbled rises and falls…

Hotel Bar
The beer drips off the edge, wiped off carelessly by the tattooed and pierced up barmaid in a rush and a smirk. The smells evoke tastes of old, desperate days as the dark, dusty corners of the room hide secrets and fears that people have painted the billiard tables and betting booths with for decades. Old rock barely discernible through jukebox speakers…
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« Reply #12 on: March 02, 2012, 02:16:44 PM »

Day 13

Suburban Swimming Pool
Chlorine infiltrates the air like a disease, every inch of my skin and every wet drab of my bikini drips with its stench. The wheezes and whoops of older swimmers as they struggle through laps are generally drowned out by the claps of synthetic waves hitting the tiled edge of the pool. Children screeching and bombing off the pool edge, they do star-jumps and invent moves justifying the attention of their peers in wild desperate flanges. The tinkles of bath salts and grains of wet dust lace the pool edge and give it a certain roughness as I grapple with my weight trying to pull myself out of the hungry water. The pipes are sick, as if they’ve aged with the regulars that have been making appearances at the pool for the past decade…

The Old Fishing Hole
In a tiny huddle, surrounded by dark but welcoming trees, a warm swamp-like pool nestled under the moonlit sky. The branches scratched at the edge of the young man’s back with their rough massaging arms. Gnats and tiny critters swirled around as if in a dance, igniting the air with a distant energy- one that it was almost too dark to make out, yet so present it would be impossible to ignore. A single gas lamp, oozing out the smells of burns and fizzles, scours the air and investigates all the nooks and crannies of the weeds and fallen twigs. The warm glow of the moon, embellished by the glitters and shimmering stars reflects off the mirror perfect surface of the water. Occasional drips reach out like fireworks on the water-top, in waves, out of nowhere- triggered by bugs, leaves or from out of nowhere as if by magic. The man holds his fishing rod tightly to his hunched up knees, the smooth wood of the rod sits squarely against his kneecap and the cap moulds to its shape as if it’s providing a perfect little cushion for it to rest upon. The man rests his chin beside the rod, delicately- he rubs his cheek against it, like a child snuggling up the comfort and protection of their mother. The tiny blood vessels through his cheeks tingle, as the rest of him is stiff and still. Even the slightest twist of the rod evokes the greatest betrayal through that sensitive spot there. He blinks slowly as the oily brown hairs on his head ruffle millimetres with the passing of…

Under an Umbrella
The patter- slap slap bang, the cold metal of the umbrella sits tucked, pushed almost forced against the back of my neck as little bumps along its next cut and bruise ever so slightly. Water runs down my arms, my legs unshielded copping the full spray of the spitting sky, thunder and wind rushing around me kicking in the dirt…
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« Reply #13 on: March 03, 2012, 01:28:51 PM »

Day 14

On the City Bus
The groan and the wreak of fuels in the air, I sit cross legged and huddled up in a seat somewhere in the middle of the bus. I press myself against the window like a pancake, flattened and cold on the side from the chilly glass, almost feeling the rain’s petals trickling down its side along my arm. My bones are collapsed in a heap, squished together in a fashion such that my leg bones and rib bones rub together and the old air I breathe barely has room to fill my collapsed lungs. The city frolics in waves of lights and clunks of wet boots, like a silent movie I see their various shades of grey blending together- as if they were little blots of black and white paint being slowly stirred, forming…

Wedding in an Old Church
The make-up falls down from the bride’s eyes as she sits behind the marquee in a tent. The sun is raging the grass is as green as envy and the chairs and guests are set up like a rich dining set. But the bride can’t see as the running mascara and smudged pearly eye-shadow have her vision blurred and sting as they sit in negotiation with her salty-sweet tears. She runs her finger in the dirt on the ground, her legs apart- messing up the fluffy white mesh under her dress and staining the outer layer of silk with speckles of sparkling dirt. She can feel the coarse earth as its slight crinkle and shush grabs her imagination and strings it along a stream of projected visions- drowning out the scuttles and artificial laughs bleeding in from the outside. She draws a question mark and even presses her hand and rips a little tuft of grass to finish it, the slight pressure of the stuggling strands echoing through her and the silent rip making her heart skip a beat. She hears the groom in a messy waft of cologne and sweat, he sounds like a puddle of worry, a worry she doesn’t want a part of. She’s certain that he hovers only metres from her, cut off by shining plastic of the marquee- with his suit trim and proper, most definitely unfettered by the mulch under his polished shoes. She grabs a little lump of dirt, like a tiny mountain in her hand and uses the other to shape and mould it. The scraps from her sculpting fall easily like autumn leaves on her dress and form shallow pools in the creases. She holds the dirt to her heart, letting the final grains fall away and whispers ‘I do’, tears streaming…

Canoe on the River
A stiff banana peel, floating in the murky water, gulping down the brown ooze of the river like a strong oolong. The mulch and reeds sticking to the side of the canoe as the sun blasts the wet from their pores, like hanging artworks along the edge of the wooden exterior- itching and etching their way into the fabric of the vessel…
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Paul
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« Reply #14 on: March 04, 2012, 02:07:48 PM »

Excellent stuff- there's bunch of us doing this on a private forum we're up to challenge four. It certainly is a brain stretch when you get to the metaphors and linking qualities
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