Are you ready to WRITE?!
The response to last week's #fanficflashfic was just amazing, with 40 fabulous writers posting their drabbles and snapshots.
Last week's winner, @DarlingVeruca has selected this week's prompt, and it's just gorgeous. I can't wait to see what it sparks in your imaginations!
Here it is ...
Remember to check the rules, and have your 200 words submitted by 11:59pm Thursday, EST.
We want anything and everything: poetry, prose, fanfic, OF. Just give us your words!
Leave your entry as a comment - include your word count, and your twitter handle if you have one.
We want anything and everything: poetry, prose, fanfic, OF. Just give us your words!
Leave your entry as a comment - include your word count, and your twitter handle if you have one.
Twitter: BedeliaJane
ReplyDeleteWord count: 200 exactly!
Fuzzy, antiseptic-soaked days are all the same here, one moment bleeding into the next. Without realizing how she came to be in this room, Alice lets her hand fly across a water-stained sheet of paper. A pretty girl with flowers in her hair materializes beneath the stub of charcoal. Alice thinks she has seen this picture many times before. Something blocks her memory when she tries to reach back, filling her mouth with the taste of metal.
“That’s lovely, Mary Alice,” her friend says.
“Thank you.” Returning his smile, she taps his cold left fist. “You’re holding a chess piece today. A white bishop.”
His hand opens. “Correct.”
Blackness descends—the blackness of open closets in a child’s bedroom. Alice wants to hide under the quilt from the monsters within, but strong arms carry her into the night.
“I’m so sorry,” her friend says. “There’s no other way. He’ll drain you.”
With a tear of his teeth, he writes love on her neck. Pain threatens to burn away her scraps of memory, but she feels him tuck the flowers into what remains of her hair. For now, she knows. She remembers.
The girl on the page was her.
"...he writes love on her neck."
DeleteI love this line.
I like this story, this would be nice to see more of it! A ficlet or such even! Great job!
DeleteLove this.
DeleteI also like the "he writes love on her neck" line, as well as the last line -- chilling.
Thank you so much, you three! :)
DeleteI loved this entry as well!
Delete~quietdrabble
It's as though I am an observer, looking in on the scene. Alice in contemplation, 'him' holding the chess piece she calls out~ her dark memory, she remembers... if only for a moment. Loved this~
Delete@shellisthimbles
ReplyDelete223 ineligible words
-------------
I close my eyes, pushing the heels of my hands against them until the fireworks bloom. Pink sparks, like cherry blossoms on the wind, shower down in the darkness.
My elbows dig into my thighs, my head feels heavy in my hands.
“Whatchya thinkin’ about?” The little voice sounds like fairy floss and sunflowers. “Miss? You okay?” Sticky fingers land on my leg, clumsy and gentle.
I blow a breath between pursed lips and lift my head.
Cracked and smudged paint coats the little girl’s face. Purples and pinks flake away from a round cheek, yellow blue run together on a sweaty brow.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “Just thinking about a friend.” His face flashes in my memory, a faint and fading image—I’m forgetting him. “I miss him.”
“My friend moved away, too,” the painted child says, lips turning down with the sad seriousness only the under five can manage.
“I’m sorry.” The words sound empty in my ears. I’ve said them too many times—they’ve lost all meaning.
“It’s okay. I got wings, see.” A chubby finger points at a chubby cheek. “’M gonna fly away and visit her.” She looks at me, sucking a paint-stained lip into her mouth.
“You’re a bird?”
“Nope.” Red paint smears under her nose as she wipes away a sniffle. “I’m the beautifulest butterfly.”
Twitter: HoldMyPanny
DeleteWordcount:199
---
Dust motes lazily float and mingle with the light and fireworks erupting from her skin. The colours are manifold from deep ochre to brilliant blues to dusky pinks, each splitting and creating more as her skin flexes with every movement. Fingers reach and cause beautiful flares that dance along the walls. Prisms created by twitches of muscle decorate every corner of the room marking them like fireflies in the night, only to be extinguished by a secondary movement making them flare at a different point. Her scent is flowers and light and sun, the bouquet heightened by the warmth of the room and the terpsichorean flow of the light she is causing.
I cease to move, or breathe, for fear that this moment of epiphany will leave me.
“You told me the day I showed you what I was, you told me I was beautiful.” I whisper it like the secret moment it was for us.
She looks up then, causing a fresh wave of beautiful light to move through the room, marking the walls with a fleeting map of her beauty.
“I understand now.” I sigh.
She smiles, nods, and paints love across the walls of our home.
Oh my God, this is lovely. Plus, you used the word "terpischorean". ++++1
DeleteWow~ this just bursts on your psyche~ multitudes of images floated through my mind. I too especially loved that line terpsichorean flow of the light. I could see the "dancing" and the movement, his epiphany if you will. Lovely~
DeleteYour opening paragraph was Awesome~! It really stuck in my head~! Beautifully written! I also loved your description of the little girl's voice...I could just picture the little one touching her trying to get her to look up... Visually graphic~! But I especially loved the last line~ Perfect!
Delete@katiewinkles
ReplyDelete200 words (unbetad)
________
To her, music has always been colour.
Sometimes it’s pretty pale pinks and sunshine yellows to match the soft, lilting, whimsical notes.
Sometimes it’s dark and deep; crimson and inky blues weaving into her subconscious like a honey-laden voice, or the pulse of a kick drum.
Sometimes it’s dark purple like a healing bruise; colours that sink deep beneath her ribs, cutting, burning, aching with each longing word or heartbroken syllable.
Sometimes it’s flashes of bright purple and red; glitchy, twitchy, pitch-shifty stuff that makes the colour pop and fizz like bubbles through her vision.
Today it floats through her subconscious like wave after wave of vivid colour, splashing across the back of her eyelids in swirls of bright green and orange; a cacophony, a riot, an explosion of colour to match the snap and bang of the snare, and the heart racing, feet moving, body twirling noise inside her ears.
She likes to imagine it seeping into her cheeks, staining them pink, or into the green of her eyes and red of her lips.
A constant friend, the music is what keeps her heart beating and feeds her soul. For her, there is no colour in life without music.
Music has always been my constant friend! I loved it!
DeleteYou can feel the music undulating in this description of the music and the colors... very good imagery... Makes you See the music as well as feel it.
Delete
ReplyDeleteTwitter Account: @LadyGwynedd
Word Count 200
I hadn’t listened to my old LPs in years. I’d found a dusty box full as I was clearing out dad’s old house. I gazed on the worn album covers each a musical memory. Lastly, came the one with a stylized drawing of a musing girl with flowers for eyes, vines for hair and too many pink-nailed fingers. The record had been a gift from a young man who had been my world for a time.
Fortunately, the old stereo hadn’t yet been sold or given away and soon Joni’s bell-like voice filled the emptied house. Her music transported me to a honeyed time as I remembered the slam of lockers, the giggles of friends, and the thrill of a secretly passed note. Then, there were the shy glances of a bashful boy, his nervous, stuttered invitation, a knot of carnations on my wrist, his warm fingers entangled with mine, and a soft, trembling kiss upon my lips.
“I really don’t know love at all,” she sang.
Enough. I packed the album away with the others, taped the box shut and wrote across the top: Give Away.
The past was much better left undisturbed.
Gah! I love and hate the way music takes you back instantly! Great story!
DeleteAw, very moving.
DeleteI know right, the song remembers... instantly you are there, hearing, smelling, Feeling~ all at once. Great picture of memories...
Delete@megan_timms
ReplyDelete222 words
“So this is what you want?” his eyes pored over the picture she had handed him. The tingle he felt up his fingers when her hand brushed his hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, or her, which was evident in the heat of her cheeks. She quickly collected herself, clearing her throat and quirking an eyebrow in response, “Yep, that’s the one I want. Right here,” pulling the hem of her white vest up, exposing her tanned, toned stomach, hipbones jutting out over the top of her jeans. Pointing her finger to her the left side of her lower stomach, she spoke again. “What do you think?”
His eyes zoned in on the area, and he could just make out a thin blue line of lace poking out above her jeans.
Beautiful.
“What?” she said, eyebrows furrowed. He realised he’d spoken aloud, and averted his gaze back to the picture. “Um… it’s beautiful – the colours will work well on your skin tone”. She grinned and stepped forward to lay on the couch, tucking her tank into her bra and pushing her jeans down her hips. He again averted his eyes from the teasing blue lace that was practically begging to be ripped off.
“Let’s get you inked” he grinned, turning away to set up the tattoo gun. This was going to be fun.
Perfect, I can see her tattoo now! You sucked me in right away, loved it!
DeleteWord count: exactly 200
ReplyDeleteTwitter handle: @AnnaLund2011
And she dreams. And dreams. She has lost herself to the images of psychedelic love and peace and understanding and… and… she doesn’t know where she is anymore. The voice that usually anchors her is gone.
Moments ago, a harsh voice joined her anchor’s voice, and it was spitting out hateful words, hissing and cussing, and then, a cracking sound, like the Earth being ripped apart.
A whiff of terrible, heavy smoke, something that turns the colors in her dream into black ashes.
The friendly voice is gone, and now she is alone. Not even the angry voice is there anymore.
Her mind keeps trying to come back into the now, back into the room in which she knows she must be sitting, the one where she exists also for other people. Where the ink on her skin matches the lines in her mind.
And in her dream there is a tune playing in the background, an old Rolling Stones song. The music is soft and it culls her, takes care of her. She doesn’t need to do anything at all, today. Nor ever again. She is safe inside her head.
She comes in colors everywhere. She combs her hair.
@CallMePagliacci
ReplyDeleteMy Google Overlord tells me this is 186 words.
I roll my neck and don’t feel the heavy, embellished wig straining my neck muscles. The beads tink and clink together. A feather tickles my cheek.
The makeup is thick on my face, tight, drawing my skin taut, but I don’t feel that discomfort either. I want to lick my dry lips; memories of the green paint’s bitter, metallic taste keeps my tongue in my mouth.
Excitement is all I feel.
I stretch and draw my hands up my body in the blue-grey shift-light. I curl my yearning fingers in front of my face—I’m flight, I’m fey, I’m the springtime air.
The orchestra snaps to attention, their strings tensed to sing for me. Silence. Tense silence that burrows into my chest and speeds my breath. Out of the corner of my demurely cast-down eye, the conductor’s baton flashes up in anticipation of the downbeat.
I roll up en pointe. The creak of my weight in my shoes’ hot-red satin echoes in the hushed auditorium. This is my home. I own this space.
A single spotlight beam shines down from my Heaven. I leap, and I’m free.
Great images and tone. You really captured this dancer in her element from every movement to every quiet sound.
DeleteMakes me think of flight & fancy~ A beautiful Ballerina. I especially love the I'm Flight, I'm fey, I'm the spingtime air... That is just exactly how she feels when she's dancing~! Nicely Done!
Delete@annetteinoz
ReplyDelete174 words
He closed his eyes and she was there. Her image so vivid it was visceral.
He remembered the day so clearly. It was the summer of their senior year. They’d been camping and he’d woken to find her gone. Coming out of the tent he saw her in the field, picking wildflowers and tucking them behind her ear.
It was still early and a fine mist draped the valley. In her white dress she looked ethereal, wraith-like, seeming to float through the long grass. He stood there transfixed, drinking her in. She was breathtaking.
He called her name and, as she turned to him, the sun broke through, catching the mist that had settled on her and the flowers in her hair, surrounding her in a glittering rainbow. It was at that moment he knew there would never be anyone else.
He rolled over and touched the empty space in the bed, his loneliness tangible. He missed her so much every day, his beautiful, luminous girl, but she lived forever in his memory.
I can see her in that field, dancing in the sunlight... great imagery~ and a little sad, it touches the heart.
DeleteLike Her Momma
ReplyDelete@bkhchica
Word count: 200- un-beta'd
My fingers traced the lines of the painting. I remembered creating it. It was before she was gone.
Baby hands clapped and sing-song voice shouted, “Momma!”
My hands dropped; I fought back tears. I wanted my baby girl to remember her momma with happy smiles, not sad tears. She was really too small to remember her at all. My heart shattered at the thought.
She’d never see her twinkling eyes, never watch her dance and sing crazily through the house. She’d never help her hang blankets on the line to dry- claiming nothing smelled as good as sunshine. She was right- she’d always smelled wild and carefree, like a sunny summer day.
The years passed quickly and my baby girl changed from a chubby cherub to a beautiful lady. Her bare toes peeked from beneath the hem of her jeans as she danced crazily through the house, singing at the top of her lungs. She was wild and free like her mother.
My eyes traveled to the picture over the mantle. I could see her in my daughter- from her looks to the way she appreciated life. Time for another masterpiece. This one to hang beside her mother’s portrait.
A perfect reflection of her mother, without ever knowing her... sweet.
Delete@mrssiobhanmasen
ReplyDelete200 words exactly (unbeta'd)
“Okay, class, take your seats. You have the full hour to paint our subject in whatever manner you see fit.”
This is my chance; I get to paint her as I see her. Her eyes full of wonder, her face that is swirled with beauty.
She sees herself as plain, boring and nothing special. I’ve heard her say it over and over again. I see her as so much more than that. Indescribable with words, only my brush can capture the smallest glimpse of her radiance.
**~~**~~
I stand off to the side and gaze at her face on canvas, even after all this time, her painting is still my best, by far. I’ve never been more proud of my work.
“Is that really how you see me?” Her voice is soft, insecure and worried.
“Absolutely, it’s not quite right, actually. It still doesn’t capture all that you are.” She is breathtaking tonight, in her burnt sienna dress with her hair loose and flowing. “I’ve always seen you this way.” I’m sure the boldness of my words is due to the champagne.
“Why didn’t you ever say so?” Her lips capture mine and words are no longer necessary between us.
*Le Heavy Sigh* This is swoon worthy~! Love captured on the canvas, through His eyes... he sees her like no one else does~! Beautifully done. But then you alway do.
DeleteNo Twitter (I know)
ReplyDelete200 words
She hears the air conditioner click on and feels the cold air blowing down on her from above. A shiver rolls down her spine.
She takes a step back and contemplates the painting again, mesmerized by the fingers that seem to move and beckon to someone. The woman's expression puzzles her as she tries to analyze the emotion behind it- wonderment? Expectation? She feels someone come up behind her, their breaths the only sound in the room.
“Do you like it?” a man's voice inquires.
She answers, “I do, but I don't know why.”
She turns and looks at the man. Dark and handsome and... familiar. He tilts his head to the side as he studies her.
“She looks like you,” he states.
Her head turns back to the painting, already the pieces falling into place. The expression that nagged at her was her own. It was her musing posture she falls into when she writes. She often stares out the window of her apartment, unfocused and thinking.
“Do I know you?” she nervously asks.
“My studio windows face your building. I paint you every day. I dream of you.” His words surround her as they echo around the room.
I love this~ I can picture it perfectly~! And "he dreams of her" This would make a great beginning for a full story...
DeleteThanks so much for the comment. I'm new to writing and this is the first thing I've ever posted!
DeleteNeuroticris
ReplyDelete200 words
I watched him from the corner of my eye as his brushstrokes streaked stark lines of black and flashes of magenta across the canvas. His posture hunched and his fingers frenetic as the image before came alive.
I looked down at my own work and frowned. My cold, slimy fingers slipped through the lump of clay on my board.
A whistle drew my attention back to the boy and the beautiful painting before him. The teacher stood back admiring his work. I watched her pat his shoulder in praise before walking away. Jealousy burned bitter in my gut.
I looked down and saw a carving knife clutched in my hand. Steeling my resolve, I stood and walked over to where he sat. I looked him in the eyes before I reached out and slashed through his canvas – the ripping sounds and the shock in his eyes bringing a cold sense of satisfaction. I smiled sadistically at his crumbled expression before walking away as if nothing had happened.
The sudden ringing of the bell jolted my attention. Disoriented, I blinked my eyes and realized my fingers were still holding the lump of clay on my board.
I hadn’t moved at all.
ooh, a bit of dissociation spawned by jealousy there. I liked it.
DeleteUh, Wow~ I think we have all been there at one time or another~ you wrote it well. Visually stimulate and then whack, back to the real world~ Nice!
Delete@samrosey
ReplyDelete208 words.
Dying in the face of insolence, and abuse is easy. The words crash into me familiar. The sounds and faces of my makers, all the same.
Remembering that I am better than that, remembering what I am is harder.
Ten faces, ten different ways to tell me I'm nothing. I believe them all.
One stranger, one way to bring me back to life, means everything. And I'm only now beginning to believe he might be real.
He was tall, and wore big boots. He looked foreign, not like them. His hair was messy and wild like an animal. His eyes piercing blue like ice. Like rules they must abide by.
He held his hand out, pronouncing words that meant things would be alright.
He helped me up, and we walked across the grass. He didn't speak, not until he could without the anger.
"I like your hair." He said.
I touched my pink hair, the black flower sticking out to the side, now crumpled, and pulled it out. I took his hand and dropped it into his palm.
"Thank you."
We sat in the sun, under the tree, not really saying anything. He read a book, and I tried not to cry.
"I won't hurt you." He said.
I.love.this. Simple~ Acceptance~ A Bridge~ a friendship formed... priceless. Very swoon worthy~! I liked how you told about his eyes... You said a whole lot in just 200 words...
DeleteThank you!
DeleteI'm so glad you enjoyed it!
XOXO
@SaritaDreaming
ReplyDelete200 words (including the ones crushed together, excluding title)
"Emerald Cut"
Black and white.
Sepia.
Dark.
Hurt.
“This will make it better, baby.”
A cool swipe, a sharp prick.
RushRushRushRushRushRush
Colors erupt from my eyes. I blow rainbow kisses from between my lips that skate across the palms of my six or eight . . . or ten hands.
Peacock feathers for hair.
A kaleidoscope dances all around me, prisms of light refracting from his emerald cut eyes.
My ten hands caress his baby-smooth cheeks, stroke his pouty lips.
Falling, falling, away from him.
No!
Gossamer ribbons of every hue, silk and smoke, slip through my grappling fingers . . . taking my emeralds away.
“Shh . . . ride it, baby.”
Murk swallows the rainbows, and I float on soft undulating waves of well-being, enrobed in womb-like bliss. I slip into darkness . . .
Heaviness . . . aching . . . wanting . . .
My eyes open to the stale-smelling room with the dirty mattress.
The guy slumped against the wall is all wrong.
Dark skin, hair. Lids flutter open . . . no emeralds.
“I need to go again.”
“You've had enough, sweetheart.”
Not yet. Not yet.
Nice.
Deletebeautiful, yet so sad. I like how you captured the cycle of the need, the euphoria, and back to the need again with such lovely language and structure.
DeleteThanks, guys! Glad you enjoyed it. :-)
DeleteCould Not have said it better myself, took the words right out of my head. You can Feel the pain, even through the kaleidoscope of colors and the 'feeling' good, but those Eyes are missing... Whoa~ nicely done Sarita~ Lovely is so right~!
DeleteAmazing. Perfect.
ReplyDeleteTwitter: @quietdrabble
ReplyDeleteWord Count: 200
—
She cut.
I saw below her flesh, I saw beneath the self inflicted wounds of loathing she couldn't seem to control. I saw the colors she could not see, the chartreuse and tangerine she emitted. I saw her beauty in a way she showed no one else, the beauty she eagerly wanted to rid herself of. The beauty she desperately hated, the beauty she cut deeply into.
And I mainlined.
We both had our pains, our pasts filled with anguish and abuse. She was strong, but I was weak. She wanted to feel the steady control and I wanted to hide. I didn't want the pain and she craved it.
"The assignment today, class. Look at the picture. Write what you feel. Two hundred words or less."
The memory of her flowing, raw beauty is all I have left. She cut too deep, and I was high.
She felt the pain, and I was wasted.
I stared at the picture, my hand quivering with trepidation over the words I wanted to write. I grasped the pen until my hand shook, willing the nerve. I took a deep, steadying breath and wrote a single word on the crisp white page:
Nothing.
WOMAN! Yours should come with a rip your heart out warning! I loved it as wrong as that seems to say! Amazing! Bravo!
DeleteMs. Masen, you are about 3 steps and 4 shades ahead of me on these replies, LOL.
DeleteWOW~ JUST.WOW~ I had to reread this a couple of times... And I have decided my next fic I am reading Will BE one of quietdrabble's~! BRAVA Indeed. Definitely need a warning label...
Thank you both! For your kind words.
Deletexo
~quietdrabble
@believeitornott
ReplyDelete196 words
She used to believe she could live in the moon—that a path of stars led the way to a door she could walk through and move right in.
Everything inside would glow.
She hadn’t believed in any of that for a long time. But why not? Why shouldn’t she believe there was more for her? Undiscovered possibilities that would make her glow from the inside out?
She wiped a tear.
The door opened and closed behind her.
She didn’t have to turn around to know he was hanging his coat on the rack, or to know he held a bouquet of flowers. She didn’t have to look into his eyes to know he was guilty, or to kiss his lips to know they’d be stiff at first touch. She didn’t have to turn around to know that he was moving closer.
“Why’s it so dark in here?” The light switched on and she could no longer see the stars or the moon. Through the window she saw his reflection.
She turned around.
“I want a divorce.”
Flowers fell to the floor. Petals dispersed.
She turned back to the window, saw herself in the glass.
She glowed.
Kinda perfect there. He thought/she thought.
DeleteSure makes one curious as to how she knew... he sure did not see it coming that's for sure... Perfectly Done~ and
DeleteSHE GLOWED~
@Aleeab4u
ReplyDelete200 words
It was summer time hot in February the first time I saw her. Now, it's hell hot June, the sun, golden, scorching anyone who dares outside. Not many do. Only the unwisely bold. The few left who brazenly offer tender sunburned skin to a world rapidly baking to brown dust and desecration.
Ashes to ashes...
I set up my paints and easel, a parching breeze blowing copper sand against my ankles. Light glints off depleting blue waters, and there she sits.
Wild child, flower girl, pretty baby love with her peeling nose and pink shoulders. Twenty one, like me, forever. Her sundress is yellow today. She tips her head back, embracing heat and dwindling life, softly whispering 'fuck you' to impending apocalypse and over-packed Cooling Centers with their canned artificial air.
I worry I don't have the colors to capture the fake red hibiscus in her hair.
My sweaty fingers slip around lids of paint pots, forcing a grunt from my mouth as I fight to open melted, rainbow hues. I paint wide, iridescent sweeps that never quite capture, and I wonder.
What would she do if I bravely grabbed these last days of life and softly said, hello?
Twitter: @hummingbirdFF
ReplyDeleteWords: 143
~:~
Beautiful.
That was the only way to describe the vision in front of me.
She was barefoot and twirling—gorgeous in the fading sunlight.
There were streaks of blue and red in her hair, streaks of green and purple across her cheeks.
Her multi-coloured curls were blowing in the wind, and the corners of her bright eyes were creased in carefree laughter.
She was art: beauty, colour and passion.
And I was frozen.
I never thought that a day of paintball with the guys would lead to that moment.
It’s the moment in life when everything around you just slows down and your breathe takes just that little bit longer to re-enter your lungs. It’s the moment you realise that your life will never be the same again.
It’s the moment I saw the love of my life for the very first time.
I Loved the surprise in this one... talking about her in an abstract way and then ~pow~ right in the moment and it's because she is covered in paintball colors, LOL such a cocophy of color splashed all over my mind. Kudos Nicely Done~! Great Visual~!
Delete@Buzzynutkins
ReplyDeleteWC: 200 words
I think my eyes are running down. Again. Things were so bright and colorful in the days of my youth, the green grass was GREEN and the blue sky was… Well, usually it was covered in clouds, but when they weren’t there, it was really BLUE. But it ran down as I got older. More time in boring, beige schools. Black text on white paper. I was nearly blind by the time I hit 25 – cataracts, the doctor found when I went in for my first eye exam.
They replaced my lenses – one, then the other, a week apart. And the first time the bandages came off, the world was bright again. Lights and colors leaping into my ocular nerve, firing into my brain. But it’s growing dark again. I think the world doesn’t have color of its own. I think it took the color from my eyes and covered itself in the ill-gotten shades that I found so beautiful. Now I just want to keep them. I think I’d give anything to be blind. To never see. To never let the world steal the color from my eyes. To keep it all to myself, and never let it fade.
Love where you went with this. And this: "She’s perfection concealed in adorable flaws" captures it all.
ReplyDelete@ajapersuasia
ReplyDelete200 words
I used to hear feet stomping over my head. Now I only hear thunder. I used to smell the grass underneath me. Now I feel the pitch and roll, like an earthquake. Like an ocean.
She used to have hair, long and dark. It used to be still.
I would reach out, touch her. If I could. If I wasn’t immobilized by the weight of all this sound. Oppressed. I can move my eyes. The blood in my veins. My heart wringing itself dry.
And I think I’m smiling.
“You are smiling.”
She can read my mind. Maybe I’m speaking out loud.
My mouth used to taste like LSD. Now it tastes like lightning. Scorched by the chant trapped there.
Cougars! Fight! Cougars! Win!
I used to play.
She nods. Feathers and flowers. Birdsong. Her skin is my fortune teller. My future is made of rainbows. Her voice is a formerly undiscovered country.
She used to wear a mask. Color in bloom is her true face.
There used to be something real beyond the bleachers above me. Now there is only sky.
I used to have hands. Now I have wings.
I used to be me. Now I can fly.
and TIME
ReplyDeleteI love that line~ it just makes you see her~ And then the line "When she dances, she's everything" great lines...
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete