(One Syllable Piece)

Fear. Pulsed strong into his veins. No longer a boy, a man of eighteen now, who hid from the light of the moon. The plan had been clear: to escape from this place in his head. Even as he gazed into the sky he was filled with the dread of time. He hummed and thought, “Too late to look at the past.” To tell the truth, he had been alone for quite some time. After the day Jill told him to leave as she stood by the door, closed it as she left, and cried. “Too much pain to think like that”. He looked at the star and let a soft sigh seep into the night air. Jill took back her love and fled. Now he stood alone and his heart was not sure what to do next. With a glance at the sky he shed one last tear and let her go. The fear peeled from his body and twisted into the night. It left a man and a heart that would learn to love in time. Does anyone have an idea for the title of the piece? Please let me know

Sentimental Saplings (First Line Piece)

Why are the tree trunks brown as your eyes on that summer day? The way your body has always held me strong, like when you clung to me under the maple tree by my window in my backyard. The way you watched me for years as we both blossomed like the trees around us. We grew; our fates grew too. They became intertwined like the roots hidden in the dark depths of the ground. People came and went, with sharp entrances and exits in our lives. Still they never seemed to be able to shake us apart. Remember that summer when we were teens? The summer we carved our names together in the thick bark of the maple tree. Our bond became unbreakable; think in a forest bursting with the surplus of love and gratitude. Seasons endlessly passed until that day, sixty years since we first carved our names into the maple tree, you finally finished growing. Reaching out to the sky before you withered away to dust. I soon followed. Our time here on earth together had come to a close. We left only behind our carvings in the maple tree.

Lair of the Unsuccessful Artist

The door slams shut with a think clang shaking the two-roomed apartment with a bang. Vividly painted walls are still dripping in fierce red. The red is the artist’s blood, the color of the fire truck he had first drawn, and the color seen in bottles of pigments upon the shelves hung on the wall. Light shines through one big window, still creeping through even as the curtains patiently wait to strike where the window meets the wall. A leather couch is pushed against a corner; it’s surface faded from years of use. It’s still unaccustomed to such as young man’s dreams as he lays there every night in slumber.
Across the room there are two doors: one painted an orange mural of a sunrise while the other is paint with the sight of a blossomed red tulip. Perhaps one leads to the cramped bathroom with the rusted shower—a shelter for homeless cockroaches. The other may lead out of the cramped apartment to burst upon the sweet afternoon sunshine of the streets of lower Manhattan. One more door exists almost hiding behind a wall filled with unfinished paintings. Unlike the room this door still remains strangely empty only filed with faint scrawls of a pencil. It screams “Why has the artist given up? Will he continue? Believe in him. He is alone.”
Behind the door is a cramped kitchen. Two walls painted a grassy green; Two walls painted a deep blue. Old cabinets hang a contract to the freshly painted room. They remain barely filled except for a few microwavable means. One hangs crooked, but the colors of the room seem to try to hide it. The rust in this sink is illumined by a bright light through the window on the other side of the kitchen.
Underneath the window the floor is littered with paintbrushes and paint pallets. Piles of brown, blue, and crimson are heaped on the floor. In the middle of the fray a paint splattered stool and easel sit. Upon the easel sits a nearly blank canvas, except for one crisp penciled question mark. Silence sits comfortably mixing with the smell of fresh paint and the hidden layer of filth underneath.
The door slams again as the young man enters briskly walking towards the easel. Grasping a few paintbrushes he gracefully dips them into liquid pools of color. With almost desperate strokes he works on the painting. It’s obvious that he’s close to giving up hope. Yet, after hours tick away the painting transforms into a canvas of magic. The question mark is erased by a picture of beauty that surely is real. In this painting, strokes of hope are mixed with dots of fear and splashed of loneness breathing the story of the unsuccessful artist who’s ready to face the world again.

Gone to Catch the Butterfly

If Lee-lee hadn’t chased the butterfly she’d be home by now. Mommy was going to yell at her. She was a big girl now. Now she was in 2nd grade. Daddy wasn’t coming home anymore and she had to find a way to stop Mommy’s tears. Some days she felt like crying herself, but she had to be grown up now. Be just like her mommy. Someday she’d wear the heels; Still sizes to big on her little feet. She’d dress in Mommy’s pretty Sunday dresses while she cleaned and cared for her own child− her baby doll named Lisabeth. She blinked again before she remembered she couldn’t have a baby doll anymore. She was all grown up, and Daddy wasn’t ever coming back from the war. Teardrops dribbled down her cheeks as she continued to walk closer to home. For a split second she thought the butterfly was just like her daddy; A thing so perfect that you just couldn’t catch it anymore and that it needed to fly away to a happier place. Her muddy shoes clambered up the stairs to her doorstep and her tears halted. Her mother was waiting at the door worriedly looking out at the darkening sky. With a spirit Lee-lee ran at her. Her small little body cooed over her making sure she was okay. As her mother carried her inside Lee-lee forgot all about growing up and simply let her child self survive for another single second.

Hidden Beauty

I glance at her. She always makes me laugh. With her thousands of witty puns and her gestures she always provokes a smile on my mask of a face. Her hair curls around her body enveloping her in a light brown blanket of safety. She’s sitting in a corner of the room. Sunlight sprinkles on her cheeks to slowly cascades down her long sleeved shirt to the tips of her fingers. She shakes off the sunlight with quick, fluent strokes of a pen. I steal a glance at her notebook. It’s the sight of perfection. Her handwriting must put mine to shame. Yet, it’s the words that shock me the most.
Behind her pale skin I see hints of dark shadows under her eyes hiding behind brushstrokes of concealer. She has painted on her mask to hide something, but what I shall never know. She glances at me our eyes lock and we both break out in silly faces and try to hide our snickers from the silence of the classroom.
I imagine what her life was like when she was a child. Free from all the secrets she now possessed. I picture her running across a beach. Her pale hand covered in long damp streaks of vanilla ice cream that match the circle of white that surrounds her cherry lips. I imagine her swinging back and forth in her little backyard; the faded red walks of her house whooshing by as she climbed towards the sky. I wonder what made her begin to fall back into a life where she couldn’t even see how truly beautiful she is.
I hear a bubble of laughter from her lips as her head tilts. I see the stumps of silver tress appear from under her layers of hair. Her fingers twirl her curls tightly; she needs her blanket to get through the day. I smile once more and walk over to her before whispering a comment about her earrings. She beams at me and outs down her pen still not seeing how beautiful she is. For one split second her eyes match her smile and her shadows are gone. I realize I need not worry for the sunlight she sits in cannot shine as brightly as her spirit on this early Thursday morning.


(Descriptive observation of a classmate- Jessie @YoungGoatman)

Lighthouse

Lauren curled up closer to herself. Around her all could sense was darkness. Desperately, she let out a scream. Her beacon, radiating light of hope, disappeared. She could hear faint murmurs of people around her, of past memories. Gradually her body slackened and she continues to tumble towards the bottom of the ocean.

(Fifty-Five Piece Work)

Books and I always got along...

Books and I always got along. They have been my childhood friend hidden in deep memories. Memories of a little girl clutching books as she ran through the trees. It was the books who were there to comfort her falls as she tripped and tumbled towards the earth. Books were there to catch her tears and make her strong once more.
When each adventure ended to begin a new, another book was discovered along with a whole new world. As day changed to night a million times they were there to watch me grow. From a child to a young teenager they put me to rest with the hums of endless words.
As I lay on my bed -a child of just 14- they envelope me once more with their crisp hands. My mind breaks free to wander among the faded yellow pages of my friends.

New Shoes

Yeah. I'm not big on photography, but i really wanted to branch out and this is a great opportunity too. So please, please, please tell me what you think(: