- Your lips are soft pale petals.
- You drink frustration in your whiskey.
- Words are nice, but action bigger.
- Words are friends, but also enemies.
- We try to move on — lost.
- Some men are beautiful, some magnetic.
- Women are shamed to be skinny.
- If you’re you; you are perfect.
- Better show then tell too much.
- Power is woman in graceful form.
- She had many dreams, buried within.
- Dogs sleep beside you, then ontop.
- The world is full of lies — truth.
- Beyond the wardrobe, lies more coats.
- We are addicted to sugar; sweetness.
- Sugar feeds cancer; not a lie.
- The strong keep going, don’t stop.
- She mirrored me, I saw myself.
- The lamp guides, only footsteps matter
- Alone is lonely, sometimes it’s better.
- He didn’t matter; she moved on.
- We all take leaps, leaps hurt.
- I fell in mid-air, jumping stairs.
- Tiny pieces of truth; slivers painful.
- The air is thin, breath shallow.
Gia sat in her fourth floor apartment on the balcony. She looked regretfully at her swollen ankle, then down at the street below.The inhabitants of Dawson Street were a collectively an interesting bunch. Like the apartments which were ramshackle and colourful, so the inhabitants were artsy, brilliant, but a bit odd.
Gia wasn’t even surprised when she saw a mini hippy vehicle painted in multicolored flowers pull up across the street. She watched a grey-haired man get out of the car. Later, she saw him across the street at the balcony across from hers, talking to a man she knew named Ralph. The grey-haired man and Ralph tussled. Suddenly, Ralph was pushed off his balcony and landed on the street on his head.
Gia covered her mouth in horror as she saw what took place. Then she realized the guy with the grey-hair was staring at her. Gia raced to lock her door and to call the police. But the man who killed Ralph arrived first.
Word Count: 172 Words
Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting!
Let me paint a picture for you: I am in the living room at home. The walls are seashell beige on the wall opposite of me where there is a grand picture window with wispy white see-through curtains. Behind me the wall is a darker beige, with a slight green tinge to it. To the right is a corner cabinet in oak, furniture my Uncle built, displaying a few trinkets. Beside the corner cabinet to the left is a side-table stained in a darker wood with a butter yellow corrugated place mat on it. Beside it is a deep dark red-orange sofa with a sheet covering the seat and back. The sheet is off white with brown and copper leaves. In front of the coach is a french provincial coffee table with a cream runner on top. The left corner of this coach is usually where I sit and write. It is quite comfortable, a place to sink into words.
The side table is where I pile various textbooks I’m using for school: Furniture in History 3000 BC – 2000 AD, and papers about applying for a Masters in Fine Arts. There is a little leaf green binder for portion sizes of food you eat; I try to follow the guide. It’s from when I was doing Herbal Magic. There are tabs of varied colours you can write on to make a divider for your binder or mark a chapter in the textbook. There is lip chap, pens of blue and black, paper clips, and a binder for my Furnishing’s Course –thick with printed out slides and notes. In front of me is the IKEA catalogue. And to the left of me a framed vertical drawing of a bench and buildings in Ottawa, it’s matting is forest green. There is a lamp that’s tall with a cream lamp shade, providing light to me as I write on my lap top. I am resting my right arm on a multicolored brown, orange and red pillow, a muted knitted purple blanket covers my legs. Usually it’s nice and quiet during the day, everyone is at work. But lately, there is a loud truck across the street and it runs and makes the most horrible rumbling sounds. I’m trying to ignore it and I can’t do anything about it. But I wish the people would hurry up and leave already or get their truck fixed.
I’m burning a candle on the coffee table it smells like heavenly vanilla, I love that smell. And I just keep on writing. I wish I had a quiet room with a desk and a comfortable leather chair to sit in, where I was looking out the window at the river valley full of orange and red in Autumn. A place I couldn’t hear this rumbling noise, it’s like a tractor. But you write where you write and create your “room of your own” wherever you can find the space. This will do for now.
Prompt: Let Social Media Inspire you.
Read my Tweet Here (or in the lines below).
She wears all black,
Just Like her soul,
Yet Her Heart is made of Gold.
Does what you wear reflect your soul? Are you the jeans you wear, the hair spray you use? Are you that special pair of black underwear? The polka-dotted tights? Are you snoopy boxers? Or white Calvin Kleins? Are you your stripped power suit? A silver tie with little checks? Are you a svelte tight black dress? A teal wool coat with a swirled collar? Mismatching socks? Or a wife-beater undershirt? Are you a pink Victoria Secret bra with double padding? Are you light-blue silk dress shirt from Armani? Are you Agent Provocateur stockings with garters? Are you Ralph Polo Blue? Or Chanal Chance? Are you a baby pink sweater size 3 months? Are you a baby blue Gap sweat-shirt size 18 months? Are you a woman’s size 8? Size 16? Size Large? Small? Are you 6″5 and need pants with a 36″ inseem? Are you a size 30″ inseem? Are you xxxs? Are you size XXL with a 32″ waist? Is your hair blond? Are you a true blond? Are you a fake blond? Are you both? Do you shave your head? Why do wear such a long beard? Why do your wear a moustache? Do you have grey hair? Is it real or fake? Do you have a cat or a dog? Do you cringe in a movie when the dog almost gets hit then shrug it off when a man dies, just some screen filler?
My point is this: she may have worn black like her soul, but what you wear or any descriptive aspect about you is a terrible comparison for a soul. Though it be black, and dark, and dank, and poisoned; a soul is the essence of a human being. And if you’d like to say it didn’t matter because her heart was gold. Many men have been led astray by gold. Perhaps, she just had the Midas touch from a golden heart. Or maybe her heart was turned to gold by someone or something that had the golden touch; And even if you are as good as gold, you know what they say: the road to hell is paved with good intentions. So, her heart was not much good being gold, when a black soul like shale came apart layer by layer; and chipping down past the smoke and filthy intentions, we found a tiny chip that made her worth saving; because she was a person who loved and was loved; so deeply, she found redemption.