turnipcrusador

Just Until Monday-- --A Shorter Story of Daring Thoughts on a Darling Wall. "Wait." The sharp sound of the soft word pauses her, momentarily. She does not turn. He bends at the waist, delicately imprisoning a lush blade of grass between two insignificant fingers. It is torn with an unheard sigh from the velvet field of green. "Look. . ." She turns. "Look at this," he tells her, reminiscently, ''It's beautiful, really. Of all the chances. . ." A chuckle. Curiosity. "I don't understand," she says, lacking understanding, "Of all the chances of what?" "Of this!" He bursts, raising 'this' most triumphantly into an obstinate sky, "Of the r

a palette of words each a different colour the drull and lonely blue of "sorrow," coated lightly in a deep black, dusty purple ash the melting yellows of "okayness" and "glee," bubbling brightly in the center rippling gently into a tangerine orange around the soft edges the peculiar and abused colour of "love," bold lipstick melted crimson a bruised blue the colour is smeared and dragged across the palette, desperate for a rest the slight greens of "human," of "spring," and of "carrying," the painful grays of "dwelling," "lost," and "adversity," oceans of shades dripped carefully to a wooden sky a begging canvas starved for

The concept is actually based off of a fantastic poem that I once read called "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens. I dripping from the mouths of many true words. corrupt words. running through the minds of more II piercing sharp and carving deep like a swift bullet the creative destruction of words III their relationship falls apart abruptly at the lying words of their child IV a nation brought together with words a nation torn apart with words V the frightening power of words the beauty of words the impact of noises slipping in and out of lips leaving scars VI I take her bandaged heart with w