quietwings
The flannel colored man with wooden arms drunk and drunk and drunk inside that pub. He laughed, he cried, he sat in stony aloneness.
A waterfall of mud rained out of the mop, her delicate child's fingers slowly turned brown with the soot she tried to wash away.
I touched the satin lining of the feather comforter, revelling in it's luxuriousness. I ran my fingers along the strands of thread woven together to create the smoothest of surfaces, shining in the new morning light.
Train tracks twisted and turned in my mind. Steel thoughts banged against the walls, others shooting forward, trying to deflect them. Newton's Cradles clicked and clacked loudly, a clock's needles fell backward and forward, twirling eastward and westward. Brassy golden cars swerved across my thought process, carrying ideas and plans and blueprints from place to place. Occasionally one would stray and leave my mind, leaving an empty space for a new car to take. Dark marbled wrecking balls swung wildly in my brain, crushing certain concepts, while lifting others upwards to my mouth to speak of.
Glassy bottled beakers are reveling in sunlight from a tilted window nearby. Thick green gels ooze up to the top, bubbly purple spritz spurts from a wavering froth, a sticky white gum bursts with one resounding pop, sending gobs of steamy material clinging to the walls.
The fizzy liquid sloshed into the cool glass cup. The shiny surface of the grape soda swirled around in it, bubbles zooming like magic across the top. The deep indigo color, glittering with silver foam, washed into the chalice. It made a happy sound, a quiet tinkling, a sparkling, a frothy, whispering sputter.
She flew down, her vibrant blue feathers ruffling in the breeze which warned of storm winds. She looked down and landed on her branch, her home. The twigs twirled in the air, the brown disheveled surface sticking every which way. She sat tall in her nest, and got ready to lay her first egg.
She sat at the counter, legs swinging under, her skirt falling daintily down over the stool. She held her face in her hands, batting her long, black eyelashes at the waiter in front of her. He winked and slid an ice cream sundae towards her, topped with everything in the house. Oh, how she wished to chat with him.
My hands shook like the inside of gelatin, shaking and moving jerkily. I stepped over the twisted tree trunk and slowly climbed the rope ladder. I closed my eyes, groping for the notches in the bark. My mind whirred with images of falling, of dying, of screaming. I pushed them aside and continued up. At the edge, I squared my feet and let go. I flew.
The four girls recited their poem. "Blossoms and Bluebells, Peonies and Pansies, Girls of the Garden, tending petals with mirth, Girls of the Garden, sowing the earth." Each took the other's hands and nodded heads at the smallest member who accepted the club treaty earnestly.
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