Comments Posted By skids

Displaying 1 To 18 Of 18 Comments

lodge

It nestled in the crook of a small hill’s elbow, a valley that was covered in white cherry blossom in spring, and snow in the winter months. This lodge was to be my home.

» Posted By skids On 05.23.2012 @ 3:29 pm

shorthand

We speak in shorthand: a slight turn away shows irritation; a sigh signals need; silence says ‘No’.

» Posted By skids On 05.08.2012 @ 3:40 pm

tasting

Something new, something slightly dangerous. Salt on the tip of the tongue, firm tender flesh – the temptation to nibble, to bite, irresistable.

» Posted By skids On 05.07.2012 @ 1:19 pm

hallowed

Bowed in awe, the flowers receive the rain. Their parched desperate roots, running thin and long beneath the cracked soil, drink in the hallowed water; the petals cry their thanks, their golds and reds and blues reflected in the rainbow haloing the sky.

» Posted By skids On 04.30.2012 @ 2:17 pm

hood

Was it to hide herself from the world, or the world from her? No one who saw the outlandish oversized hood the tiny girl always wore could but wonder. Those more discerning observers turned the question around and wondered whether that garish, unsettling red was not instead to draw something towards her, to satiate the curiosity: who was behind the hood?

» Posted By skids On 04.04.2012 @ 11:28 am

catcher

He sneaks. There is no way to hide his trade: his shadow precedes him, and his only hope is to hunt at night. His net held before him, throbbing lightly as though alive when scenting flesh, he stalks the streets.

» Posted By skids On 03.27.2012 @ 4:08 pm

drifting

directionless wordless impotent screaming she. where sentence thought begin?

» Posted By skids On 03.26.2012 @ 4:04 pm

In stasis, as in water, suspended. It’s as though time has stopped down here; I eddy and flow with the current. Yet up there, through a glass darkly, time moves. How do I cut the cords?

» Posted By skids On 03.26.2012 @ 4:02 pm

ratings

In the plus column: you’re kind and pretty, introduce me to music I might never have heard of; I trust you; we know each other like blind fingers know faces. In the minus column: we don’t talk anymore; your face is a statue; your back like granite as I shiver at night.

» Posted By skids On 03.20.2012 @ 11:14 am

pageant

A paegeant was got up to celebrate the final equality of women – even though it had all been over years ago, of course. People in painted masks did absurd sketches of times when women were gaudily dressed in crippling heels and pencil skirts; musicians parodied songs in which girls begged for boys’s attention. Everyone laughed.

» Posted By skids On 03.19.2012 @ 5:38 pm

pastel

Washed out. That’s how he saw pastel colours. They simply weren’t for him: he liked life painted loud and bright.

» Posted By skids On 03.16.2012 @ 3:26 pm

belief

What belief system could have led to this? wondered the king as he traversed the unnatural stone floors of this alien city. Trees were being strangled: they had to force their way through unyielding rock to make their home.

» Posted By skids On 03.12.2012 @ 4:53 pm

recycle

I go over the same routines, recycling the same emotions and excuses. First, the emptiness and hollow feeling of failure. Swifly after swoops in hope, rejuvenation, enery – I plan industriously. Next procrastination slopes in, half-apologetic, half-defensive: it’s different this time, there really is a reason. Then despair, fear – it will not be done. I’m back to failure.

» Posted By skids On 03.11.2012 @ 4:49 pm

demonstration

It was her first time. She held her placard aloft, and it shone hot and white. Its message burned her, and the heat radiated like love.

» Posted By skids On 03.07.2012 @ 1:52 pm

swing

Hokey-cokey, hold hands, spin, swing. The music charges the mess of legs and arms and charms them into a harmony. The song stops. As the strains of the slow number seep outwards, the sea of joyful limbs retreats, leaving the few: in love, proud or desperate.

» Posted By skids On 03.06.2012 @ 11:18 am

town

It rose out of the sand like a mirage – could it be possible? Here, in the wastelands, were the unmistakable signs of civilsation. The dust shifted uneasily in the hot, sluggish wind.

» Posted By skids On 03.05.2012 @ 10:36 am

sweat

She runs. It hurts. She hurts. Sweat covers her in a fine sheen. She tells herself all that is bad in her is leaving her in that clear moisture, being taken from her by the wind that slices past .

» Posted By skids On 03.04.2012 @ 5:20 am

weave

The threads link together smoothly, seams disappearing, colours blurring, becoming whole. She sits calmly, her fingers always moving, dragging the unwilling individuals into the required pattern.

» Posted By skids On 03.03.2012 @ 6:48 am

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