Just what ever it is i dont care. It reminds me of the colour yellow doesn’t it? It reminds me of well….. i don’t know. Is it a colur? I’m not sure. Probably a game. huh? Huh?
I am one ignorant mother fucker. See ombre, think hombre. Look up ombre, realize I’m retarded. Self-deprecating, ignorant, retarded mother fucker. Just keep swimming.
The relationship fell apart over a game of ombre. She was simply looking at the cards before her when he uttered the fateful words: “I think we should see other people.”
Ombre. Man. Male. A word that describes 50% of the world, and doesn’t describe it at all. It means as much as tall, and as little. It’s a loaded word in any language, but all it does is describe. Plain, dappled, ochre, plump. Rich and meaningless.
Her ombre hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall. One piece wrapped around her index finger, she constantly twirled it, for she was nervous. It was a habit of hers that she had picked up over time, not being able to drop it.
I think I’ve seen enough of your tricks,
been played in enough of your games.
You may be the king of hearts, but someday
I’ll have something up my sleeve.
This wasn’t the first time she’d gone through with it. It was instinctual, satisfying, overwhelming so much that she craved another. A new look, a new feeling, a new person.
She spins the chair around and I stare at an unfamiliar face in the mirror. Well, she’s not completely alien to me. Her face is mine: green almond eyes, slightly flat nose, high cheek bones with a little too much chub around them for my taste and sharp eyebrows. But her ebony hair is parted a more on the right than the left and flows down in sweeping waves. The bottom of her hair has a light brown ombre.
Autumn tilts her head to the side in the reflection, judging her work. “I like it – brings out your eyes more,” she says then spins me around again. “Make-up time!” Oh no.
Ombre is a spanish word I think, and I think it means man. I realy dont like Spanish ever since Middle school. I had to take it for four years with a teacher and it was horrible and we didnt learn anything at all. We mostly just fooled around all class
Her hair was ombre this time. Natural(well, for her) looking red fading into blonde. It had waffled between purple and blue for a while, and was pink at one point. But, the pink hadn’t lasted long because she reminded herself of a naked mole rat. Not sure how that was even possible, but it happened.
they all had ombre hair
those bitches
the skinny ones with the big boobs
and the catty eyes
and the pale skin
and the red lips
and the grating laughs
behind their lies
so false
so fake
so so so
they all had ombre hair
those bitches
the skinny ones with the big boobs
When she speaks of him, her voice is the gentle fade of green to blue; lively yet calm in a way he can feel to his bones. When she speaks of the past, he hears red fading to black. And though he can no longer see her, she paints murals in his mind that he never wants to erase.
He always liked my hair when it was ombre. I did too but someone it enhanced our relationship. His kisses were stronger and fuller and I laughed louder at his jokes.
He is a wraith, floating with deathly grim in his brimstone eyes. He lives within each man on this earth, and despite his ferocity there is a deep, primal beauty cut into the hard, granite lines of his accursed face. Ombre. Shadow. Those who live in the shadows eventually become shadows themselves.
The girl in front of me in chemistry class had just came in with an ombre. I didn’t think much of it until everyone began to acknowledge it more than usual. Her hair was thick and straight, which made it easier to blush her hair in the morning. I was always concerned for her health because every month or so , she would come in with a new hair color. It always made me shrivel up on the inside and make me cringe. But, finally, one day i decided to speak to her,and the first thing i did was compliment her on her hair…
Ombre. She had heard the word before, but only had a vague recollection. She sighed. She looked up at the teacher. He had a blank look on his face. Begrudgingly, she looked back down at the test paper lying on her desk and gave the next question a try.
Yo my ombre! Hows it going dude?! I hate that phrase, its so clique. Why would I want to use this in a sentence, let alone a conversation? I use to be a Bad ombre.
“Brother?” A whisper slips through my silent intent.
“We’re are you?” My voice roared back against my ears, stretching my mind’s ability to maintain a sense of humanity. Cracking against my chest and pulling apart my spine, the roar sheared my spirit from my body, one fizzling cell at a time. #OneWord #ombre
“Brother? We’re are you?” My voice roared back agains my ears, stretching my mind’s ability to maintain a sense of sanity. Cracking against my chest and pulling apart my spine, the roar sheared my spirit from my body one fizzling cell at a time. #OneWord #ombre
my hair, the sky, the shirt currently on my body. its a trend thats annoying and will quickly go out of style, like most things in this world. my children will see pictures and make fun of me when am old and gray, instead of brown to blonde like it is now
my hair is not ombre but i wish it was. the girl i lived with in germany had ombre hair and she was an 18 yr old hip alcoholic and i thought she was cooler than fucking life. i wanted to be her, and i still do. ombre, hombre. is it hombre or hambre? i dont know. i think i missed that question on my spanish test today.
The moment he put the glass to his mouth, he began to sense the ombre lusciousness of the whiskey’s deep, rich flavour. It told a story as it crossed his tongue, sang a ballad as it passed his throat, and left a warm, sweet buzz on his lips like a kiss from a she-devil.
Oh yeah. From big casinos to simple card games, with or without bet. The players goals are different. Some wanted to win whatever happens and some don’t care, they just want to have fun.
Some are big spenders, some really know how to budget their money. But gambling is still gambling. Big casinos have really rich people in them playing at stakes. So many ombres everywhere. Don’t care if they lose their houses, properties, etc. They don’t care.
The moon cried,
“I cry, because of this cold sky! I’ve wept a thousand shades of plea
and painted with tears of golden greenish blue tinted a purplely pink,
A plethera of love! Now loveless without you, sweet.”
Look here, hombre, if you don’t quit circlin’ round me like a shark I’ll never crack this safe. It takes concentration suspended on silence and your footsteps are like cement shoes crunching glass, heel to toe, grinding the fragments and their dust into every wrinkle and fold of my brain. Go on, get lost. Give someone else the vulture treatment before I lose my cool and slice you up like a jelly roll and have you with a cup of tea.
An ombre of hair colors across the population of teenage girls fills pages of internet pages. We all desire to be different, to be unique and what better way to do than through the way we look?
Her hair that summer faded from deep blue to almost white in the cabin bunk, her tanned legs hanging off the side. It was her last week, school approaching in a haze of the ongoing heat wave and dying leaves.
Ombre is the perfect card game for a menage a trois. Those frisky Spainards! I didn’t know they had it in them. The French always think they’re so uninhibited and little did we know the Spainards probably are too. They just don’t talk about it.
This is the most terrible word. I can’t say /ombre/ without my mouth tasting of hair products and lilacs. Lilacs. The way I envision she smells. The flower and scent I love. The love she sucks from me and takes all for herself. Lilacs. I am the lilac. She’s picking me apart.
Shadows against the wall;
your rough kiss upon my pale forehead
aches in deep melancholic sighs.
I’m waiting right here for a few words;
words which can support, hide, begging, fascinating me,
but nothing comes.
You just lay down on your own mind.
Ombre within me.
“So…what’re you playing?”
Noting the rest of the players were intent on their respective hands, Dahlya leaned over, her lips discreetly brushing against her ear as she spoke. “Ombre, darling,”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I’ll explain later; for now, just watch,”
No one plays a game of ombre these days, and even if one tried, it will never be quite like our games. It has gotten to such a point that each of the three players have a specific name, designated toward their skills of trickery and cunning. We are, specifically, the Weasel, the Fox, and the Coyote.
I am the Coyote. I have won the last five games of ombre in a row.
The ombres rode their horses down the arroyo to where the body had lodged between two boulders the size of small houses. Arms and legs akimbo, the eyes and exposed flesh picked clean to the bone, blond hair hanging over the partial face. A red checkered flannel shirt hung in tatters, but the riding boots looked as good as new. On the corpse’s left ring finger was a silver band with a large diamond mounted prominently on top. A woman, then. Last alive on a horse near the mouth of canyon country. But if she had been caught in a flash flood during the monsoon two weeks back, where was the horse? And why had someone who could afford that ring not been reported missing, her white face all over the news? They looked at each other darkly and rode away from the scene without a word spoken. They were running late, and their cargo must arrive at exactly 2:30 a.m. in Nogales.
Spanish class was an exercise in staying engaged. A few words remain ingrained in my memory–“hombre” is one of them. Other times, my classmates would do their best to distract our instructor and derail the course of the day’s lesson.
Just what ever it is i dont care. It reminds me of the colour yellow doesn’t it? It reminds me of well….. i don’t know. Is it a colur? I’m not sure. Probably a game. huh? Huh?
I am one ignorant mother fucker. See ombre, think hombre. Look up ombre, realize I’m retarded. Self-deprecating, ignorant, retarded mother fucker. Just keep swimming.
The relationship fell apart over a game of ombre. She was simply looking at the cards before her when he uttered the fateful words: “I think we should see other people.”
Ombre. Man. Male. A word that describes 50% of the world, and doesn’t describe it at all. It means as much as tall, and as little. It’s a loaded word in any language, but all it does is describe. Plain, dappled, ochre, plump. Rich and meaningless.
Ombre, my ermano.
Three words you constantly hear when you go in Mexico.
Esta muy caliente, si?
They say and offer you tequilla.
Her ombre hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall. One piece wrapped around her index finger, she constantly twirled it, for she was nervous. It was a habit of hers that she had picked up over time, not being able to drop it.
I think I’ve seen enough of your tricks,
been played in enough of your games.
You may be the king of hearts, but someday
I’ll have something up my sleeve.
This wasn’t the first time she’d gone through with it. It was instinctual, satisfying, overwhelming so much that she craved another. A new look, a new feeling, a new person.
She spins the chair around and I stare at an unfamiliar face in the mirror. Well, she’s not completely alien to me. Her face is mine: green almond eyes, slightly flat nose, high cheek bones with a little too much chub around them for my taste and sharp eyebrows. But her ebony hair is parted a more on the right than the left and flows down in sweeping waves. The bottom of her hair has a light brown ombre.
Autumn tilts her head to the side in the reflection, judging her work. “I like it – brings out your eyes more,” she says then spins me around again. “Make-up time!” Oh no.
Ombre is a spanish word I think, and I think it means man. I realy dont like Spanish ever since Middle school. I had to take it for four years with a teacher and it was horrible and we didnt learn anything at all. We mostly just fooled around all class
Her hair was ombre this time. Natural(well, for her) looking red fading into blonde. It had waffled between purple and blue for a while, and was pink at one point. But, the pink hadn’t lasted long because she reminded herself of a naked mole rat. Not sure how that was even possible, but it happened.
they all had ombre hair
those bitches
the skinny ones with the big boobs
and the catty eyes
and the pale skin
and the red lips
and the grating laughs
behind their lies
so false
so fake
so so so
they all had ombre hair
those bitches
the skinny ones with the big boobs
When she speaks of him, her voice is the gentle fade of green to blue; lively yet calm in a way he can feel to his bones. When she speaks of the past, he hears red fading to black. And though he can no longer see her, she paints murals in his mind that he never wants to erase.
He always liked my hair when it was ombre. I did too but someone it enhanced our relationship. His kisses were stronger and fuller and I laughed louder at his jokes.
He is a wraith, floating with deathly grim in his brimstone eyes. He lives within each man on this earth, and despite his ferocity there is a deep, primal beauty cut into the hard, granite lines of his accursed face. Ombre. Shadow. Those who live in the shadows eventually become shadows themselves.
The girl in front of me in chemistry class had just came in with an ombre. I didn’t think much of it until everyone began to acknowledge it more than usual. Her hair was thick and straight, which made it easier to blush her hair in the morning. I was always concerned for her health because every month or so , she would come in with a new hair color. It always made me shrivel up on the inside and make me cringe. But, finally, one day i decided to speak to her,and the first thing i did was compliment her on her hair…
like life, ombre gets dark to light. sometimes life is dark but you have to wait and see the light. stick it out through the good times and bad.
Ombre. She had heard the word before, but only had a vague recollection. She sighed. She looked up at the teacher. He had a blank look on his face. Begrudgingly, she looked back down at the test paper lying on her desk and gave the next question a try.
Yo my ombre! Hows it going dude?! I hate that phrase, its so clique. Why would I want to use this in a sentence, let alone a conversation? I use to be a Bad ombre.
“Brother?” A whisper slips through my silent intent.
“We’re are you?” My voice roared back against my ears, stretching my mind’s ability to maintain a sense of humanity. Cracking against my chest and pulling apart my spine, the roar sheared my spirit from my body, one fizzling cell at a time. #OneWord #ombre
“Brother? We’re are you?” My voice roared back agains my ears, stretching my mind’s ability to maintain a sense of sanity. Cracking against my chest and pulling apart my spine, the roar sheared my spirit from my body one fizzling cell at a time. #OneWord #ombre
my hair, the sky, the shirt currently on my body. its a trend thats annoying and will quickly go out of style, like most things in this world. my children will see pictures and make fun of me when am old and gray, instead of brown to blonde like it is now
my hair is not ombre but i wish it was. the girl i lived with in germany had ombre hair and she was an 18 yr old hip alcoholic and i thought she was cooler than fucking life. i wanted to be her, and i still do. ombre, hombre. is it hombre or hambre? i dont know. i think i missed that question on my spanish test today.
The moment he put the glass to his mouth, he began to sense the ombre lusciousness of the whiskey’s deep, rich flavour. It told a story as it crossed his tongue, sang a ballad as it passed his throat, and left a warm, sweet buzz on his lips like a kiss from a she-devil.
Oh yeah. From big casinos to simple card games, with or without bet. The players goals are different. Some wanted to win whatever happens and some don’t care, they just want to have fun.
Some are big spenders, some really know how to budget their money. But gambling is still gambling. Big casinos have really rich people in them playing at stakes. So many ombres everywhere. Don’t care if they lose their houses, properties, etc. They don’t care.
The moon cried,
“I cry, because of this cold sky! I’ve wept a thousand shades of plea
and painted with tears of golden greenish blue tinted a purplely pink,
A plethera of love! Now loveless without you, sweet.”
Look here, hombre, if you don’t quit circlin’ round me like a shark I’ll never crack this safe. It takes concentration suspended on silence and your footsteps are like cement shoes crunching glass, heel to toe, grinding the fragments and their dust into every wrinkle and fold of my brain. Go on, get lost. Give someone else the vulture treatment before I lose my cool and slice you up like a jelly roll and have you with a cup of tea.
An ombre of hair colors across the population of teenage girls fills pages of internet pages. We all desire to be different, to be unique and what better way to do than through the way we look?
Her hair that summer faded from deep blue to almost white in the cabin bunk, her tanned legs hanging off the side. It was her last week, school approaching in a haze of the ongoing heat wave and dying leaves.
Ombre is the perfect card game for a menage a trois. Those frisky Spainards! I didn’t know they had it in them. The French always think they’re so uninhibited and little did we know the Spainards probably are too. They just don’t talk about it.
This is the most terrible word. I can’t say /ombre/ without my mouth tasting of hair products and lilacs. Lilacs. The way I envision she smells. The flower and scent I love. The love she sucks from me and takes all for herself. Lilacs. I am the lilac. She’s picking me apart.
Shadows against the wall;
your rough kiss upon my pale forehead
aches in deep melancholic sighs.
I’m waiting right here for a few words;
words which can support, hide, begging, fascinating me,
but nothing comes.
You just lay down on your own mind.
Ombre within me.
“So…what’re you playing?”
Noting the rest of the players were intent on their respective hands, Dahlya leaned over, her lips discreetly brushing against her ear as she spoke. “Ombre, darling,”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I’ll explain later; for now, just watch,”
No one plays a game of ombre these days, and even if one tried, it will never be quite like our games. It has gotten to such a point that each of the three players have a specific name, designated toward their skills of trickery and cunning. We are, specifically, the Weasel, the Fox, and the Coyote.
I am the Coyote. I have won the last five games of ombre in a row.
I don’t want to change, but I’m afraid I already have.
The ombres rode their horses down the arroyo to where the body had lodged between two boulders the size of small houses. Arms and legs akimbo, the eyes and exposed flesh picked clean to the bone, blond hair hanging over the partial face. A red checkered flannel shirt hung in tatters, but the riding boots looked as good as new. On the corpse’s left ring finger was a silver band with a large diamond mounted prominently on top. A woman, then. Last alive on a horse near the mouth of canyon country. But if she had been caught in a flash flood during the monsoon two weeks back, where was the horse? And why had someone who could afford that ring not been reported missing, her white face all over the news? They looked at each other darkly and rode away from the scene without a word spoken. They were running late, and their cargo must arrive at exactly 2:30 a.m. in Nogales.
Ombre My House
fading in and out
praying time catches
my fall and matches
catch my heat
create flames and
land with a bang
i
just
want
everything
to
explode
home improvement, ombre
Spanish class was an exercise in staying engaged. A few words remain ingrained in my memory–“hombre” is one of them. Other times, my classmates would do their best to distract our instructor and derail the course of the day’s lesson.