Their love was covered by a thick layer of plaster. She reminisced about the days when everything was clear, when there were no cracks in the foundation. It seemed so long ago that they didn’t need anything to keep them from falling apart. She remembered when they were in love instead of trying to be in love.
The room must have been white once. Long ago. Not a generation ago. Not even a century ago. Maybe a thousand years ago. No, he thought with a deeper glance at the urine-yellow stains on the dingy gray plaster, make that maybe two thousand years ago. Someone had strung up a bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling though, so at least he could see all the detail in the room. Not that it helped the aesthetics. The light was as yellow as the walls. This must be what it’s like to stand in the middle of a pub’s urinal bowl at last call, he thought.
i ran down the halll and neraly tripped over the small mat hat stood before the door. my finger was covered in the rich,sticky liquid running down the front of my hand, i pulled open the small tap and jabbed my hand under the icy cold water. i saw the water mix with the red of the blood and swiftly move down the sink towards the small hole.
after i cleaned everything up, i got a small bandaid from the cabinit above and plastered it on my finger.
This was it; the moment for which he’d been waiting.
With utmost concentration and focus, he stepped forward and took to the podium.
“Hello Mr. Edwards,” boomed the disembodied voice of the Überkopf.
“What is the word, Mr. Edwards?”
For a moment, he hesitated.
“Seven seconds remaining. Five seconds.
… The word, Mr. Edwards. What is the word?”
“The word? … Plaster. Plaster! The word is plaster,” he declared, in a voice toned with a mix of enthusiasm and mortal dread.
He had to have gotten it right — his very life depended upon it.
“Penalty for Mr. Edwards.”
“What?!”
“Penalty for Mr. Edwards.”
“No! … I got it right, didn’t I?”
“Plaster. The word is, plaster.”
“Yes! That’s what I said! Plaster! I said plaster!!”
Bewilderment turned to dismay when, at last, he noticed the broken cable. … The broken microphone cable! His ruthless competitors had cut the microphone cable! … The Überkopf and the Committee had not heard a single word that he had said!!!
“Penalty for Mr. Edwards!”
“No! Nooooo!!” he shouted, but to no avail. His fate had been decreed, and doom was now certain.
The podium shuddered. The walls began to shake. The entire chamber quaked, and finally collapsed. The last thing he saw was the plaster falling from the ceiling; and then, darkness.
I love the idea that plaster of paris can be. You can structure anything from it. A face, hands, skin…anything you possibly set your mind to. The only thing you can never create from plaster of paris is life. I want to become a feeling that can radiate within the skin of a statue that is made from the same plaster…I want to be the life that is breathed into it and then live my life as a pristine version of myself.
I love the idea that plaster of paris is as white as white can be. You can structure anything from it. A face, hands, skin…anything you possibly set your mind to. The only thing you can never create from plaster of paris is life. I want to become a feeling that can radiate within the skin of a statue that is made from the same plaster…I want to be the life that is breathed into it and then live my life as a pristine version of myself.
rouge plastered across her cheeks and a thin film of silk bound across her lips. she is his. she is perfect. she is silent. she is his. and nobody else’s.
The leak in her roof was getting worse and worse with each rain. The plaster inside on the ceiling was beginning to fall in big pieces, and now she had a child’s wading pool under it to catch the water.
Plaster your hopes and reams on the wall for all to see. In big letters, nice and proud. Maybe someone will appreciate your guts. It’d be like sending out a telekinetic message to all of exactly what lies in your heart, but making it one way, so that you’ll never know what they said back exactly. You’d be blissfully ignorant of their opinions, but still able to air everything out and be free. Who gets that? So would you have the courage? To throw everything out there and into the open? Would you be that one to make the statement , without audibly having to say it, that you don’t care. Would that be you. Is that you? Will it someday be you? Just a penny for your thoughts. I hope you feel they’re worth enough to share them. Your life and dreams mauy never be as completely and fully understood by anyone but you. But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t try to share them anyway.
The house maker slathered the putty onto the wall in a frantic dash–his boss would be back soon, only to see that he’d slacked off and not done the job right. If he hurried, he hoped, he could fix the mistakes he had put in place. With a fever he put the paste onto the surface and tried to smooth over it without causing a great distraction.
Plaster is a foundation. It supports and holds together. It holds the house’s walls together, and holds someone’s broken arm. We could be the house and the world is the plaster. That is how important a foundation is to us.
Plaster holds up as if it is the foundation. It is like the air we breathe or the water we drink. Plaster supposedly supports us and holds everything together. We are the house, and all the world’s organisms and everythingness is the plaster. And that is what plaster can offer us.
Plaster holds up as if it is the foundation. It is like the air we breathe or the water we drink. Plaster supposedly supports us and holds everything together. We are the house, and all the world’s organisms and everythingness is the plaster. And that is what plaster can offer us.
Plaster can be so many things. It holds the walls, acts as the foundation. It could like the bones of your body, but more like the little layer that lies next to your bones. There may not be any layer but lets just imagine there is. That is why imagination is so fun. Because these things can exist in our minds even if they do not in real life. Imagination is also plaster.
He sat glowering at the plaster cast. It was scrawled with jokes, wishes for a speedy recovery and his best friends’ names. They had made much of him for a day or two, when he’d returned to school after the accident, but they’d been quick to forget him when he couldn’t keep up.
Near the plaster walls there was a little toy doll. A young boy with red cheeks and a crazy smile like in the Colgate commercial. Nobody noticed him until one day a little girl lost her football in the surrounding area. It was her birthday and he didn’t forget about it.
A plaster, master stuck on your finger.
Let me draw it off, let me peel it off – let me see your wound.
I promise it won’t hurt, I promise you need not worry.
I promise your red blood is, in fact, blue.
Walls, if you wave a meterstick the wrong way the wall caves in, and a scree of white triangular flakes settles on the carpet, you taste dust in your mouth. Bob tried to put the big triangular piece back in, but it didn’t fit anymore. He got some tape but now it dangled there accusingly. Grandma would be too nearsighted to notice, but his mom would be mad, you think your grandma’s house is a playground?
The plaster was peeling off the walls throughout the old, dilapidated structure that once was her childhood home. The wallpaper had long since curled away and rotted off the high walls in the house. In a corner adjacent to a short closet door she noticed that where the plaster had crumbled off the wall was something that looked like newsprint. Old, yellowed with age and probably cigar smoke, it was set between plastic film which must have been intended to preserve the paper. It was a new york newspaper dated February 14, 1921. Her grandfather and a man named “Lucky” were photographed together at a fundraiser gala for needy children. They each held a snifter of cognac in one hand and a cigar in the other; a candid shot of them in a conversation, they were smiling with certain awareness of the cameras, but there was a very familiar expression on her grandfather’s face which she recognized as a child when he was on one of his “important” phone calls. She chipped at the plaster some to remove the newspaper. She put it in a large envelope and placed it in her briefcase. She reached in her pocket for her phone and dialed the number tattooed on her left wrist. “Yeah, it’s me. Meet me at our spot in an hour. Alone. And don’t be late this time. Capice?”
plaster is important. Plaster is not only to mend wound. Plaster can be used to build new relationship. To make it stronger. There’s just no negativity about it. If its seen in a different point of view, there’s positivism as well. Plaster sticks and heals.
plastered. plaster of paris. strips from Michael’s. Vaseline smeared shine across the silky chubby cheeks of children eager to undergo the experiment. Willing to put their face in my hands, to plaster and smooth. water in a bowl, dip the white gauze mummy strips.
His fist met my face, sending me crashing to the floor. A beat of silence before he turned to face me, his eyes wild and cold like the White Wood in winter. He thought to scare me with it, I knew, but I was BORN in that cold; how could I ever fear its’ icy stare? “How DARE you speak to me like some common dog!” he spat, wiping at the sweat which had plastered his greasy hair to his forehead. “I am a man of the North and you will remember your place, bitch.”
I stood slowly, pressing the back of my hand to my lip and watching as the skin came away bloody. “You…are no MAN.” I snarled, my eyes flashing yellow as the anger burned hot in my blood. “But I…I AM a bitch. One who boasts the purest blood this side of the White. And it is you-” my breath caught as my back arched, muscles clenching and bones cracking beneath my skin. “Who will remember your place.”
I walked slowly through the abandoned mansion. Cautious, unsure of what I would fine.
Termites had ate through the flooring long ago, stones had been shaken from their foundation by natural disaster, and the plaster fell from overhead.
Yet it was the stench of death that caught me so off guard. Surely my family would have buried their dead before fleeing the Knights.
“Stay where you are!” a manly voice ordered from behind. I felt a prick at my neck and didn’t dare move a muscle. Knowing very well that the man who held the dagger would not stop it from cutting my life short.
I had to copy paste and embellish. It was an easy job but I couldn’t help feeling like I was lying to someone even though I full heartily believed in the information delegated to me. I still wasn’t sure hiding his jail time was a good move.
I stood there, watching the man plaster obnoxious posters across every open surface. “Help” is all it read, I could not understand why this man was doing what he was but I watched. All I did was watch.
I’m against the wall; beginning to blend into the lies that coat these truths slipping out of my mouth faster than I can control. If I keep them coming then I won’t have to see the crumpling of reality.
plastering our adventures
on the white, clean walls of your bedroom,
smoothing them until they are flat and malleable.
“do you think we will remember these forever?”
she asks, her fingers trailing down my arm to my wrist.
“I hope not,” I say, grasping her hand in mine.
“I sincerely hope not.”
This used to be used to make casts that would heal broken arms but now the casts are made from new fangled synthetic stuff. It is harder to sign the new casts and harder to heal.
Plaster can build up foundation. Or if you are buried in it, can suffocate you. It is up to you whether you let walls keep you. Don’t feel trapped. Plaster isn’t that powerful. Unless you allow it to be.
Plaster can build up foundation. Or if you are buried in it, can suffocate you. It is up to you whether you let walls keep you. Don’t feel trapped. Plaster isn’t that powerful.
The plaster wall was painted…red. Jonathan had said earlier that the room had been painted this afternoon and that it would be dry by now; but it wasn’t. The red still dripped down the once empty wall, like raindrops on a windshield. It smelled like rust and salt. Wrong, somehow. My ears began to pulse and my head was throbbing in time with each footstep that Jonathan took towards me.
*Thump*
*Thump*
*Thump*
*Thump*
*Thump*
Silence.
“Your mother’s blood,” Jonathan whispered in my ear as his fingers began to slowly dance their way down my spine and around my waist. The feel of his warm breath against my skin, in my ear…
Bile rose to my mouth, burning my throat as I opened it in an attempt to scream. But all that could come out was…
Their love was covered by a thick layer of plaster. She reminisced about the days when everything was clear, when there were no cracks in the foundation. It seemed so long ago that they didn’t need anything to keep them from falling apart. She remembered when they were in love instead of trying to be in love.
The room must have been white once. Long ago. Not a generation ago. Not even a century ago. Maybe a thousand years ago. No, he thought with a deeper glance at the urine-yellow stains on the dingy gray plaster, make that maybe two thousand years ago. Someone had strung up a bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling though, so at least he could see all the detail in the room. Not that it helped the aesthetics. The light was as yellow as the walls. This must be what it’s like to stand in the middle of a pub’s urinal bowl at last call, he thought.
i ran down the halll and neraly tripped over the small mat hat stood before the door. my finger was covered in the rich,sticky liquid running down the front of my hand, i pulled open the small tap and jabbed my hand under the icy cold water. i saw the water mix with the red of the blood and swiftly move down the sink towards the small hole.
after i cleaned everything up, i got a small bandaid from the cabinit above and plastered it on my finger.
This was it; the moment for which he’d been waiting.
With utmost concentration and focus, he stepped forward and took to the podium.
“Hello Mr. Edwards,” boomed the disembodied voice of the Überkopf.
“What is the word, Mr. Edwards?”
For a moment, he hesitated.
“Seven seconds remaining. Five seconds.
… The word, Mr. Edwards. What is the word?”
“The word? … Plaster. Plaster! The word is plaster,” he declared, in a voice toned with a mix of enthusiasm and mortal dread.
He had to have gotten it right — his very life depended upon it.
“Penalty for Mr. Edwards.”
“What?!”
“Penalty for Mr. Edwards.”
“No! … I got it right, didn’t I?”
“Plaster. The word is, plaster.”
“Yes! That’s what I said! Plaster! I said plaster!!”
Bewilderment turned to dismay when, at last, he noticed the broken cable. … The broken microphone cable! His ruthless competitors had cut the microphone cable! … The Überkopf and the Committee had not heard a single word that he had said!!!
“Penalty for Mr. Edwards!”
“No! Nooooo!!” he shouted, but to no avail. His fate had been decreed, and doom was now certain.
The podium shuddered. The walls began to shake. The entire chamber quaked, and finally collapsed. The last thing he saw was the plaster falling from the ceiling; and then, darkness.
I love the idea that plaster of paris can be. You can structure anything from it. A face, hands, skin…anything you possibly set your mind to. The only thing you can never create from plaster of paris is life. I want to become a feeling that can radiate within the skin of a statue that is made from the same plaster…I want to be the life that is breathed into it and then live my life as a pristine version of myself.
I love the idea that plaster of paris is as white as white can be. You can structure anything from it. A face, hands, skin…anything you possibly set your mind to. The only thing you can never create from plaster of paris is life. I want to become a feeling that can radiate within the skin of a statue that is made from the same plaster…I want to be the life that is breathed into it and then live my life as a pristine version of myself.
rouge plastered across her cheeks and a thin film of silk bound across her lips. she is his. she is perfect. she is silent. she is his. and nobody else’s.
The leak in her roof was getting worse and worse with each rain. The plaster inside on the ceiling was beginning to fall in big pieces, and now she had a child’s wading pool under it to catch the water.
he should’ve stayed in the marble.
Plaster your hopes and reams on the wall for all to see. In big letters, nice and proud. Maybe someone will appreciate your guts. It’d be like sending out a telekinetic message to all of exactly what lies in your heart, but making it one way, so that you’ll never know what they said back exactly. You’d be blissfully ignorant of their opinions, but still able to air everything out and be free. Who gets that? So would you have the courage? To throw everything out there and into the open? Would you be that one to make the statement , without audibly having to say it, that you don’t care. Would that be you. Is that you? Will it someday be you? Just a penny for your thoughts. I hope you feel they’re worth enough to share them. Your life and dreams mauy never be as completely and fully understood by anyone but you. But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t try to share them anyway.
The house maker slathered the putty onto the wall in a frantic dash–his boss would be back soon, only to see that he’d slacked off and not done the job right. If he hurried, he hoped, he could fix the mistakes he had put in place. With a fever he put the paste onto the surface and tried to smooth over it without causing a great distraction.
No. You can’t sign it, I have all the words from you I’ll ever need, now you want to own my broken arm?
Plaster is a foundation. It supports and holds together. It holds the house’s walls together, and holds someone’s broken arm. We could be the house and the world is the plaster. That is how important a foundation is to us.
Plaster holds up as if it is the foundation. It is like the air we breathe or the water we drink. Plaster supposedly supports us and holds everything together. We are the house, and all the world’s organisms and everythingness is the plaster. And that is what plaster can offer us.
Plaster holds up as if it is the foundation. It is like the air we breathe or the water we drink. Plaster supposedly supports us and holds everything together. We are the house, and all the world’s organisms and everythingness is the plaster. And that is what plaster can offer us.
Plaster can be so many things. It holds the walls, acts as the foundation. It could like the bones of your body, but more like the little layer that lies next to your bones. There may not be any layer but lets just imagine there is. That is why imagination is so fun. Because these things can exist in our minds even if they do not in real life. Imagination is also plaster.
He sat glowering at the plaster cast. It was scrawled with jokes, wishes for a speedy recovery and his best friends’ names. They had made much of him for a day or two, when he’d returned to school after the accident, but they’d been quick to forget him when he couldn’t keep up.
Near the plaster walls there was a little toy doll. A young boy with red cheeks and a crazy smile like in the Colgate commercial. Nobody noticed him until one day a little girl lost her football in the surrounding area. It was her birthday and he didn’t forget about it.
A plaster, master stuck on your finger.
Let me draw it off, let me peel it off – let me see your wound.
I promise it won’t hurt, I promise you need not worry.
I promise your red blood is, in fact, blue.
a sticker
Walls, if you wave a meterstick the wrong way the wall caves in, and a scree of white triangular flakes settles on the carpet, you taste dust in your mouth. Bob tried to put the big triangular piece back in, but it didn’t fit anymore. He got some tape but now it dangled there accusingly. Grandma would be too nearsighted to notice, but his mom would be mad, you think your grandma’s house is a playground?
It was an old man’s peeling face on all four walls, focussing on the centre of the room; facing me.
Smile, nod, laugh, wiggle, yell, shake, light tap, repeat
Smile, nod, blink, tilt head, yell, clap, palm on back, repeat.
Smile, laugh, chuckle, yell, squint, hold hands, pretend, repeat.
The plaster was peeling off the walls throughout the old, dilapidated structure that once was her childhood home. The wallpaper had long since curled away and rotted off the high walls in the house. In a corner adjacent to a short closet door she noticed that where the plaster had crumbled off the wall was something that looked like newsprint. Old, yellowed with age and probably cigar smoke, it was set between plastic film which must have been intended to preserve the paper. It was a new york newspaper dated February 14, 1921. Her grandfather and a man named “Lucky” were photographed together at a fundraiser gala for needy children. They each held a snifter of cognac in one hand and a cigar in the other; a candid shot of them in a conversation, they were smiling with certain awareness of the cameras, but there was a very familiar expression on her grandfather’s face which she recognized as a child when he was on one of his “important” phone calls. She chipped at the plaster some to remove the newspaper. She put it in a large envelope and placed it in her briefcase. She reached in her pocket for her phone and dialed the number tattooed on her left wrist. “Yeah, it’s me. Meet me at our spot in an hour. Alone. And don’t be late this time. Capice?”
The stagnant water was cupped in his hand. Wrinkling his nose, he used the foul-smelling liquid to plaster back the flyaway strands of his dark hair.
plaster is important. Plaster is not only to mend wound. Plaster can be used to build new relationship. To make it stronger. There’s just no negativity about it. If its seen in a different point of view, there’s positivism as well. Plaster sticks and heals.
plastered. plaster of paris. strips from Michael’s. Vaseline smeared shine across the silky chubby cheeks of children eager to undergo the experiment. Willing to put their face in my hands, to plaster and smooth. water in a bowl, dip the white gauze mummy strips.
Pieces of it lay strewn about the bedsheets. She put down the hammer as he wept. Her breaths came fast and short.
His fist met my face, sending me crashing to the floor. A beat of silence before he turned to face me, his eyes wild and cold like the White Wood in winter. He thought to scare me with it, I knew, but I was BORN in that cold; how could I ever fear its’ icy stare? “How DARE you speak to me like some common dog!” he spat, wiping at the sweat which had plastered his greasy hair to his forehead. “I am a man of the North and you will remember your place, bitch.”
I stood slowly, pressing the back of my hand to my lip and watching as the skin came away bloody. “You…are no MAN.” I snarled, my eyes flashing yellow as the anger burned hot in my blood. “But I…I AM a bitch. One who boasts the purest blood this side of the White. And it is you-” my breath caught as my back arched, muscles clenching and bones cracking beneath my skin. “Who will remember your place.”
I walked slowly through the abandoned mansion. Cautious, unsure of what I would fine.
Termites had ate through the flooring long ago, stones had been shaken from their foundation by natural disaster, and the plaster fell from overhead.
Yet it was the stench of death that caught me so off guard. Surely my family would have buried their dead before fleeing the Knights.
“Stay where you are!” a manly voice ordered from behind. I felt a prick at my neck and didn’t dare move a muscle. Knowing very well that the man who held the dagger would not stop it from cutting my life short.
I had to copy paste and embellish. It was an easy job but I couldn’t help feeling like I was lying to someone even though I full heartily believed in the information delegated to me. I still wasn’t sure hiding his jail time was a good move.
I stood there, watching the man plaster obnoxious posters across every open surface. “Help” is all it read, I could not understand why this man was doing what he was but I watched. All I did was watch.
I’m against the wall; beginning to blend into the lies that coat these truths slipping out of my mouth faster than I can control. If I keep them coming then I won’t have to see the crumpling of reality.
plastering our adventures
on the white, clean walls of your bedroom,
smoothing them until they are flat and malleable.
“do you think we will remember these forever?”
she asks, her fingers trailing down my arm to my wrist.
“I hope not,” I say, grasping her hand in mine.
“I sincerely hope not.”
My heart is plastered to yours. with super glue. no taking it off now hehe
plaster my thoughts along the wall
splatter my soul onto the tile
unbottle my fears from the jar
and throw me off the bridge
This used to be used to make casts that would heal broken arms but now the casts are made from new fangled synthetic stuff. It is harder to sign the new casts and harder to heal.
Plaster can build up foundation. Or if you are buried in it, can suffocate you. It is up to you whether you let walls keep you. Don’t feel trapped. Plaster isn’t that powerful. Unless you allow it to be.
Plaster can build up foundation. Or if you are buried in it, can suffocate you. It is up to you whether you let walls keep you. Don’t feel trapped. Plaster isn’t that powerful.
The plaster wall was painted…red. Jonathan had said earlier that the room had been painted this afternoon and that it would be dry by now; but it wasn’t. The red still dripped down the once empty wall, like raindrops on a windshield. It smelled like rust and salt. Wrong, somehow. My ears began to pulse and my head was throbbing in time with each footstep that Jonathan took towards me.
*Thump*
*Thump*
*Thump*
*Thump*
*Thump*
Silence.
“Your mother’s blood,” Jonathan whispered in my ear as his fingers began to slowly dance their way down my spine and around my waist. The feel of his warm breath against my skin, in my ear…
Bile rose to my mouth, burning my throat as I opened it in an attempt to scream. But all that could come out was…
“Our mother’s, you mean”.