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tangerine. it is orange and it stings when it gets under the skin and into the cuts on your fingertips. the tambourine, however, chimes and dings; its pitch matches mine when the stinging pain registers in my brain and I scream.
By Angel L. on 09.11.2014
I used to own a tambourine. It was made out of wood. I used to hit it all the time. The jingles, they pleased me. Then they left. And my whole world changed. I still have a tambourine, but the jingles are no longer pleasing to me.
By Yoghurt on 09.11.2014
The truth was I missed Geordie. His infatuation with Heather had put a stop to our afternoon trips down to Whaley. I hadn’t seen him for weeks when he swanned in just after dinner all starry eyes and smug.
“Don’t you reckon she’s gorgeous? I mean she is hot an all, and I mean HOT, but there’s just something about her. She’s so cool. Mysterious ya know? She kinda believes in witchcraft and she studies all these old books. She plays the guitar and the tambourine…”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
By bb333 on 09.11.2014
I don’t know what possessed her to join a circus as the new girl. But they let her join, dressed her in turquoise silks adorn with little silver bells, and named her Udine. She learned the cobra dance. A flip of the wrist for every swivel in the waist came across a lot like jingling a cup for coins the way she worked the crowds each night. And every so often for good measure an accentuated pop on the hip emphasized the beat. One hip, one pop. Two hips: pop, pop. But when she looks into the crowd, half appear entranced and the other half seem at the edge of their seats for each twirl in place reveals another piece of silk has been slipped off and discarded. And it’s not long till all that’s heard is the hypnotic rhythm of a solitary tambourine.
By Intuition on 09.11.2014
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.