I remember her hands. They always seemed so coarse to me. I guess that was the case with farm work. People don’t understand all of what it takes. I didn’t really get it either but I didn’t mind learning, it was nice just having something to hold.
In my dream last night, I found you. Hair down. Learned your last name, you brought me to your house. There were too many other people around, coarse types, extraverted to the point of obnoxiousness. They swept me off after a while, to a tourist island
The fabric was coarse against her skin as she struggled to wake from her drugged sleep, she could hear coarse language coming from another room, shouting and swearing made her even more frightened of her situation as her fogged brain started to clear. What happened? How did she get here and who had taken her and why.
This laptop behavior is coarse. Do laptops have a behavior? And why am I blaming a bad Internet connection on my trusty laptop? I’m feeling rather coarse. Maybe it’s just time to shave. What is the opposite of coarse? Smooth? I’m in a mood and I don’t feel like writing about the word coarse. Go know.
Marisol held the coarse piece of pumice in her hand and remembered when she used to collect similar pieces on the beach as gifts for friends. Nothing better for removing dead skin from the feet, she told them … but that was back before gathering seaweed for food became more important than beach-combing for aesthetically formed pumice stones.
the feeling? how about the sound. the way my voice sounds when i’m about .3 seconds from letting everything i’ve held back, come flooding out like the dam breaking. the sound of bad news. “you’ve got 4 months to live”. it’s a sound too do not mistake it for only a feeling
Her hand ran along the familiar length of the bannister. Oh, how she had missed the little details of her family home in her year-long absence.
She stopped suddenly, puzzled at the coarse feeling beneath her fingertips.
The answering machine made her voice sound coarse, but there was no mistaking who it was. “Jojo, it’s me. I’m fine, but I need money. Can you send me a couple of thousand dollars? The English school is cutting lessons, and that other gig I’m doing panned out. And I’m gonna have to cancel my phone, so I don’t know when I can contact you again. Just send it to the same account as last time.”
Coarse. This is a word that I usually reserve for salt. But sometimes I also apply it, embarrassed, to my mother, my mother who swears and makes racist comments and talks too loudly in cafes. I love her, but sometimes she is just a little too coarse for my liking.
Her hair was coarse.
Dry as veld grass in winter, and about the same colour. I was certain it had been dyed though.
I guess it made sense.
She was dead after all.
my hair is coarse because i swim and i wish i didnt swim because i suck at it and i hate it so it ruins my hair and my life and my goddam family makes me do it but i cannot stand it anymore upon which ive considered drowning myself or harming myself because of swimming
Rough and steady
not a direction to head to or to in
a place that’s uncomfortable
sandpaper skinned to raw flesh
uncontrolled vernbage that rubs
the wrong way meant to injure
not to coersce.
I have trouble figuring out how much salt to add to stuff when it’s not “normal” salt. When it’s sea salt or coarse salt or “whatever” salt. I figure a teaspoon should still be a teaspoon, right? (actually that’s a lot… maybe 1/4 tsp.) But it’s not! I mean, I know there’s spaces between the granules etc, but… I don’t know… maybe I should start weighing my salt…
My hand crawled up to the littler hairs that tickled the back of his neck as our kiss deepened. He moaned when I tugged and twirled at the little coarse hairs. I backed away for a breathe and he started laving heated kisses down my neck. He hit the spot and I quietly moaned so my boss wouldn’t hear.
my whole life’s been coarse. i can’t complain, though, because i’m sure it’s been less awful than others. but, these last two weeks have really run over me, and i just feel short, awful and weak. and coarse.
The leather was coarse, tough and new in a way that only fresh leather could be. But it was heavy and warm and a far cry from the ragged cotton breeches and matching tunic that she’d been sporting previously.
When I see the word “Coarse” I think of salt. I once used it for a water color painting. The effect was rather beautiful. It dries the paint up and leaves a type of tie-dye impact. I strongly suggest trying it.
Rough, tough, bumpy. Slobbery, too, now that she thought of it. She always dreamed her first kiss would be neat and gentle, with soft lips and touches, maybe even a little dip in there. Not dry lips, cracked at the seams. Not a bumpy, rough tongue not quite sure what to do with itself, a stubby beard scratching at her face, nor rough hands trying to tenderly stroke her cheek. A coarse kiss.
Coarse sand pressed into the bottom of his feet but he continued walking on. Because there was no turning back time, no U-turns in life. The only way is forward and forward he goes. Deep in the the ocean, to his death.
At times, my father is coarse. He states his opinion bluntly. When I challenge him, he makes sure he gets the last word, but he has the kindest heart of any man I’ve ever known. Proof of his giving heart is on his coarse hands that have put in countless hours of work- building homes, fixing cars, saving the world. No matter how many times we disagree, no matter how many silent treatments I give , just know I love you dad and I will make you proud.
the feel of his hands were coarse against my soft, tiny ones. His were big, his pinky curling itself around my thumb, feeling the spaces in between and the lines crisscrossing pale skin. the bonfire lot our faces up yellow, adolescent acne and premature wrinkles of worry.
If I had a coarse throat, nothing would be correct. Everything would be off. It could be an ear ache or a hang nail. It doesn’t matter the source, anything wrong with the body puts the mind off.
Imprecise. That’s what I remembered; the imprecision of the sandpaper I frantically rubbed on the wood, trying hopelessly to smooth over the edges of the gift. I painted forlornly, watching the yellow smear over chips of wood peeking through.
Fighting against apathy is like scraping coarse fabric against soft skin. It tears and leaves a rash that irritates. I struggle so much with focus that it makes me want to scream. I am sitting in a public library right now, at one of those study tables, and the girl across from me has her nose in a text book and is muttering almost inaudibly to herself as she scans the words and keeps whipping out highlighters. So intensely focused. Why am I so apathetic? I can’t bring myself to care…morale has left me, tenacity is gone, left with nothing more that the sickly unimpressive desire for comfort.
The rough-hewn seat of my longing; a swirling mass of coarse fibres drowning in an ocean. I am drowning.
“I miss you” I mouth in the darkness, but the night betrays nothing of what you are doing or where you are. Neither does it transport you by my side in my dreams. It simply stretches out into an endless night of infinite possibilities; none within reach.
yes, he could be horribly coarse and rude and even cruel when he became upset over something
(and that happened more than anyone would ever care to admit)
but she didn’t mind it, at the end of the day – his actions weren’t excused, however
she just cared about him far too much to ever leave again
she’d tried once and seen the error of her ways.
Feelin’ coarse like sweet smellin’ sea salt afloat for harvest. Fleur de sel, but the mind’s an antenna with a twitchy dial. Grittiness filters in and out like memories that are over-processed. The photograph’s contrast; the way its been pixel-sharpened into a grainy time not quite forgotten. I think of the summertime sister who wants to write letters and other beautiful things: a melody, a line, a hook and a sinker, a lesson in time – clearly, the heart’s an ever wishful thinker.
His chin was coarse with stubble, the bags below his eyes sticky with syrup-like sweat. He stood over the counter with a crooked leg and a hunched back, slowly drinking from the nearly empty beer can and slurping with every sip.
I had not seen my father for over ten years, and I could tell how broken he was. Still, I pulled up a stool, waved for the bartender, and said to him gruffly, “How’s it going?”
“Of coarse”, I typed in my most professional matter. Would that be good? I wondered to myself. A few days later, when I saw a story in the paper about undereducated administrators, I understood that that would not be good, as i had just made a serious grammatical error in emailing the President’s office.
I am not sure of the meaning of the word so i am just going to go with the guess that it means something rough or a little hard to feel, unpleasant, uneasy, ummm.. tough? i am not sure what i am supposed to write. it could also be someone who speaks his mind! haha
Layta shied away from the leering gazes, relaxing faintly when she felt Shatila’s armored hand grip her shoulder. “I’m fine,” she managed, offering a tight smile.
“Fine does not have you looking like you’ve swallowed something that disagrees so terribly with you that you don’t dare look around you.” Shatila shifted to walk a little closer, settling a friendly arm around her sponsored student’s shoulders. “Remember that we’re Twilight,” she murmured. “Keep your head high.”
“Easy for you to say,” Terrance growled. “And if I told you that the blond at the end of the line over there was busy eyeing your-”
“Terrance,” Ellis said, warningly. “Shatila.” He added, a moment later for good measure. “Don’t either of you start anything that we don’t have clearance for.”
“I have clearance,” Marcus said, cheerfully. “I’ll be more than happy to okay it.”
“We are neither that desperate nor coarse in manner or method,” Master Ruge said, calmly. “Now more walking and less talking, hmm?”
The hair between my thumb and forefinger as I rub it back and forth. Back and forth. Mind fading as if hypnotized my a metronome. Lost in an existence where time does not exist and things move on without me.
I remember her hands. They always seemed so coarse to me. I guess that was the case with farm work. People don’t understand all of what it takes. I didn’t really get it either but I didn’t mind learning, it was nice just having something to hold.
In my dream last night, I found you. Hair down. Learned your last name, you brought me to your house. There were too many other people around, coarse types, extraverted to the point of obnoxiousness. They swept me off after a while, to a tourist island
coarse
The fabric was coarse against her skin as she struggled to wake from her drugged sleep, she could hear coarse language coming from another room, shouting and swearing made her even more frightened of her situation as her fogged brain started to clear. What happened? How did she get here and who had taken her and why.
Means Rough. Because we like it rough. There is no challenge if the path isn’t course. We are built and prepared for a coarse life. You hear me brah?
This laptop behavior is coarse. Do laptops have a behavior? And why am I blaming a bad Internet connection on my trusty laptop? I’m feeling rather coarse. Maybe it’s just time to shave. What is the opposite of coarse? Smooth? I’m in a mood and I don’t feel like writing about the word coarse. Go know.
Marisol held the coarse piece of pumice in her hand and remembered when she used to collect similar pieces on the beach as gifts for friends. Nothing better for removing dead skin from the feet, she told them … but that was back before gathering seaweed for food became more important than beach-combing for aesthetically formed pumice stones.
the feeling? how about the sound. the way my voice sounds when i’m about .3 seconds from letting everything i’ve held back, come flooding out like the dam breaking. the sound of bad news. “you’ve got 4 months to live”. it’s a sound too do not mistake it for only a feeling
Her hand ran along the familiar length of the bannister. Oh, how she had missed the little details of her family home in her year-long absence.
She stopped suddenly, puzzled at the coarse feeling beneath her fingertips.
Some things clearly had changed.
The answering machine made her voice sound coarse, but there was no mistaking who it was. “Jojo, it’s me. I’m fine, but I need money. Can you send me a couple of thousand dollars? The English school is cutting lessons, and that other gig I’m doing panned out. And I’m gonna have to cancel my phone, so I don’t know when I can contact you again. Just send it to the same account as last time.”
Coarse. This is a word that I usually reserve for salt. But sometimes I also apply it, embarrassed, to my mother, my mother who swears and makes racist comments and talks too loudly in cafes. I love her, but sometimes she is just a little too coarse for my liking.
Her hair was coarse.
Dry as veld grass in winter, and about the same colour. I was certain it had been dyed though.
I guess it made sense.
She was dead after all.
my hair is coarse because i swim and i wish i didnt swim because i suck at it and i hate it so it ruins my hair and my life and my goddam family makes me do it but i cannot stand it anymore upon which ive considered drowning myself or harming myself because of swimming
Rough and steady
not a direction to head to or to in
a place that’s uncomfortable
sandpaper skinned to raw flesh
uncontrolled vernbage that rubs
the wrong way meant to injure
not to coersce.
coarse…
salt?
I have trouble figuring out how much salt to add to stuff when it’s not “normal” salt. When it’s sea salt or coarse salt or “whatever” salt. I figure a teaspoon should still be a teaspoon, right? (actually that’s a lot… maybe 1/4 tsp.) But it’s not! I mean, I know there’s spaces between the granules etc, but… I don’t know… maybe I should start weighing my salt…
tough
hair
horse
rigid
coarse hair that is hard to comb through
thick
healthy, but also tangled
layers
hard to get through
My hand crawled up to the littler hairs that tickled the back of his neck as our kiss deepened. He moaned when I tugged and twirled at the little coarse hairs. I backed away for a breathe and he started laving heated kisses down my neck. He hit the spot and I quietly moaned so my boss wouldn’t hear.
my whole life’s been coarse. i can’t complain, though, because i’m sure it’s been less awful than others. but, these last two weeks have really run over me, and i just feel short, awful and weak. and coarse.
The leather was coarse, tough and new in a way that only fresh leather could be. But it was heavy and warm and a far cry from the ragged cotton breeches and matching tunic that she’d been sporting previously.
When I see the word “Coarse” I think of salt. I once used it for a water color painting. The effect was rather beautiful. It dries the paint up and leaves a type of tie-dye impact. I strongly suggest trying it.
Rough, tough, bumpy. Slobbery, too, now that she thought of it. She always dreamed her first kiss would be neat and gentle, with soft lips and touches, maybe even a little dip in there. Not dry lips, cracked at the seams. Not a bumpy, rough tongue not quite sure what to do with itself, a stubby beard scratching at her face, nor rough hands trying to tenderly stroke her cheek. A coarse kiss.
She liked reality better anyway.
Coarse sand pressed into the bottom of his feet but he continued walking on. Because there was no turning back time, no U-turns in life. The only way is forward and forward he goes. Deep in the the ocean, to his death.
At times, my father is coarse. He states his opinion bluntly. When I challenge him, he makes sure he gets the last word, but he has the kindest heart of any man I’ve ever known. Proof of his giving heart is on his coarse hands that have put in countless hours of work- building homes, fixing cars, saving the world. No matter how many times we disagree, no matter how many silent treatments I give , just know I love you dad and I will make you proud.
the feel of his hands were coarse against my soft, tiny ones. His were big, his pinky curling itself around my thumb, feeling the spaces in between and the lines crisscrossing pale skin. the bonfire lot our faces up yellow, adolescent acne and premature wrinkles of worry.
Coarse like hair is that what I’m suppose to be writing about? Dog’s hair I feel is usaully coarse and horses hair?
I quietly read
But wish I could go to ski
Hmmm…What’s on T.V.
A sitcom is on
Unoriginal and COARSE
Ah, the book excites!
If I had a coarse throat, nothing would be correct. Everything would be off. It could be an ear ache or a hang nail. It doesn’t matter the source, anything wrong with the body puts the mind off.
Imprecise. That’s what I remembered; the imprecision of the sandpaper I frantically rubbed on the wood, trying hopelessly to smooth over the edges of the gift. I painted forlornly, watching the yellow smear over chips of wood peeking through.
Fighting against apathy is like scraping coarse fabric against soft skin. It tears and leaves a rash that irritates. I struggle so much with focus that it makes me want to scream. I am sitting in a public library right now, at one of those study tables, and the girl across from me has her nose in a text book and is muttering almost inaudibly to herself as she scans the words and keeps whipping out highlighters. So intensely focused. Why am I so apathetic? I can’t bring myself to care…morale has left me, tenacity is gone, left with nothing more that the sickly unimpressive desire for comfort.
The rough-hewn seat of my longing; a swirling mass of coarse fibres drowning in an ocean. I am drowning.
“I miss you” I mouth in the darkness, but the night betrays nothing of what you are doing or where you are. Neither does it transport you by my side in my dreams. It simply stretches out into an endless night of infinite possibilities; none within reach.
yes, he could be horribly coarse and rude and even cruel when he became upset over something
(and that happened more than anyone would ever care to admit)
but she didn’t mind it, at the end of the day – his actions weren’t excused, however
she just cared about him far too much to ever leave again
she’d tried once and seen the error of her ways.
Feelin’ coarse like sweet smellin’ sea salt afloat for harvest. Fleur de sel, but the mind’s an antenna with a twitchy dial. Grittiness filters in and out like memories that are over-processed. The photograph’s contrast; the way its been pixel-sharpened into a grainy time not quite forgotten. I think of the summertime sister who wants to write letters and other beautiful things: a melody, a line, a hook and a sinker, a lesson in time – clearly, the heart’s an ever wishful thinker.
His chin was coarse with stubble, the bags below his eyes sticky with syrup-like sweat. He stood over the counter with a crooked leg and a hunched back, slowly drinking from the nearly empty beer can and slurping with every sip.
I had not seen my father for over ten years, and I could tell how broken he was. Still, I pulled up a stool, waved for the bartender, and said to him gruffly, “How’s it going?”
“Of coarse”, I typed in my most professional matter. Would that be good? I wondered to myself. A few days later, when I saw a story in the paper about undereducated administrators, I understood that that would not be good, as i had just made a serious grammatical error in emailing the President’s office.
The coarse sand stood beneath my feet as the rolling waves came and swept it away.
Like sandpaper. That’s all she could think about, the intruding tongue scraping against hers, rough, bumpy, dry.
This is what girls waited so long for? What’s the draw, kissing corpses?
I am not sure of the meaning of the word so i am just going to go with the guess that it means something rough or a little hard to feel, unpleasant, uneasy, ummm.. tough? i am not sure what i am supposed to write. it could also be someone who speaks his mind! haha
My hair is coarse and blonde. It’s starting to turn white now similar to my mothers.
Layta shied away from the leering gazes, relaxing faintly when she felt Shatila’s armored hand grip her shoulder. “I’m fine,” she managed, offering a tight smile.
“Fine does not have you looking like you’ve swallowed something that disagrees so terribly with you that you don’t dare look around you.” Shatila shifted to walk a little closer, settling a friendly arm around her sponsored student’s shoulders. “Remember that we’re Twilight,” she murmured. “Keep your head high.”
“Easy for you to say,” Terrance growled. “And if I told you that the blond at the end of the line over there was busy eyeing your-”
“Terrance,” Ellis said, warningly. “Shatila.” He added, a moment later for good measure. “Don’t either of you start anything that we don’t have clearance for.”
“I have clearance,” Marcus said, cheerfully. “I’ll be more than happy to okay it.”
“We are neither that desperate nor coarse in manner or method,” Master Ruge said, calmly. “Now more walking and less talking, hmm?”
The hair between my thumb and forefinger as I rub it back and forth. Back and forth. Mind fading as if hypnotized my a metronome. Lost in an existence where time does not exist and things move on without me.