The wallpaper in her new apartment was ugly. She didn’t like it at all. She couldn’t do nothing about it though. It wasn’t her house although the only reason she was living in the apartment was to save up for a house with no wallpaper.
It’s sort of what I do for a living now, except it has no colors or real purpose. Basically a lot of words on the page; a lot of bullshit telling people that we’re smarter, bigger, better more human and basically totally necessary to existence. This is what advertising is now; maybe it was what it’s always been. I like real wallpaper better. It doesn’t win awards, but it makes the room look better if it’s good wallpaper. Which is more than I can say for bad ads.
When I get my own room I get to choose my own paint and my own wallpaper. The colors I like are really bright colors. So like bright green, baby blue, hot pink and so on. When I put my paint and wallpaper on I have to be careful and make sure I don’t rip my wallpaper.
When i was just a young chap, i had very poor wallpaper, it was torn, stained, and scattered over my floor. so we got some nice, new, colourful wallpaper to go with my new hip room.
One magical evening I placed rosy gold wallpaper on my walls. The effect the sun made while shining off of it was incredibly beautiful. Golden white sunlight shined all through my room.
The torn wallpaper that has been on the right side of my room, left me speechless at times when I take a look at it. It never failed to make me reminisce the old life I had when I was in my mid 20s, constantly trying to figure out who I was at that point of time.
The rosy wall paper of my grandma’s house brought back good memories. And sad memories. Like the time I accidentally spilled all over her rose wallpaper…she got so mad; it was the only time she ever yelled at me.
I woke up to the sound of someone sobbing, and my eyes were greeted by a figure of a girl sitting on the side of my bed, her front facing the faded and ripped wallpaper. The room smelled like old books with light barely coming inside the room.
My wallpaper on my tablet is an American Eagle with its wings spread. It’s red, white and blue. I haven’t been able to find a unicorn’s wallpaper for my tablet.
It is both a blessing and a curse having chameleon-esque traits when she goes on these social gatherings because her work required her to. It is a blessing because she can blend in or bail out easily when she needed to, a curse because when she craves for attention she’s reduced to something as overlooked like just another wallpaper in the room.
Saturdays used to mean loud music, laughter, and the sound of bacon sizzling. Now, she could only hear her own breathing, and even that felt too loud. She bit back tears and grabbed the paint scraper, taking comfort in the grating sound of erasing the memories of what used to be their wall.
Our lives are like wallpaper. THey are so much more than just paint. Paint is just thoughts. Wallpaper is like the thoughts with emotion attached or on top of the paint.
sticky syrup flowers and pinstripes. Doctor Who and magic. Long hours of working and staring into the distance. Something lost and something gained. Boring. Trying. Office Hours. glue and pinstripes. flakey dicey cooking and melting. Walls, three of them and a fourth sitting open.
She gazed around the room. There was dust everywhere, the wallpaper was coming off the walls, and the wooden floors creaked more every step she took. But to her, it didn’t matter. She loved this house because this house had loved and cared for her her whole childhood.
I stare at the wallpaper. It’s as bland as my life. No decorations, so detail whatsoever. The blue light of the day filters in through the window, creating the silhouette of my shadow against the wall.
CONTROL
He built up to the rage. As his savage impulses started to flow his lips flared a little baring pointed teeth. It was always the same. He would begin with a calm voice expressing his concern for her: her fragile state, her inability to understand all the things she should. Then it would build to an articulate monologue about all the things she was doing wrong and that she needed his help, she should listen to him. And in the moment when she dared to differ, when she motioned him to pause or made an attempt to defend herself the real onslaught would begin. She watched him as if in slow motion, his face red, the veins in his neck pulsating. He would move in close, close enough to feel the heat of his body towering over hers, arms raised, his voice bellowing now. Each of his words tiny stabs of venom. A man so desperate for control, over everything, yet so totally out of control of himself and of the life unravelling around him.
She was lonely. That was for sure. And this guy, well he wasn’t anyone’s creme de la creme but there was something homey and comforting about him. She figured he was a little like mustard. Kinda weird and hard to swallow on his own but when you squeezed him on top of all the other bits of your life it seemed to work somehow, could even make it more delicious.
I remember having this wallpaper with children playing on my room as a child. When i got upset I would tear it off the walls. I didn’t like looking at all the smiling laughing children.
The room was how it had always been…this white wooden bed, the boxes of coloured cardboards and markers. How she loved to play after school and on the weekends, creating spheres that would later become planets. The vastness of the universe didnt scare her as she creatively comtemplated how things were elsewhere, somewhere out there, far far away…Her bedcover was still the same though, white daisies on a pink background with lace all around the sides. The only thing that was different was the wallpaper, specifically in the corners of the room, where time had pulled the pieces of dried paper away from the briddle walls. Yes, the wallpaper had changed, but I could think of a bigger reason why this room felt so empty.
The older setting was making me uncomfortable to look at. I felt as if I was in my grandmother’s house in the 80’s with this color scheme. I definitely do not like this, I just want to stand up and rip it of and start it all over. I can’t even bare to see it anymore. This feeling inside is not a good one, and I’m going to end it once and for all I think in my mind as I tear it down.
There are few things I can remember about my grandma. I was only six when she died. I remember she always used to smell like roses. She used to pet my hair whenever I did something good. Her house was in a constant state of clutter, but in a nice, lived-in way. I remember the little elephants dancing on the walls of her kitchen. I must have spent hours naming them while listening to my grandma singing as she cooked us dinner. She loved Frank Sinatra. Sometimes she’d pick me up and spin me all around the kitchen. I loved her so much. I still do. I just wish I could remember more of her.
Growing up we had wallpaper in our blue bathroom. One summer Nana decided to take it down. What amess the bathroom was in. Dust every where. Nana was covered. The walls were never the same.
The wallpaper in the room stared back at me. Slowly, the clock on the wall began ticking slower. Louder. The test was staring back at me. All those dots, mimicking the wallpaper. I looked at the clock. Two minutes had occupied the last two hours.
There used to be joy in this room. Happy pink flowers in perfectly straight lines once decorated these walls, but now the pattern was yellowed, faded, as if a drought could affect printed wallpaper.
pink, floral, decorates mommoms living room. I can smell uncle mikes cigs or pot wafting from downstairs. the soft velvety texture of the leaves and rose petals. peeling off the wall,
Shrunken, without moisture, her eyes receded into the blanketed haze of her skull. Sandpaper grated against her lids as she reluctantly cracked them open to the West Australian sun. What time was it? Must be after midday. She half expected to find a stranger lying next her. God, it wouldn’t be the first time, but thankfully she must have spared herself that indecency last night. She looked down. Clothes still on. She looked left. The tin foil remnants of empty paracetamol packets. It seemed a long way to the bathroom. But she had to go. She hauled herself vaguely upright and teetered down the hallway, bouncing off the wallpaper like a soggy sponge.
smooth yellow, cascading in sheets, gross and yellowed ahaha I said yellowed. But yes ever so yellowed it might have been white once, might have but probably wasn’t. A sort of musk it exudes.
Wallpaper brown, we ride around town with the gray shadows draping across our shoulders. We serve medicine in jugs, and the taste goes down so smoothly that you almost forget it’s saving you from death. The buildings are crumbling, the dust is still tumbling like waterfalls down the hillside. I’ll grab your hand as we sit on the corner of eternity, sipping our thick antidotes for survival.
She brushed upwards firmly so no bubbles would appear in the pattern of flowers she had painstakingly selected. It wasn’t difficult work, but it required a lot of stretching. She tried to wipe the sweat from off her forehead before it reached her eyes. Why she felt the need to put on mascara to wallpaper the house was something she didn’t even quite understand.
Within each new house there is a level of individuality that is provided by the choice of the wallpaper. After all, it does not have to be the only choice, but it is a choice and for some, the ability to be able to choose something other than wallpaper is just as important. For me there is the time when wallpaper makes sense, but then there are times when using wallpaper does not make sense.
Her lips were like old wallpaper, cracked and faded. And her eyes held curtains that you could not see through. Her skin was a shelf that held memories. She resembled a Victorian mansion. Tall, beautiful, mysterious, and not really cared for on the inside. Inside this Victorian mansion was a wave of color and endless possibilities a cascading amount of wonder and love. All they saw was the outside. The beautiful, but old, outside.
~xo s.r.a
wallpaper is well on the wall but the purpose is to make the room cooler understand. :)
The outer covering on a wall, it can have designs like flowers and other things. The young boy had airplane wallpaper in his room.
The wallpaper in her new apartment was ugly. She didn’t like it at all. She couldn’t do nothing about it though. It wasn’t her house although the only reason she was living in the apartment was to save up for a house with no wallpaper.
This wallpaper is so ugly because it has poop smeared down the side of it. It makes it all green and brown and it STINKS!
some of this stuff is soooo weird. like what in the world.
It’s sort of what I do for a living now, except it has no colors or real purpose. Basically a lot of words on the page; a lot of bullshit telling people that we’re smarter, bigger, better more human and basically totally necessary to existence. This is what advertising is now; maybe it was what it’s always been. I like real wallpaper better. It doesn’t win awards, but it makes the room look better if it’s good wallpaper. Which is more than I can say for bad ads.
the wallpaper hid the ugly walls well. the body is right there behind the wallpaper. I would rather burn this wallpaper then use it.
Wallpaper goes on your wall to decorate it. My grandmother has flower wallpaper in her bathroom .
My grandparents have wall paper in there house.
When I get my own room I get to choose my own paint and my own wallpaper. The colors I like are really bright colors. So like bright green, baby blue, hot pink and so on. When I put my paint and wallpaper on I have to be careful and make sure I don’t rip my wallpaper.
When i was just a young chap, i had very poor wallpaper, it was torn, stained, and scattered over my floor. so we got some nice, new, colourful wallpaper to go with my new hip room.
One magical evening I placed rosy gold wallpaper on my walls. The effect the sun made while shining off of it was incredibly beautiful. Golden white sunlight shined all through my room.
The torn wallpaper that has been on the right side of my room, left me speechless at times when I take a look at it. It never failed to make me reminisce the old life I had when I was in my mid 20s, constantly trying to figure out who I was at that point of time.
The rosy wall paper of my grandma’s house brought back good memories. And sad memories. Like the time I accidentally spilled all over her rose wallpaper…she got so mad; it was the only time she ever yelled at me.
I woke up to the sound of someone sobbing, and my eyes were greeted by a figure of a girl sitting on the side of my bed, her front facing the faded and ripped wallpaper. The room smelled like old books with light barely coming inside the room.
My wallpaper on my tablet is an American Eagle with its wings spread. It’s red, white and blue. I haven’t been able to find a unicorn’s wallpaper for my tablet.
It is both a blessing and a curse having chameleon-esque traits when she goes on these social gatherings because her work required her to. It is a blessing because she can blend in or bail out easily when she needed to, a curse because when she craves for attention she’s reduced to something as overlooked like just another wallpaper in the room.
Saturdays used to mean loud music, laughter, and the sound of bacon sizzling. Now, she could only hear her own breathing, and even that felt too loud. She bit back tears and grabbed the paint scraper, taking comfort in the grating sound of erasing the memories of what used to be their wall.
Our lives are like wallpaper. THey are so much more than just paint. Paint is just thoughts. Wallpaper is like the thoughts with emotion attached or on top of the paint.
sticky syrup flowers and pinstripes. Doctor Who and magic. Long hours of working and staring into the distance. Something lost and something gained. Boring. Trying. Office Hours. glue and pinstripes. flakey dicey cooking and melting. Walls, three of them and a fourth sitting open.
She gazed around the room. There was dust everywhere, the wallpaper was coming off the walls, and the wooden floors creaked more every step she took. But to her, it didn’t matter. She loved this house because this house had loved and cared for her her whole childhood.
I stare at the wallpaper. It’s as bland as my life. No decorations, so detail whatsoever. The blue light of the day filters in through the window, creating the silhouette of my shadow against the wall.
CONTROL
He built up to the rage. As his savage impulses started to flow his lips flared a little baring pointed teeth. It was always the same. He would begin with a calm voice expressing his concern for her: her fragile state, her inability to understand all the things she should. Then it would build to an articulate monologue about all the things she was doing wrong and that she needed his help, she should listen to him. And in the moment when she dared to differ, when she motioned him to pause or made an attempt to defend herself the real onslaught would begin. She watched him as if in slow motion, his face red, the veins in his neck pulsating. He would move in close, close enough to feel the heat of his body towering over hers, arms raised, his voice bellowing now. Each of his words tiny stabs of venom. A man so desperate for control, over everything, yet so totally out of control of himself and of the life unravelling around him.
MUSTARD
She was lonely. That was for sure. And this guy, well he wasn’t anyone’s creme de la creme but there was something homey and comforting about him. She figured he was a little like mustard. Kinda weird and hard to swallow on his own but when you squeezed him on top of all the other bits of your life it seemed to work somehow, could even make it more delicious.
I remember having this wallpaper with children playing on my room as a child. When i got upset I would tear it off the walls. I didn’t like looking at all the smiling laughing children.
The room was how it had always been…this white wooden bed, the boxes of coloured cardboards and markers. How she loved to play after school and on the weekends, creating spheres that would later become planets. The vastness of the universe didnt scare her as she creatively comtemplated how things were elsewhere, somewhere out there, far far away…Her bedcover was still the same though, white daisies on a pink background with lace all around the sides. The only thing that was different was the wallpaper, specifically in the corners of the room, where time had pulled the pieces of dried paper away from the briddle walls. Yes, the wallpaper had changed, but I could think of a bigger reason why this room felt so empty.
The older setting was making me uncomfortable to look at. I felt as if I was in my grandmother’s house in the 80’s with this color scheme. I definitely do not like this, I just want to stand up and rip it of and start it all over. I can’t even bare to see it anymore. This feeling inside is not a good one, and I’m going to end it once and for all I think in my mind as I tear it down.
There are few things I can remember about my grandma. I was only six when she died. I remember she always used to smell like roses. She used to pet my hair whenever I did something good. Her house was in a constant state of clutter, but in a nice, lived-in way. I remember the little elephants dancing on the walls of her kitchen. I must have spent hours naming them while listening to my grandma singing as she cooked us dinner. She loved Frank Sinatra. Sometimes she’d pick me up and spin me all around the kitchen. I loved her so much. I still do. I just wish I could remember more of her.
Growing up we had wallpaper in our blue bathroom. One summer Nana decided to take it down. What amess the bathroom was in. Dust every where. Nana was covered. The walls were never the same.
The wallpaper in the room stared back at me. Slowly, the clock on the wall began ticking slower. Louder. The test was staring back at me. All those dots, mimicking the wallpaper. I looked at the clock. Two minutes had occupied the last two hours.
He glanced over his shoulder, looking for his friend, but his eyes got stuck on the wallpaper of the computer of the boy behind him.
There used to be joy in this room. Happy pink flowers in perfectly straight lines once decorated these walls, but now the pattern was yellowed, faded, as if a drought could affect printed wallpaper.
pink, floral, decorates mommoms living room. I can smell uncle mikes cigs or pot wafting from downstairs. the soft velvety texture of the leaves and rose petals. peeling off the wall,
Shrunken, without moisture, her eyes receded into the blanketed haze of her skull. Sandpaper grated against her lids as she reluctantly cracked them open to the West Australian sun. What time was it? Must be after midday. She half expected to find a stranger lying next her. God, it wouldn’t be the first time, but thankfully she must have spared herself that indecency last night. She looked down. Clothes still on. She looked left. The tin foil remnants of empty paracetamol packets. It seemed a long way to the bathroom. But she had to go. She hauled herself vaguely upright and teetered down the hallway, bouncing off the wallpaper like a soggy sponge.
smooth yellow, cascading in sheets, gross and yellowed ahaha I said yellowed. But yes ever so yellowed it might have been white once, might have but probably wasn’t. A sort of musk it exudes.
Wallpaper brown, we ride around town with the gray shadows draping across our shoulders. We serve medicine in jugs, and the taste goes down so smoothly that you almost forget it’s saving you from death. The buildings are crumbling, the dust is still tumbling like waterfalls down the hillside. I’ll grab your hand as we sit on the corner of eternity, sipping our thick antidotes for survival.
She brushed upwards firmly so no bubbles would appear in the pattern of flowers she had painstakingly selected. It wasn’t difficult work, but it required a lot of stretching. She tried to wipe the sweat from off her forehead before it reached her eyes. Why she felt the need to put on mascara to wallpaper the house was something she didn’t even quite understand.
Within each new house there is a level of individuality that is provided by the choice of the wallpaper. After all, it does not have to be the only choice, but it is a choice and for some, the ability to be able to choose something other than wallpaper is just as important. For me there is the time when wallpaper makes sense, but then there are times when using wallpaper does not make sense.
Her lips were like old wallpaper, cracked and faded. And her eyes held curtains that you could not see through. Her skin was a shelf that held memories. She resembled a Victorian mansion. Tall, beautiful, mysterious, and not really cared for on the inside. Inside this Victorian mansion was a wave of color and endless possibilities a cascading amount of wonder and love. All they saw was the outside. The beautiful, but old, outside.
~xo s.r.a
Victorian peach veils
embossed in velvet
rice paper
water color
bamboo behind
birds of paradise
quietly pretty girl
ponders
why she even came
ornamental goddess glowing
though no one knows
her name