kristenleigh
Dropping the shoes in the pool shouldn't have startled him. A splash is not an abrupt sound. Yet his inability to focus without his glasses on kept Paul from knowing it was coming.
Underneath the swell, just as the water began to retreat and drag the sand deeper into the deep, the sea cucumber secreted the curious pearl fish into the brine.
Spills on the floor without something soft, like a blanket. There should always be a blanket. And the baby is broken. Like a bottle. Horrendous gibberish today. One word.
You weren't dead when you hit the water so I don't know why the splash was so violent, spurting like a geyser. There should have been some life left to make you kick your feet a little, flap your arms or something. Instead you drifted off, gulping mouthful after mouthful of that cold pond water that smelled like summer camp, until you had ingested enough to sink into some reeds.
Like a torch burning in his gut, the sensation rose in his chest as he coughed. Spitting now into the soft receptacle of tissues and crumpling it into his sweaty fist, he tossed the evidence of his sickness into the pail and decided he would not be leaving his bed at all today.
I am crumpling leaf skeletons in my hand, watching their dried, crinkling surfaces flake. Sharp edges, I blow them into the wind. It doesn't hurt my gloved hand and I am ready to prepare this space for the new season.
Don't think, just write. This is what she thought about -- against the direction of the facilitator -- as she depressed the popcorn button on the microwave. The chirp signaled it was warming and the bag, spinning in its little universe, began to expand and tick violently as the kernels exploded inside.
Thundering up through the soles of his etnies, he rumbled down the pavement into the cool morning. It wouldn't be long before he had to lift himself out of the gravel, picking stones from a bloody abrasion. Still better than staying with Sharon, though. She always ruined the morning conversation.
Underline me, Adeline. I'm waiting for you to notice me, sitting here, passive. I won't move or run or jump or lie or untangle my mood to suit your whim. I'm just waiting for you to notice me, so I can blast the rhythm of my heartbeat into the warm palm gripping the stylus.
Without thinking, Connie let the door slam behind her. When she heard the mournful bay of Camille, her Golden Retriever, she knew it was a mistake. There was no going back, no way to call her back in again. The loss would be overwhelming.
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