watercolorpoetry
He slid the money across the money, and Clara thought slime should be oozing from his fingertips. Her mother grabbed the cash quickly, her eyes averted, and the man simply smirked. But Clara knew they would never be fully compensated for all they had seen. All they had lived through. So she followed her mother meekly out of the room, but all the while her fingers pinched her palms, plotting murder.
i strive to win this sandwich. I strive to eat this sandwich. I strive to bite into its soft bread, and lick its soft cheese off my fingertips. And this sounds weirdly erotic. And oh my god it really just is a sandwich. A sandwich that I want to eat goodbye
They hijacked the plane.
Immediately, everyone felt it. The plane took a sharp dive, and the seatbelt sign went on as luggage rattled in the overhead compartment.
This was a quest to end all quests, the most heroic quest of all - saving a planet. It was inevitable that Layne would come to this decision - to sacrifice himself for the people he hated, the people who never accepted him for what he was - but he would still do it. Whether or not he was alien, he would do it to save billions of lives.
It was like being in a walking coma. No desire for anything. No desire to spend time with friends. Sleep wasn't desired, but it was better than everything else. That's what they don't tell you, how draining it is to even be awake.
"What if the sky was made of chocolate?" Alice asked.
"The what the clouds be made of?" I replied, smiling.
"Whipped cream!"
He was the celebrity in the room. With hair like caramel and smiles like candy, every woman in the room wanted to talk to him, to fuck him, to devour him. So instead of staying, he decided to walk outside with a freshly-lit cigarette and leave.
Writing requires improvisation. It means thinking up regurgitations in a new way to make your audience cackle with hurt sides, cry with slow heaves, sit with quiet awe. If it doesn't make the writer feel the emotions as she writes, then it isn't good improv.
He sat there, wanting to taste her, kiss her, consume her in one breath.
Meanwhile, every single one of her instincts told her to escape.
There was only devastation. I cried the cry of a banshee, but it was ineffectual, insignificant. Everything had been destroyed.
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writing since 2011 · 37 entries · 36 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Sophia showed up.
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36days written
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the words Sophia reaches for
eyesbarricadetouchsandwichfingersumbrellasatlegsuponhandsdesireroomstrivechildmutteredtransport