jennafrazier
This is the word that makes me stare blankly at the page. What does it mean, and where does it come from. Is it possible to change your mind, is it possible to change. Strength. Conviction. Certitude. All seem so hard to come by.
She wandered in and out of the empty rooms, abandoned and dilapidated, imagining the decadent lives of those who had once inhabited them.
Slowly, painstakingly, the barber dragged his sharpened razor over the man's chiseled jaw. "Tell me again," he said, deliberately, "tell me again what it is that you do."
The man's facial muscles clenched and he cleared his throat, twice.
"I'm a soldier," he answered, nervous, though he didn't know why.
The barber took his time responding and wiped away another patch of white cream with the cold blade. "And what is it that you fight for," he said more than asked.
The soldier began to grow angry. He felt insulted, yet with the same persistent tremor of fear he couldn't explain. He decided to remain silent, and waited in inexplicable discomfort for the comfort of his clean shave.
He sat on the park bench, quiet, reflective. The spring breeze stirred up the antique smell of his worn leather jacket and toyed with the thin wisps of white hair around his face. He sighed, heavily, watching children dart and prance in the new grass, chasing ducks and plucking dandelions. His glasses slid down his nose; he pushed them back with a gesture grown mechanical over the years. Rustling his newspaper to shake out the wrinkles, he squinted to read the headline on page two. "Senior citizens happier, healthier, more active than previous generations," it boasted. He set the paper down next to him, leaned back against the bench, pulled his hat down lower over his eyes, adjusted his cane next to him, and smiled.
Upon entering the house, she had to cover her nose with her forearm to avoid gagging from the revolting smell. She stepped cautiously over the creaking floorboards, taking in the room around her with growing horror.
You're a coward,she said, quietly, gravely. Calm, even.
I know, he replied. His head was lowered in humility.
Don't be alarmed, he said, it's nothing.
A long pause.
She covered his hand with hers. He stiffened, then pulled away.
Please talk to me, she said.
Darkroom. We meet again. My hands grasp your hips, waist, ribcage, furtive, quiet. My elbow knocks something glass from the shelf to the ground. I lift you up onto the bench. Lunch.
I really wish you'd stop making me write about the darkroom. While it's an intriguing subject, I resent the disappointment that I feel each time I click the "go" button, waiting for a new word, and see this one all over again.
He hovered over the images in the darkroom, scrutinizing each one intently, restlessly searching for the perfect detail. He could see nothing but the translucent stares of strangers, illuminated by the faintest of infrared glows, and the outline of his own rough fingers as he sifted through the frames.
writing since 2011 · 11 entries · 8 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means JNF showed up.
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the words JNF reaches for
darkroombenchhoveredsearchingintentlyperfectwordquietpullednosesmellwhitepagebarberman'ssoldier