snowthatremembers
I have bags under my eyes and bags under my arms. I will not make two trips. I will not sleep tonight. Tomorrow I will wake up, and they will be there. I'll take them to school with me, I'll take them back home with me. The bags grow. I do not. I will not sleep tonight. I fill the bags with dusted dreams.
The artificial coloring was orange, vibrant and obnoxious, and left no room for any other color to exist. The blue went extinct, and the purple was not long after. Red was the worst competitor, but it died out at the same time as green and yellow. Now we live in a world of orange.
I remember the seaside sounds, gulls flocking from one telephone pole to the next and crying out to each other. People were everywhere--the roads, the sidewalks, the ferries, in cars and in stores, waving from windows and shouting noiselessly across streets. The water at my feet splashed playfully over the sand.
A toxic purple mist explodes in my face, blasting my hair this way and that as I cough and wave in vain. I taste the poison on my tongue. I can only see purple, now. That awful lavender shade that is not so much lavender as it is gray.
What are the benefits of a crown? The power? The gold? The weight of the steel and blood upon your fair head, unrelenting...
The cake was tall and white, not a spot of frosting out of place. It stood on the table in the center of the room, looming over the guests like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, so perfectly white and so level that the thought of cutting it was unbearable.
A silver plaque balanced precariously on the windowsill, striking against the deep, smooth brown. Cursive was engraved across it, detailing the membership to some place the man had never since been.
The cinema smelled of roses. Curtains of scarlet and mahogany draped across the walls, thick and velvet and heavy, and the room was cloaked in blood. Down the hall, echoes glanced off the stone floor.
The camera clicks. I straighten up. The leaf is blown away by a gust of wind, scuttling away down the street and catching against the red brick wall. My hair has fallen across my face, and I brush it out of the way as I go to follow the leaf. I let the camera hang from it's strap around my neck, the weight familiar and comforting.
The backdrop showed flowing green hills and grass that swayed in the wind. Above, the sky glowed blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds very like the cotton balls scattered across the floor of the stage. A few were caught on nails that stuck out of the splintered wood like rusty old thorns.
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writing since 2019 · 16 entries · 16 days shown up
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