winterk
Tiny and shiny, these little pricks hold my projects in place. They hold green against purple and keep stitches in a straight row.
Flip flops, flung from her feet, lay partially buried in the hot white sand, her bare feet off to seek the cool of the damp sand near the water line. They lay, their daisies unruffled but dipped in the sand, brightly coloured and waiting for what is next.
She stood, with her perfect shiny hair pulled into a perfect shiny bun; a practised smile on a practised face. Nuts or biscuits, she asks.
Charms. He's got them all. Everything a man ought to be. Wide jaw, dark eyes, lots of hair. He'd use them all on me or anyone else. And he's perfect. No one loves me more than he. Unfortunately he's decidedly gay.