If I were to say my life was an open book I would be lying to you. Yet if you opened it, you would find it was carved from velvet.
Mary Lou Wynegar
James and Isla carved “J+I=January 2012” into the tree. In February, there’d be only one of them left and Isla couldn’t stand to look at James for fear of suddenly weeping at the willow tree by the highway. The same one they met at after James accidentally rear-ended Isla when he was rushing to get home one Tuesday evening.
Suddenly, January didn’t seem so far away anymore and this caused both of them to avoid looking at the other, for fear of two sad people weeping at the weeping willow by I-85 South.
Sherry J
The bright shine of the African sun shone in through the cracks in the curtains that were so hastily drawn last night, after such a disastrous evening of events. I drew them and stepped out through the double glass doors to sit on the beautifully carved wooden bench and watch the morning go by.
Mark shuffled his feet, but he stepped aside so Sam could see. Sam’s eyes widened as she made out the perfect wooden sculpture of her head. Beautifully carved, it sparked a fire inside of her, and she stepped forward to trace the lines on her own face that Mark had so expertly carved.
“I didn’t know you could do stuff like this,” she commented.
“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” Mark pointed out. Sam smiled.
As she carved out her thoughts, she noticed that she hadn’t been in her mind for such a long time. Racing through her head was just the thought of him. Her sweetest downfall. A reminder of her past. Her oh so fantastic past
Alessa
The man of the house was outside. He chopped and chopped and chopped all day long. The lady of the house walked outside and finally stopped him. she asked what on earth was he doing. He said as he showed her the finished product. He carved a big wooden frog out of the tree stump just for her.
j.renee
She struggled against the leather straps, tears streaming down her face. The killer slowly approached, the glint of a blade gleamed in the shadows. The girl screamed again for help but no one could hear her plea. She was doomed. The masked figure bent down and caressed her throat gently with the knife as she sobbed.
“Ppplease,” she whispered. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t say a word to anyone, I swear!”
The man ignored her and continued to drag the blade down her body until suddenly, he carved a chunk of flesh out of her arm. Her anguished wails rocked the lone cabin.
Nikki
This was ancient wood, he knew at once. On the front of the old cupboard was engraved an inscription in large letters. It was not a language he knew, yet the meaning sat there at the edge of his consciouness.
her heart was like a stone, difficult to change-more like a rock. But a man came and set to work. Patiently he carved, creating something beautiful. This man is JEsus and He is the only one who can change a heart of stone.
Brianna
I felt really sorry for the poor fool. It’s not an imaginary recession here, it’s absolutely real. People are scrimping and saving and trying to make their meager savings last just that little bit longer.
I find myself at a wedding fair filled with chauffeurs, cake icers, florists and your man, Mr. Ice Sculpture (with his swan carved by some other poor creature in China), on a hiding to nothing.
If it was a carving of the Celtic Tiger being run through the heart by a rusty screwdriver, someone might book him, but Mr. Ice Sculpture spends his afternoon watching his career melt away, to puddle at his feet like cold pee.
I never carved a pumpkin this year. The seasons aren’t as dramatic as they’ve been, and I miss the way Halloween used to feel. Again, I never carved the turkey, but it never felt like Thanksgiving. While we’re at it, Christmas was two days ago, and it didn’t feel like it.
The carved stone statues watched me as I walked, their faces and eyes almost life like, their expressions were twisted masks of fear and frozen screams that would never end. I shuddered, they were on either side of the walk way, lined up endlessly. I wondered how long it took their carver, their creator to make every last detail perfect. I was sure they were a twisted person, creating such horrified people who looked as if they were trying to run away in fear but couldn’t because they were frozen in place. I turned, hearing a sound behind me and stared into the cold eyes of a woman. Now I am just another statue, sitting lined up lifelessly with the others, my mouth held open in an endless scream.
My father stood at the kitchen counter, the giant brown bird intact in front of him. He was in his element here, every Thanksgiving. The obligatory photograph taken, him grinning ear to ear, he attacked the turkey with vigor and carved it to perfection.
mosaicgirl
I slowly carved out my name in the wood. There, it was done. Now, at least someone will remember be. Be it a passer by, stopping to look at the name scrawled in the bark, or my family remembering what I used to be. At least now I will exist.
Every gasp carved deepening expectations for that moment when passion would find fruition. The grip of hot hands on a bare back, a head thrown back by a need to allow the other closer, teeth scraping a craned neck, hips snapping and suckling, it all collided into the formation of a final wanton growl. And then collapse, each panting, held together by moist moans, and a fondness for pleasure’s echoes.
My father always carved the turkey at the table. It was such a beautiful sight, to see this wonderfully cooked turkey, bursting with stuffing, as he went around the table and carved the meat that everyone wanted. I miss him.
The woodsmith carved a cuckoo clock from the wood log he found the other day. Perhaps one day, his grand child would listen to it ring in their house. And his grand grand children. One day. They would listen too.
TY
so u want me to write , ok i will i dont mind writing but the problem is this is not the thing i am finding the thing i am finding is something else so do u help finding my thing if yes than thank you
parth
Who would have carved such beautiful carvings into the cave walls? No one knows that it was Banshem who visited these caves during the 1850s. He was an artist that no one will know about!
He carved out a piece of wood into a spear with his knife. Now he was ready to do some spear fishing. He was so hungry, he was so ready for some river fish!
My mistakes are carved in my hands. I cannot escape my past but I can change my future, if only I can change first. I can only see the light from the darkness that I am in, it hurts to look, I can not adjust as drastically as i’d like.
These sins are carved into the palms of my hands, i cannot rid them, but i can look somewhere else to find the solution. i am carved into the man i am from my mistakes, it makes me who i am, even though that may be a terrible person. Our identity is carved by the knives of our doing, not trying or wishing. I see the light from the darkness, it hurts my eyes, i can’t adjust as drastically as i need.
Hank
He carved the piece of wood, letting the shaving fall to the floor. It wasn’t something he usually did. It wasn’t his style, but there was something relaxing about letting the knife slide across the skin of the wood. There was no plan, just the motion was all he needed.
Madi
My hands are carved in stone, smooth, the only part of me that is perfect. I’m waiting for my hand to be held, for some warmth to spread. I’m waiting to break and chip, I can’t stay perfect forever, I don’t want to. I want to be used. I want to live.
I carve my name into the side of the wall, then I scoot my mattress up against it. No one will ever know my secret. My real name, my power and control. But what is power? Without the risk of losing it all, no one has a need to cling on with intensity.
pumpkins! i think you can carve your own life, just the way you carve a pumpkin. with careful planning, sketching, and precision it can come out just the way you want. or you can always just go for it- either way, you are in control.
She carved a bite out of the meat. Human flesh, she thought, with a wrinkled nose. The fork was buried deep into the charred lump, red juices streaming down the sides. Anna remembered her Grandmother’s request, she still felt queasy as she raised the utensil to her mouth…
AfterMath
and then he began etching lines of ink into her smooth white skin, carving out curves and angles of her own design and filling them in with more color than she’d ever known on her body. gone was the blank canvas of her bare upper arm; in its place was a work of art, like a painting but indelible. something she would carry with her always.
she’d been afraid, last night and this morning and even five minutes before sitting down in front of the overbearingly masculine tattoo artist with his multitude of piercings and the distinct odor of cigarette smoke. she’d been afraid that the moment her skin started vanishing under the ink, she’d lost her nerve and want to back out.
but she’d had nothing to be afraid of. her skin wasn’t vanishing; it was being remade, being brought to life. when sculptors create marvels from lumps of clay, they do so by raking off the outer layers and revealing the figure within. they say that the art was already there; all they had to do was scrape off the extra bits.
she was just like that, just like that lump of clay, only for her to be revealed, she needed not only to be carved up but filled in as well. so she watched as ink slowly replaced canvas, and waited to be uncovered.
Beautiful wood, engraved with names and love and memories reborn with every new surface. Knife painfully carved and killed to make way for a small timeless space in someone’s heart.
Caroline
He dug his knife deep into the tree trunk, scratching away the thick, elderly bark into ringlets littering the grassy floor. She sat below, sipping lemonade and vodka from a red plastic cup upon a blanket woven with images of guitars. From the unintelligible markings appeared initials, encircled by a cartoon heart; more permanent than a wedding ring, she entwined her fingers with his as she admired the carvings lovingly.
I dug my knife into the bar of soap in my hand, watching as little shavings peeled over my hand. Delicately, I began to curve around the soap, causing little ripples in the sides. The smell of cinnamon was overwhelming, but I could stand it. I was enthralled by my creation. I had only just begun, but I could see it in my mind. It was like there were lines drawn around the bar, telling me where to go. The bird’s face began to show, the beak peeking out at me from the tip of the soap. The cream feathers curled around my fingers as the knife shaved them. I carved in the little feet, taking care not to break off the most pretentious piece of soap in the whole creation. I whittled the slight lines in the legs, watching it come to life. My smile was blazing across my face as I began to watch the bird fly out of the soap, my knife the key to unleashing it.
Emily
The mahogany wood was carved in the shape of a woman riding a tiger. A beautiful piece.
Ninan
wood , stone and auistrailia , lumber jack , original . henry moore. barbara hepworth, art , creative , lack of space . lazy .
dana
I carved the turkey Last thanksgiving very ugly. My mother said it was horrible and I should never try it again.
C.C. Stevens
When I was little, my dad carved a pumpkin. It was probably the best one he’s ever done. We just watched some home movies with it, and I was a little ladybug baby for Halloween. I was on a blanket in my little costume trying to eat the pumpkin.
If I were to say my life was an open book I would be lying to you. Yet if you opened it, you would find it was carved from velvet.
James and Isla carved “J+I=January 2012” into the tree. In February, there’d be only one of them left and Isla couldn’t stand to look at James for fear of suddenly weeping at the willow tree by the highway. The same one they met at after James accidentally rear-ended Isla when he was rushing to get home one Tuesday evening.
Suddenly, January didn’t seem so far away anymore and this caused both of them to avoid looking at the other, for fear of two sad people weeping at the weeping willow by I-85 South.
The bright shine of the African sun shone in through the cracks in the curtains that were so hastily drawn last night, after such a disastrous evening of events. I drew them and stepped out through the double glass doors to sit on the beautifully carved wooden bench and watch the morning go by.
Mark shuffled his feet, but he stepped aside so Sam could see. Sam’s eyes widened as she made out the perfect wooden sculpture of her head. Beautifully carved, it sparked a fire inside of her, and she stepped forward to trace the lines on her own face that Mark had so expertly carved.
“I didn’t know you could do stuff like this,” she commented.
“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” Mark pointed out. Sam smiled.
As she carved out her thoughts, she noticed that she hadn’t been in her mind for such a long time. Racing through her head was just the thought of him. Her sweetest downfall. A reminder of her past. Her oh so fantastic past
The man of the house was outside. He chopped and chopped and chopped all day long. The lady of the house walked outside and finally stopped him. she asked what on earth was he doing. He said as he showed her the finished product. He carved a big wooden frog out of the tree stump just for her.
She struggled against the leather straps, tears streaming down her face. The killer slowly approached, the glint of a blade gleamed in the shadows. The girl screamed again for help but no one could hear her plea. She was doomed. The masked figure bent down and caressed her throat gently with the knife as she sobbed.
“Ppplease,” she whispered. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t say a word to anyone, I swear!”
The man ignored her and continued to drag the blade down her body until suddenly, he carved a chunk of flesh out of her arm. Her anguished wails rocked the lone cabin.
This was ancient wood, he knew at once. On the front of the old cupboard was engraved an inscription in large letters. It was not a language he knew, yet the meaning sat there at the edge of his consciouness.
her heart was like a stone, difficult to change-more like a rock. But a man came and set to work. Patiently he carved, creating something beautiful. This man is JEsus and He is the only one who can change a heart of stone.
I felt really sorry for the poor fool. It’s not an imaginary recession here, it’s absolutely real. People are scrimping and saving and trying to make their meager savings last just that little bit longer.
I find myself at a wedding fair filled with chauffeurs, cake icers, florists and your man, Mr. Ice Sculpture (with his swan carved by some other poor creature in China), on a hiding to nothing.
If it was a carving of the Celtic Tiger being run through the heart by a rusty screwdriver, someone might book him, but Mr. Ice Sculpture spends his afternoon watching his career melt away, to puddle at his feet like cold pee.
“ONE WORD”
I never carved a pumpkin this year. The seasons aren’t as dramatic as they’ve been, and I miss the way Halloween used to feel. Again, I never carved the turkey, but it never felt like Thanksgiving. While we’re at it, Christmas was two days ago, and it didn’t feel like it.
The carved stone statues watched me as I walked, their faces and eyes almost life like, their expressions were twisted masks of fear and frozen screams that would never end. I shuddered, they were on either side of the walk way, lined up endlessly. I wondered how long it took their carver, their creator to make every last detail perfect. I was sure they were a twisted person, creating such horrified people who looked as if they were trying to run away in fear but couldn’t because they were frozen in place. I turned, hearing a sound behind me and stared into the cold eyes of a woman. Now I am just another statue, sitting lined up lifelessly with the others, my mouth held open in an endless scream.
My father stood at the kitchen counter, the giant brown bird intact in front of him. He was in his element here, every Thanksgiving. The obligatory photograph taken, him grinning ear to ear, he attacked the turkey with vigor and carved it to perfection.
I slowly carved out my name in the wood. There, it was done. Now, at least someone will remember be. Be it a passer by, stopping to look at the name scrawled in the bark, or my family remembering what I used to be. At least now I will exist.
Every gasp carved deepening expectations for that moment when passion would find fruition. The grip of hot hands on a bare back, a head thrown back by a need to allow the other closer, teeth scraping a craned neck, hips snapping and suckling, it all collided into the formation of a final wanton growl. And then collapse, each panting, held together by moist moans, and a fondness for pleasure’s echoes.
My father always carved the turkey at the table. It was such a beautiful sight, to see this wonderfully cooked turkey, bursting with stuffing, as he went around the table and carved the meat that everyone wanted. I miss him.
my soul longs for another man’s soul. his name carved into another man’s heart.
oh when will i ever get a hold on both
The woodsmith carved a cuckoo clock from the wood log he found the other day. Perhaps one day, his grand child would listen to it ring in their house. And his grand grand children. One day. They would listen too.
so u want me to write , ok i will i dont mind writing but the problem is this is not the thing i am finding the thing i am finding is something else so do u help finding my thing if yes than thank you
Who would have carved such beautiful carvings into the cave walls? No one knows that it was Banshem who visited these caves during the 1850s. He was an artist that no one will know about!
He carved out a piece of wood into a spear with his knife. Now he was ready to do some spear fishing. He was so hungry, he was so ready for some river fish!
My mistakes are carved in my hands. I cannot escape my past but I can change my future, if only I can change first. I can only see the light from the darkness that I am in, it hurts to look, I can not adjust as drastically as i’d like.
She carved the wood with the skill that she has and with the practice of a professional to get a beautiful picture of the Lord Jesus on the cross.
These sins are carved into the palms of my hands, i cannot rid them, but i can look somewhere else to find the solution. i am carved into the man i am from my mistakes, it makes me who i am, even though that may be a terrible person. Our identity is carved by the knives of our doing, not trying or wishing. I see the light from the darkness, it hurts my eyes, i can’t adjust as drastically as i need.
He carved the piece of wood, letting the shaving fall to the floor. It wasn’t something he usually did. It wasn’t his style, but there was something relaxing about letting the knife slide across the skin of the wood. There was no plan, just the motion was all he needed.
My hands are carved in stone, smooth, the only part of me that is perfect. I’m waiting for my hand to be held, for some warmth to spread. I’m waiting to break and chip, I can’t stay perfect forever, I don’t want to. I want to be used. I want to live.
I carve my name into the side of the wall, then I scoot my mattress up against it. No one will ever know my secret. My real name, my power and control. But what is power? Without the risk of losing it all, no one has a need to cling on with intensity.
What is carved into us? Are we the holders? Do we push the shovels deep into the soil of ourselves?
pumpkins! i think you can carve your own life, just the way you carve a pumpkin. with careful planning, sketching, and precision it can come out just the way you want. or you can always just go for it- either way, you are in control.
Her face was carved from marble, rigid and strong. There was neither hesitance nor regret; only the soft disposition that brought promises of hope.
She carved a bite out of the meat. Human flesh, she thought, with a wrinkled nose. The fork was buried deep into the charred lump, red juices streaming down the sides. Anna remembered her Grandmother’s request, she still felt queasy as she raised the utensil to her mouth…
and then he began etching lines of ink into her smooth white skin, carving out curves and angles of her own design and filling them in with more color than she’d ever known on her body. gone was the blank canvas of her bare upper arm; in its place was a work of art, like a painting but indelible. something she would carry with her always.
she’d been afraid, last night and this morning and even five minutes before sitting down in front of the overbearingly masculine tattoo artist with his multitude of piercings and the distinct odor of cigarette smoke. she’d been afraid that the moment her skin started vanishing under the ink, she’d lost her nerve and want to back out.
but she’d had nothing to be afraid of. her skin wasn’t vanishing; it was being remade, being brought to life. when sculptors create marvels from lumps of clay, they do so by raking off the outer layers and revealing the figure within. they say that the art was already there; all they had to do was scrape off the extra bits.
she was just like that, just like that lump of clay, only for her to be revealed, she needed not only to be carved up but filled in as well. so she watched as ink slowly replaced canvas, and waited to be uncovered.
Beautiful wood, engraved with names and love and memories reborn with every new surface. Knife painfully carved and killed to make way for a small timeless space in someone’s heart.
He dug his knife deep into the tree trunk, scratching away the thick, elderly bark into ringlets littering the grassy floor. She sat below, sipping lemonade and vodka from a red plastic cup upon a blanket woven with images of guitars. From the unintelligible markings appeared initials, encircled by a cartoon heart; more permanent than a wedding ring, she entwined her fingers with his as she admired the carvings lovingly.
I dug my knife into the bar of soap in my hand, watching as little shavings peeled over my hand. Delicately, I began to curve around the soap, causing little ripples in the sides. The smell of cinnamon was overwhelming, but I could stand it. I was enthralled by my creation. I had only just begun, but I could see it in my mind. It was like there were lines drawn around the bar, telling me where to go. The bird’s face began to show, the beak peeking out at me from the tip of the soap. The cream feathers curled around my fingers as the knife shaved them. I carved in the little feet, taking care not to break off the most pretentious piece of soap in the whole creation. I whittled the slight lines in the legs, watching it come to life. My smile was blazing across my face as I began to watch the bird fly out of the soap, my knife the key to unleashing it.
The mahogany wood was carved in the shape of a woman riding a tiger. A beautiful piece.
wood , stone and auistrailia , lumber jack , original . henry moore. barbara hepworth, art , creative , lack of space . lazy .
I carved the turkey Last thanksgiving very ugly. My mother said it was horrible and I should never try it again.
When I was little, my dad carved a pumpkin. It was probably the best one he’s ever done. We just watched some home movies with it, and I was a little ladybug baby for Halloween. I was on a blanket in my little costume trying to eat the pumpkin.