What?! I wrote a good bit on this word yesterday! (It was good, you should go back and read it!) Ah, well. I shall return tomorrow…
Victoria
Her hair stood on end, tall, but graceful, like the plumes a magnificent bird.
Ginny Toniq
Plumes everywhere. Purple plumes, red plumes, golden plumes with silver tips. He had never seen so many plumes in his life. On small hats, on big elaborate hats, on odd little flat hats with bells. Some of the people even had them tucked into their hair. It seemed that everyone had a plume. (Peter wondered if there was a bird left with its own plume on) These must be the richest people in the world. But why were they all here? Why did they seem so eager? They almost seemed to be in a panic. And most alarming of all, they all seemed to be coming towards him. Coming to him. What could it mean? Peter had been confused ever since he woke up that morning, but this was the most confusing thing of all.
Rebecca
The crown was elegant. A simple work with no great amount of wealth the only piece of note was the plumes made of metal. Above the right eye rose the metal feathers, elegant each in tones of deep purple and silver, she was a woman of importance and the only word for her was elegance.
Deep dark luscious plumes are my favorite in the fall. They hang from the trees along the roads i the four corners and can be had for only the labor it takes to pick them. While picking them they are irresistible to eat and it is fun to get the face all sticky and with the sweet flesh of this celebrated fruit.
juls
feathers are things that are beautiful and useful. Mostly for decorating things that would look better with them. Finding great plumes is hard where would they be to get some, also hard to work with not sure what would be best think of Indians and other cultures that know much more on how to do something incredible with them
jojo
“Pass me the plumes, oh…I mean, prunes.” “Yes, yes, oh I love my bowl of prunes. Here, have some.” “My god” “What?” “The bath, someone poured a bunch of sugar into it” “Oh dear” “Oh what sabotage!” “That is dreadful” “Yes, yes I might get a yeast infection. You’re not supposed to coat your privates in sugar, you know”
She fidgeted in the ruffles of her elaborate gown under the pressure of his question, not in fear but as a warning. The same way a bird puffs up its feather plumes to seem more menacing.
Everywhere I looked, hats. Huge hats. With feathers spewing upwards like geysers in the mountains. What was I doing here, these are not my people! Grass and mud reeking underfoot, wine glasses perilous all around.
Plumes of smoke wafted off the stub of a cigarette propped in his mouth. I always hated that habit, vehemently, no matter who partook, but I loved him anyway.
lauren
Plumes
MacKenzie
love them. love them in the summer the best, love them outside on a farm. love to clean and make them all shiny, something about the purple plums that just catch my eyes. It s a mystery why a plum seems to ordinary in the world of fruit.
Micah
Driving across the Icelandic barren landscape, plumes of steam shot up from the horizon. They reminded her of factories, those lumps of industrial metal always on the outskirts of town. Except here, in this big lonely land, there smoke was steam and the cause was geology. She felt peace because of this, for no reason whatsoever other than the idea that the earth still reigned supreme leader above all humanity.
It was crossing the road, as it had every right to. The road intersected the land once occupied by many birds just like it. In a flash it became no more than a flash of plumes spilling about in the air…
She stood on the peaty ground, staring out over the dim, misty morning. It should have been silent. It should have been a peaceful morning, full of tea and a crossword puzzle.
But she stared harder, waited, and at last, she saw it. Plumes rose from the worn dirt track leading to the hostel. The motorcycle sped up.
The plumes have always been billowing. Spraying their wastes into the clear skies, in what look like clouds from mini-volcanoes, from all over the world, to choke the life out of the one known life-sustaining planet.
davydoright
Plumes of a flamingo…
Burnt orange in evening skies….
Salmon and caviar….
Plumes of grapefruit…
Tender, succulent, juicy…
Teardrop…
Ever so slowly on my cheek….
The end of a dream.
Sangeetha
The smoke plumed out wildly, each small burst adding to the complex beauty of the sight before us. Explosions continued, and we knew they would, but the glass ceilinged bomb shelter made it all okay, since we could watch the immense destruction from the angle of a cockroach, unkillable, and yet still mortal, and still so small when compared to these commonplace massive events.
against the pale wood lays the plumes that make up the universe.Rock against winds lay across the earth upside down as if ithey are falling.Beautiful…but these are just the rare pleasure
ivorygolden
PLUMES?! um dayum. That’s something tot do with feathers right? Um, she grabbed the plumes that glooms the room and make the wake of break of day.
Eh.
I give up.
hadia
Legend, your life, as phoenix plumes
A Blissful moment like blossum’s bloom
By one form gone, in another reborn
Though your body shall now be entombed
Your lessons reach still many just out of wombs
R.I.P. Mr. Marvellous Mandela–L’Apothe’sis 06dec2013
Apoth
The peacock strutted around the yard displaying his beautiful plumes in all their glory. He just had to attract one female and then he would be free to mate and pass on his legacy, Life was easy the rules were clear it is us humans that like to muddy the waters do the dance and pretend that this is not what life is all about.
That single feather was stained with something – a dark ink that couldn’t be removed, so it seemed. It sat on the desk, in the abandoned room, beside a sheet of yellowed paper, burned at the sides, the script written on it obscured by age. Outside, the sky was pink, and the sun sank down the horizon. Whatever words were supposed to be read and written were lost.
plums of smoke only fall when I want them too I guess, but unfourtunatly sometimes I have no choice but to let the plumes rise up, they have to go somewhere right? What goes up must come down eventually…..
John
fruit. vani loves them.. she brought them to school one day. she pronounced it cute. gosh i miss her. hahahaha xD plume~ so funny! kinda like plue~ hahahha xD remind
Shaids
Plumes of smoke billowed across the horizon, leading directly from the town she had just left. I did not need to trace her footsteps in order to find her. He just followed the trail of burnt matches.
The plumes on her old feather pen waved back and forth as she scribbled and scratched the night away in the small desk in the attic. She would write a sentence, and then decide she didn’t like it, only to scratch it out and rewrite it. After all, it had to be perfect. It was for him.
He looks up into the air, and squints his eyes.
Little plumes of clouds.
Thor laughs beside him and points, and Loki ignores him for as long as he can before he rolls his eyes and looks, lids lowering over green at the predictable sight.
“Yes, Thor, I see it looks like genitalia.”
“Loki!”
Sigh. Way to ruin the peaceful moment, Brother.
What?! I wrote a good bit on this word yesterday! (It was good, you should go back and read it!) Ah, well. I shall return tomorrow…
Her hair stood on end, tall, but graceful, like the plumes a magnificent bird.
Plumes everywhere. Purple plumes, red plumes, golden plumes with silver tips. He had never seen so many plumes in his life. On small hats, on big elaborate hats, on odd little flat hats with bells. Some of the people even had them tucked into their hair. It seemed that everyone had a plume. (Peter wondered if there was a bird left with its own plume on) These must be the richest people in the world. But why were they all here? Why did they seem so eager? They almost seemed to be in a panic. And most alarming of all, they all seemed to be coming towards him. Coming to him. What could it mean? Peter had been confused ever since he woke up that morning, but this was the most confusing thing of all.
The crown was elegant. A simple work with no great amount of wealth the only piece of note was the plumes made of metal. Above the right eye rose the metal feathers, elegant each in tones of deep purple and silver, she was a woman of importance and the only word for her was elegance.
Deep dark luscious plumes are my favorite in the fall. They hang from the trees along the roads i the four corners and can be had for only the labor it takes to pick them. While picking them they are irresistible to eat and it is fun to get the face all sticky and with the sweet flesh of this celebrated fruit.
feathers are things that are beautiful and useful. Mostly for decorating things that would look better with them. Finding great plumes is hard where would they be to get some, also hard to work with not sure what would be best think of Indians and other cultures that know much more on how to do something incredible with them
“Pass me the plumes, oh…I mean, prunes.” “Yes, yes, oh I love my bowl of prunes. Here, have some.” “My god” “What?” “The bath, someone poured a bunch of sugar into it” “Oh dear” “Oh what sabotage!” “That is dreadful” “Yes, yes I might get a yeast infection. You’re not supposed to coat your privates in sugar, you know”
She fidgeted in the ruffles of her elaborate gown under the pressure of his question, not in fear but as a warning. The same way a bird puffs up its feather plumes to seem more menacing.
Everywhere I looked, hats. Huge hats. With feathers spewing upwards like geysers in the mountains. What was I doing here, these are not my people! Grass and mud reeking underfoot, wine glasses perilous all around.
Plumes of smoke wafted off the stub of a cigarette propped in his mouth. I always hated that habit, vehemently, no matter who partook, but I loved him anyway.
Plumes
love them. love them in the summer the best, love them outside on a farm. love to clean and make them all shiny, something about the purple plums that just catch my eyes. It s a mystery why a plum seems to ordinary in the world of fruit.
Driving across the Icelandic barren landscape, plumes of steam shot up from the horizon. They reminded her of factories, those lumps of industrial metal always on the outskirts of town. Except here, in this big lonely land, there smoke was steam and the cause was geology. She felt peace because of this, for no reason whatsoever other than the idea that the earth still reigned supreme leader above all humanity.
It was crossing the road, as it had every right to. The road intersected the land once occupied by many birds just like it. In a flash it became no more than a flash of plumes spilling about in the air…
She stood on the peaty ground, staring out over the dim, misty morning. It should have been silent. It should have been a peaceful morning, full of tea and a crossword puzzle.
But she stared harder, waited, and at last, she saw it. Plumes rose from the worn dirt track leading to the hostel. The motorcycle sped up.
Great, she thought. So much for peaceful.
The plumes have always been billowing. Spraying their wastes into the clear skies, in what look like clouds from mini-volcanoes, from all over the world, to choke the life out of the one known life-sustaining planet.
Plumes of a flamingo…
Burnt orange in evening skies….
Salmon and caviar….
Plumes of grapefruit…
Tender, succulent, juicy…
Teardrop…
Ever so slowly on my cheek….
The end of a dream.
The smoke plumed out wildly, each small burst adding to the complex beauty of the sight before us. Explosions continued, and we knew they would, but the glass ceilinged bomb shelter made it all okay, since we could watch the immense destruction from the angle of a cockroach, unkillable, and yet still mortal, and still so small when compared to these commonplace massive events.
against the pale wood lays the plumes that make up the universe.Rock against winds lay across the earth upside down as if ithey are falling.Beautiful…but these are just the rare pleasure
PLUMES?! um dayum. That’s something tot do with feathers right? Um, she grabbed the plumes that glooms the room and make the wake of break of day.
Eh.
I give up.
Legend, your life, as phoenix plumes
A Blissful moment like blossum’s bloom
By one form gone, in another reborn
Though your body shall now be entombed
Your lessons reach still many just out of wombs
R.I.P. Mr. Marvellous Mandela–L’Apothe’sis 06dec2013
The peacock strutted around the yard displaying his beautiful plumes in all their glory. He just had to attract one female and then he would be free to mate and pass on his legacy, Life was easy the rules were clear it is us humans that like to muddy the waters do the dance and pretend that this is not what life is all about.
That single feather was stained with something – a dark ink that couldn’t be removed, so it seemed. It sat on the desk, in the abandoned room, beside a sheet of yellowed paper, burned at the sides, the script written on it obscured by age. Outside, the sky was pink, and the sun sank down the horizon. Whatever words were supposed to be read and written were lost.
Her aura was so glamorous she seemed as if plumes of feathers followed her around.
The bird flew over my head.
A single feather fell in front of me.
plums of smoke only fall when I want them too I guess, but unfourtunatly sometimes I have no choice but to let the plumes rise up, they have to go somewhere right? What goes up must come down eventually…..
fruit. vani loves them.. she brought them to school one day. she pronounced it cute. gosh i miss her. hahahaha xD plume~ so funny! kinda like plue~ hahahha xD remind
Plumes of smoke billowed across the horizon, leading directly from the town she had just left. I did not need to trace her footsteps in order to find her. He just followed the trail of burnt matches.
The plumes on her old feather pen waved back and forth as she scribbled and scratched the night away in the small desk in the attic. She would write a sentence, and then decide she didn’t like it, only to scratch it out and rewrite it. After all, it had to be perfect. It was for him.
He looks up into the air, and squints his eyes.
Little plumes of clouds.
Thor laughs beside him and points, and Loki ignores him for as long as he can before he rolls his eyes and looks, lids lowering over green at the predictable sight.
“Yes, Thor, I see it looks like genitalia.”
“Loki!”
Sigh. Way to ruin the peaceful moment, Brother.