‘What colors do you like?’
Not a particularly strange question, but with my birthday approaching, there is a tinge of excitement that fused the space between my mouth and the receiver. Favorite colors, back-up favorites, until the list was exhausted. I suppose I had a week to wait for this mystery surprise, but seeing you in the space between, no gifts to bare, made the ordeal bearable. Trying to keep my expectations low, but they can’t be lower than the bar I’ve set—too young to have my own spending money, and having just met you at the time, the cheap gifts I bought for Christmas that reminded me of you broke upon arrival to the amusement of all; the scribbles that lose form next to your sharp, calculated lines which are always drawn in pen and sharpie. I make shapes out of mistakes, erasing away what is there into thin, wavering lines.
Conviction and confidence biting and stunning.
Somehow, my sketchbooks are full of our doodles, side-by-side. Our jokes, drawn out late into the night, make me laugh, especially when I find myself hunched in a carpeted corner, this small town in between cities fill of isolation more than farmland. Comparing greatness and mediocrity. Yet I trace them with my fingers, and jealousy is only love for you. How lucky am I, to have greatness shine upon me, to pick me out of the crowd. Perhaps, even just a little, that makes me special, too. You make me feel this could be true, for the first time.
A roll of paper is placed into my hands. I remember it’s my birthday, because suddenly it is important to someone even when I step outside my house. As I unroll it, I feel the grooves of something hand-drawn.
My own face stares back at me, angled, confident.
Permanent.
My face as a character from our late nights shared by a favorite movie, our voices singing gory songs. I can’t remember if I’d ever received a gift hand-made. Where you thinking of me, every stroke, every line put down with certainty? Lovely colors surround me like dark lightning. You haven’t drawn next to me for comparison, not like I’m used to. You don’t put your marks down and smile because the gap between our abilities is so vast, you seek to feast your eyes upon it. You smile because our marks are together. And now, these lines are just for me. Could someone—could you?—think so highly of me that I am your equal?
Memorialized in your image, I am beautiful.
Rosie the riveter showing her muscle> fear in me starting a shi..er..crappy low paying
a false terl
I glanced at the poster on the brick wall. “Talent Show!” I groaned as I realized my best friend signed me up. I grabbed the black pen and quickly scribbled out my name. If only I realized that this talent show would save my life…
ENC
I posted a poster on the posting page but the poster flew off the board because the post had gone haywire.
ella
I laugh and wipe the tears from my eyes, crumbling up the wanted poster. “I never thought I’d be considered a criminal.”
He smiled at me, and linked his arm in mine. “Neither did I.”
cally d.
She was the poster child for depression, always alone and with her nose in a book. She wore all black, and didn’t even try to make friends. She just wanted to get out of town, move away from everything.
The poster hung on the wall as if it had just been put there by the young fan of Aerosmith, untouched by the decay that surrounded it. The rest of the room could not be described the same. It was in disarray, drawers in dressers had been ripped out, shelves had been swept clean, the bed had been ripped apart, and the former occupant’s desk had been upended to lay in a heap in the corner. All in all, it looked as if someone was trying to leave in a hurry, or they were looking for something.
One word is enough to write about a poster. Did you see the poster of the lost dog? We saw that one and then saw the dog and they gave us $500. Go figure. That was the best poster I ever saw. That’s all I have to say about poster.
today i saw a poster princess.i have always wanted to make several posters of disney charater and put them on my wall
ruchita
I was asked to give a poster session talk on Friday. Of course, I’d given plenty of talks, so I wasn’t worried about the presentation. But I never really enjoyed talking to people– academics. I hated the idea that I’d become what I’d always hated. Still, I had, and it was one of the biggest disappointments of my life.
Lacy
The poster hung crookedly, no doubt ripped from it’s axis by a rowdy teenager. The bright yellow lettering across the top of the design screamed the name of a band that had long been forgotten. She tore her eyes away from the paper and scanned the rest of the room, taking in the carpet of broken bottles, gum and grime, all coated in a thick layer of dust.
Beth
Look at the poster on your sister’s wall! She swoons for ladies with short hair and dimpled smiles, dressed in suits or leather jackets and letting a cheap cigarette dangle from between their curved lips. Your father thinks she’s sick, true; he debates aloud whether the good ol’ “therapy” will do the trick. But he knows he can’t make any decision without my approval. Next week, I’m taking your sister out shopping for the prom, and whatever she ends up donning, she can take any damn beautiful girl she sets her eyes on.
‘What colors do you like?’
Not a particularly strange question, but with my birthday approaching, there is a tinge of excitement that fused the space between my mouth and the receiver. Favorite colors, back-up favorites, until the list was exhausted. I suppose I had a week to wait for this mystery surprise, but seeing you in the space between, no gifts to bare, made the ordeal bearable. Trying to keep my expectations low, but they can’t be lower than the bar I’ve set—too young to have my own spending money, and having just met you at the time, the cheap gifts I bought for Christmas that reminded me of you broke upon arrival to the amusement of all; the scribbles that lose form next to your sharp, calculated lines which are always drawn in pen and sharpie. I make shapes out of mistakes, erasing away what is there into thin, wavering lines.
Conviction and confidence biting and stunning.
Somehow, my sketchbooks are full of our doodles, side-by-side. Our jokes, drawn out late into the night, make me laugh, especially when I find myself hunched in a carpeted corner, this small town in between cities fill of isolation more than farmland. Comparing greatness and mediocrity. Yet I trace them with my fingers, and jealousy is only love for you. How lucky am I, to have greatness shine upon me, to pick me out of the crowd. Perhaps, even just a little, that makes me special, too. You make me feel this could be true, for the first time.
A roll of paper is placed into my hands. I remember it’s my birthday, because suddenly it is important to someone even when I step outside my house. As I unroll it, I feel the grooves of something hand-drawn.
My own face stares back at me, angled, confident.
Permanent.
My face as a character from our late nights shared by a favorite movie, our voices singing gory songs. I can’t remember if I’d ever received a gift hand-made. Where you thinking of me, every stroke, every line put down with certainty? Lovely colors surround me like dark lightning. You haven’t drawn next to me for comparison, not like I’m used to. You don’t put your marks down and smile because the gap between our abilities is so vast, you seek to feast your eyes upon it. You smile because our marks are together. And now, these lines are just for me. Could someone—could you?—think so highly of me that I am your equal?
Memorialized in your image, I am beautiful.
Rosie the riveter showing her muscle> fear in me starting a shi..er..crappy low paying
I glanced at the poster on the brick wall. “Talent Show!” I groaned as I realized my best friend signed me up. I grabbed the black pen and quickly scribbled out my name. If only I realized that this talent show would save my life…
I posted a poster on the posting page but the poster flew off the board because the post had gone haywire.
I laugh and wipe the tears from my eyes, crumbling up the wanted poster. “I never thought I’d be considered a criminal.”
He smiled at me, and linked his arm in mine. “Neither did I.”
She was the poster child for depression, always alone and with her nose in a book. She wore all black, and didn’t even try to make friends. She just wanted to get out of town, move away from everything.
The poster hung on the wall as if it had just been put there by the young fan of Aerosmith, untouched by the decay that surrounded it. The rest of the room could not be described the same. It was in disarray, drawers in dressers had been ripped out, shelves had been swept clean, the bed had been ripped apart, and the former occupant’s desk had been upended to lay in a heap in the corner. All in all, it looked as if someone was trying to leave in a hurry, or they were looking for something.
She tore off a piece of tape and held it tenderly as she straightened the corners. She dropped it before she could get it up. “Drat!”
One word is enough to write about a poster. Did you see the poster of the lost dog? We saw that one and then saw the dog and they gave us $500. Go figure. That was the best poster I ever saw. That’s all I have to say about poster.
today i saw a poster princess.i have always wanted to make several posters of disney charater and put them on my wall
I was asked to give a poster session talk on Friday. Of course, I’d given plenty of talks, so I wasn’t worried about the presentation. But I never really enjoyed talking to people– academics. I hated the idea that I’d become what I’d always hated. Still, I had, and it was one of the biggest disappointments of my life.
The poster hung crookedly, no doubt ripped from it’s axis by a rowdy teenager. The bright yellow lettering across the top of the design screamed the name of a band that had long been forgotten. She tore her eyes away from the paper and scanned the rest of the room, taking in the carpet of broken bottles, gum and grime, all coated in a thick layer of dust.
Look at the poster on your sister’s wall! She swoons for ladies with short hair and dimpled smiles, dressed in suits or leather jackets and letting a cheap cigarette dangle from between their curved lips. Your father thinks she’s sick, true; he debates aloud whether the good ol’ “therapy” will do the trick. But he knows he can’t make any decision without my approval. Next week, I’m taking your sister out shopping for the prom, and whatever she ends up donning, she can take any damn beautiful girl she sets her eyes on.