Writing Jar

It was clear with an appliquéd pattern, yellow daisies and bright flowers and an assortment of Easter cheer. Someone had stuffed it full of writing tools - sparkly pens, swirly pens, old-fashioned pencils made operable with a sharpener, cheap ball-point pens, and some worn-out highlighters from someone’s ardent studying. It was perched precariously close to the edge of the table, ready to topple with a single mis-pulled pen. Some of the pencils poked high above the pens, unsharpened and taller for it. Someone had shoved a receipt down the side of the jar as well, and the barcode was distorted beneath the pattern of the leaves. The jar would either fall - or someone responsible would push it back.

Papyrus

If it was ancient, its dark wooden frame made it an anachronism in its own time or in the present. And the colors are too vivid to be ancient, but they are genuine colors - lapis lazuli, ochre gold. The papyrus is dark, darker than anyone ever remembers seeing in Hollywood, but that means it’s older, because it was years before anyone realized one could bleach paper and make the ink on it more visible, legible, stark. A woman in a dress that looks like fish scales kneels on a tiny pedestal that’s barely long enough to support her legs from knee to toe, and her arms are up, unfurling her lovely wings of white, red, silver scales. So many scales for a woman so like a bird. Hieroglyphics litter the wall behind her, the panel beneath her. One day someone will be able to read them.

(146 words)

Curly Yarn

It curled, as if someone had turned a poodle into a ball of thread, dyed it variegated blues, greens, and whites, and then unwound it, slowly, slowly, slowly, fixing it into a skein to be sold at a superstore for some granny to turn into a hideous sweater for a grandchild. Soon enough it would be a simple scarf, a novice’s attempt at knitting, stark against the cheery magenta of a knitting loom. It would curl along the edges, knitted in all the wrong places, but it would be soft and warm, and maybe it would fend off the chill of a cold winter’s night.

(105 words)

Gift from a Friend

Silky smooth and cool to the touch, it lay on the table, full of promise. A heady aroma floated up from the soft and supple leather. Finely stitched and even finer grain spoke of elegance and a touch of anachronism. Gilt edges are slightly worn with time and use. The paper is thick and off-white; covered with a close and careful hand at times and loose hurried scrawl at others, capturing words. Words that flowed, occasionally, from the delicate quill pen that lay near the inkwell on the table, other times from a serviceable and worn fountain pen. Words expressing a soul, a life and a passion. Words that are hidden from the world, tucked carefully away on the shelf, waiting for an addition.

Spring Joys

Brightly stitched cloth flutters up into the sky, born aloft by a warm breeze out of the south. The fresh scents of spring lay heavy in the air that sends up a kite. Blues and greens swirl across the nylon fabric, it looks like waves in they sky. String is played out bit by bit, keeping just enough tension to keep it in the air. As it rises slowly in the golden light of they day it takes less effort to keep it in the air, and more to keep it connected to the ground, and the hand that controls it.

Mask

It hung half in, half out of a battered black shoe box. Someone had twisted two lengths of wire into large almond shapes - eye holes, and then covered the wire with delicate black stitching, delicate black knots that expanded outward in a complicated swirl of rings and chains, picots and clovers, a bridge for over the nose, peaks from which to hang crystals, holes to string through a ribbon. Lying there it looked incongruous, the blank eye holes and the medallion of clovers where the forehead would be, like a target to taunt an assassin. But when the ribbons were taught, knotted, high in a girl’s hair, and the mask was settled in place, it was mysterious and haunting, and turned any girl into an unspeakable beauty.

(127 words)

Clock

The frame was made of wood, a deep, dark, reddish hue that was inconsistent in gradation around the frame, as the frame was clearly constructed of multiple panels not all of the same section of tree, if from the same tree at all. The face was parchment-colored, off-white, like fine paper, and roman numerals were gracefully calligraphed in even intervals around the circular face, upside down at the bottom but legible all the same. Smaller rectangular notations formed a broken circle inside the implied ring of roman numerals, marking off each minute. A hole cut in the center of the face revealed an extensive network of golden cogs, wheels, dials, and spinners, out of which sprouted delicate wrought-iron hands in black, one long, one wide, one hours, one minutes.

Together they all spun and kept lovely time.

(140 words)

Valentine's Gift

It hung from the corrugated steel snakes that kept the lamp bulbs aloft, a snake itself of green velvet. It drooped, bent under the relentless draw of gravity, a bright beacon of color against the industrial colorlessness of the floor lamp. The green velvet stem became fuller green velvet leaves, became brazen red velvet petals, curled and curved to become a rose. A rose, hanging from a floor lamp, in one corner of a small, cramped, messy apartment. A cloth tag jutted white, stark, incongruous from the stem, probably offering up laundering instructions. A white, heart-shaped tag printed with a bar code dangled from a petal, but it was an eternal bloom.

(113 words)

Throwing Knife

It was shining steel and smooth, graceful lines. The edges were smeared in rust-red, and a gentle notation on one flat surface read, in faded black, Pakistani Steel. It whistled through the air and spun with breathless clarity, and it thudded when it landed hilt-first. It ripped when it landed point-first, and when it missed the target altogether it clanged like a misplaced triangle chime amidst the otherwise perfect synchronization of an orchestra. It slid neatly into a leather wrist-sheath, up a sleeve, down a boot, and, when twined with flowers, nestled gently into a girl’s hair.

(101 words)

New Skin

It is strange how such a little drop of goo can cause such pain at the same time that it begins the healing process. Strange how a small point of pain spreads with application to cause widespread throbbing, intense pain. What a strange invention, a single swipe provides you with protection and essentially a new skin to protect your wounds as your own skin heals and regrows. And I suppose it is an improvement, at least we are not using superglue anymore to close a cut in a pinch. The included antiseptic is also an improvement, sanitation is a big thing these days. I wish they would add a numbing agent to it as well.

Chain of Civilization

O necessary chain of civilization I spurn you!

Small you are; and growing smaller year by year. I shall have no leash to tie me to the world. When I walk about, I wish and want no interruptions. And I thumb my nose at you; you who would connect me to work. Ha Ha, you can not reach me. I have no need of you, with your bright lights, buzzes and rings, alarms, cameras, and now internet and music. I refuse to be cowed into admitting you to my presence until I deem it to be a necessity. So leave me be, I heed not your siren call.




(Am I getting any better in grammar or is it still abysmally bad?)

Project #19: Object Lesson

Describe an object. A single object, not a person or a place, just a thing. Feel free to wax poetic about it in ways that are usually frowned upon in actual novel-writing. Capture the detail of the thing and make it come alive. Maybe study an actual object around you and do your best to commit it to paper. Sadly, we do not have a thousand words, so keep it 100-300 words in length. Happy writing and good luck!