I just found some old writing from an exercise...
1. Based on a picture of a smartly dressed woman walking into a street with a brown paper sack of wildly bright flowers.
She bought herself flowers for the kitchen, because she knew he wouldn't. Oh, he would show at the party. He would be charming. He would touch her wrist, neck, her lips with his. But he did not think beyond the moment; did not plan. She thought he did not care.
*
The piano was well tuned, well cared for, and a joy to play. The small things brought him happiness. A pretty melody, a nice voice to accompany it. Soft skin and perfume at the edges of awareness. Her flowers on tables and dinner parties with friends. So he played.
*
He took a break and she let someone else take a turn. It was sloppy but fun and he danced with her to someone else's tune. He kissed her, she kissed him, and she felt the movements of a dip. Her friends clapped. She got her happiness in small doses.
2. Based on a magazine spread. One side was a warm wooden home, the other was a tidy modern home.
It was like two worlds colliding. Her space, bright and eccentric, her mother's cool clean lines. She preferred wood, her mother brought metal into her space, her center, her life.
*
The hospital bed took up most of the room, but there was wall space for the many pictures. Her mother's life was fractured but the pieces were still in frames.
*
Here they were in Boca Raton, visiting relatives and here! They were going to school together, learning the path to and from home. Halloween, Christmas, Easter, birthdays, and their life.
*
If the room was a cage, it trapped death. The bars, the pictures, were life. But an imitation cannot fight reality. Her mother brought change. And sadness with hollow hopes.
3. Based upon a picture of a wall altar with hundreds of burning read candles.
Lauren went to worship. She went to pray and weep and beg for intervention from someone more powerful. "Light another candle, little girl." The light from the altar did nothing to warm her. She was utterly alone.
*
The Voice left her again. A new night, a new terror. All the ways she spun, turning from help to help that did nothing in the end. The Voice came, The Voice left. She lit another candle.
She bought herself flowers for the kitchen, because she knew he wouldn't. Oh, he would show at the party. He would be charming. He would touch her wrist, neck, her lips with his. But he did not think beyond the moment; did not plan. She thought he did not care.
*
The piano was well tuned, well cared for, and a joy to play. The small things brought him happiness. A pretty melody, a nice voice to accompany it. Soft skin and perfume at the edges of awareness. Her flowers on tables and dinner parties with friends. So he played.
*
He took a break and she let someone else take a turn. It was sloppy but fun and he danced with her to someone else's tune. He kissed her, she kissed him, and she felt the movements of a dip. Her friends clapped. She got her happiness in small doses.
2. Based on a magazine spread. One side was a warm wooden home, the other was a tidy modern home.
It was like two worlds colliding. Her space, bright and eccentric, her mother's cool clean lines. She preferred wood, her mother brought metal into her space, her center, her life.
*
The hospital bed took up most of the room, but there was wall space for the many pictures. Her mother's life was fractured but the pieces were still in frames.
*
Here they were in Boca Raton, visiting relatives and here! They were going to school together, learning the path to and from home. Halloween, Christmas, Easter, birthdays, and their life.
*
If the room was a cage, it trapped death. The bars, the pictures, were life. But an imitation cannot fight reality. Her mother brought change. And sadness with hollow hopes.
3. Based upon a picture of a wall altar with hundreds of burning read candles.
Lauren went to worship. She went to pray and weep and beg for intervention from someone more powerful. "Light another candle, little girl." The light from the altar did nothing to warm her. She was utterly alone.
*
The Voice left her again. A new night, a new terror. All the ways she spun, turning from help to help that did nothing in the end. The Voice came, The Voice left. She lit another candle.