picture perfect }} open

picture perfect }} open Apr 29, 2014 7:50:13 GMT -5

Post by k!ah on Apr 29, 2014 7:50:13 GMT -5

If you are going to post in this thread, please please please try and get your posts to 500 words. Thank you :33

MAGNUSCOSTELLO

Delicately I place my foot onto the pure white grains of sand. I watch as my foot is swallowed by the gains in a matter of a few moments. It was such a peculiar process, just the way the grain slide over one another so easily almost as though it was nothing… It was amazing and every time I came down onto the beach it caught my attention, my eyes always observing as the grains swallow my feet whole without so much as an effort. Smiling I take another step and watch, as once again, the sand devours my foot hiding it from view. My smile grows and I fit my gaze and look out into the ocean, my hands grasping the note book which was tucked away safety amongst my grasp. The day was beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky. Not a spot of pollution on the sandy shores. This was y place, my little get way. I knew that some people used it for surfing, or for a place to clear there mind and I knew that it was always kept clean- after all it was such a peaceful place, why destroy that sense of piece by littering the ground with the waste of mankind?

It only takes a moment for me to find the place I was looking for, the place which was hidden from the naked eye, a place that was sheltered by the wind, thats was tucked away from the gentle crash of the waves. For years I have sought out this exact place, this place where I could allow my mind to wander, the place where I could truly be lost in my thoughts and my pencil and paper.

I push aside a few stray weeds before finding the perfect place to sit down. I cross my legs in front of my and place my elbows on them, resting my head in the palms of my hands. close my eyes for a moment and just sit quietly, my notebook placed in the sand beside me. I listen to the buzzing of insects. I listen to the crashing of the waves, the rhythmic elegant hum that sent shivers through my spine. When I listened closely I could hear the slight singing of a couple on the beach as they talked to each other in sign song voices. It really was a magical get away. The place where I didn't have to worry about the store, about my parents or my brother.

My parents.

Where were they? Where did they go that night? That night that lead them to never return- breaking my heart and the hearts of my siblings. Often I wander why they left, was it something that I did? Or what if they didn't leave and they were kicked out of the district, or if the capitol had something to do with it… or maybe it was that they didn't love us, maybe they couldn't care less for us so they left… But despite all of that I still loved them, I loved them and I missed them and I wish they were here now. I wish that they could see the boy I had become even though I knew that on the inside that I was rotting away. Rotting away because of my worries over them, over the store over my family.

Sighing I open my eyes, the ocean only a few hundred meters in front of me. Smiling I reach for my note book, my hands closing around the leather bound book. This book has been in my possession for years now and it was filled with my thoughts my memories- but not with words, but with pictures. There were no words in this book, words were not sting enough to describe my feelings- but images and pictures and drawing and paintings they were strong, they could deliver my message,

Delicately my fingers flick through the pages which were covered in ink and paint. Tis was my timeline, this was my everything. Everywhere I went this book came with me. I was an artist and an artist needed his canvas and this book was my canvas. I smile down at my masterpiece as I open up to a clean page. there was not a mark on the page, clean, a new slate for my flowing thoughts. After a moment I pick up my pencil and place in n the peg and line begin to form as my hand moves as though it had a mind of its own.

picture perfect }} open May 1, 2014 19:35:15 GMT -5

Post by Lux on May 1, 2014 19:35:15 GMT -5

H O L D E N T H A T C H E R
"E V E R Y T H I N G I L O V E I S O U T T O S E A"

Work had become rather uneventful for Holden—it was the same old routine, a different day. Unload the cargo off the landing stage, lug cargo onto the landing stage, haul more cargo off the landing stage, and so on. The cycle of monotony had drained the poor tow-headed boy, making him a worn-out mess whenever he got off the job. His limbs ached with the torment of a mundane life, his leaden heart and heavy eyes signifying the full extent of his agony.

An insatiable longing to set sail had begun to burgeon within Holden, and he lamented his decision to forswear the long voyages to remain at home and supervise his sister. The former deckhand yearned to stand on deck once more and feel the salty gusts billowing in his straw-colored hair, the ocean sprays dowsing his face and breaching his nostrils. He deeply cared for his sister, of course, but to surrender to the qualms of his sibling was depriving him of that sense of adventure he so desperately craved. To combat the crippling lethargy, he made the conscious effort to take beachside jogs in the evenings following work. The fair-haired sailor boy sought also to extricate himself from the fetters of disillusionment, for the rigid contempt he felt had usurped the childlike idealism he once basked in.

Wiping the sweat off his brow with his tartan handkerchief, Holden bent over with his hands resting on his knees. He respired in through his nose, out through his mouth—the deep lungsful revitalizing his very being, pushing the physiological boundaries of his diaphragm. An arm of the beach reached out before him out into the horizon, thickets of oceanfront brush cluttered about the area. He rose from his position and, with a squint of his emerald eyes, surveyed the vicinity for anything remotely fascinating. You never know what hides in the bushes. A peculiar flicker of dark obsidian midst a wall of coastal scrub caught his eye and painted a wide grin across the boy’s face.

Among the cerulean crescents caressing the shore and the tangles of the brush ingrained in the white sand, black was such a curious color to observe. Is it a skunk burrowing into the sand, so far from home? Holden nimbly bounded through the scarce bundles of vegetation in the direction of the spectacle, unbearable anticipation coursing through his veins. Skulking about the brush, the fluid motion of a mysterious figure spellbinds Holden. He stops in his tracks and discerns that the form is indeed the outline of another boy, evident by the square jaw, taut features, and brooding eyes.

Holden would have liked to have gone completely undetected by the dark-haired fellow, but the opposite could very well have been true. The boy appeared to be immersed in a leather-bound book, his hands etching across the pages with a delicate finesse. Swallowing any sort of disinclination, Holden parted the shield of seaside brush amid him and the object of his fascination with the movement of his hands. “Whatcha’ got there?” he inquired in a rich tenor voice. Catching a glimpse of the artwork, Holden eagerly added before the artist had a chance to respond, “That drawing sure is...impressive, is it yours?”

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