Theme--Sideways by lovetodeviate

Wordspill


There is a curtain on my window. It is wihite and tends to billow, as if I were aksng it to be a cloud, as if I had been starved of nature and bright skies. There is always a particular sslant to sunlight, which makes is uspect. Light does not really clarify anything. And if you look into it, all you see is a great blindness. It is the only thing that allows yu to see blindness.


Through y curtain I see a lot of things that I shouildn’t. ut I know people watch me back, s it is all right. It’s in my nature. The bright sky of voueurism. Today, I see a man and a woman in the room acrosin the building next to mine. ItThey must have rented the toom. ForThey they are in aplayful, sexual mood. The girl iswearing a pari of trousers, a shirt and a tie that are much too large for her They must be his. And the man is pulling on a sari shirt. He doesn’t have a sense of coordination  I think. The mvoemtns are so awkward, which upset me, because men in saris are rather elegant, if they pt in the effort. The woman helps him drape the sari. Naughtly, he decides not to ewar the blouse. I cannot decide their relationshop. Are theylovers fridns, siblings strangers colleggues.  


The woman powedes his face and Nos ehs pencils his lips and fills it in with red.


Nothing happens. as usual, until the girl notices me watching from my balcony. So she comes to draw her own curtiansand she winks at me, as if Were a playful too.


Then it’s back to sunlight.


Scrubup:


The curtain against the window is white and tends to billow, as if I were asking it to be a cloud, as if I had been starved of nature and bright skies. Much like a cloud, it allows sunlight to filter through. There is always a particular slant to sunlight, which makes it suspect. Light does not really clarify anything, and if you look into it carefully, you see a great blindness.


When the atmosphere dims, I see a lot of things that I shouldn’t, but I know people watch me back, so it is all right. It is this nature I like: the bright sky of voyeurism.  


Today I see a man and in a woman in the apartment building next to mine. They must have rented the room because they are in a playful mood. The woman is wearing a pair of trousers, a shirt and a tie, that are too large for her. They must be his. The man is pulling on a sari skirt. He hasn’t a sense of coordination, which upsets me, because men in women’s clothing are rather elegant when they put in the effort.  


The woman helps him drape the sari. He decides not to wear the blouse, like a confused widow. The woman powders his face.


Are they friends, lovers, siblings, colleagues?  


Nothing happens as usual, until the woman notices me watching from my balcony. She draws her own curtains and winks at me. Does she think I am playful too?


Now there is a great light moving out of the sky – an immense bounding thing – as if playing with itself.


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Theme--Sideways


Wordspill: by apocathary

and the car began its fourty foot skid straight down main street, wing mirror already a pebble in the avalanch of parts that skittered behind our groaning skeleton as it. my brother's face wsa slapped against the pavement rushing by the passeneger window. he was unconscious, not aware of the abstract masterpiece his cheek was leaving behind as he  slowly lost his perfect smile. to a helicopter we would be a very thin line wita four dour metal exclamation mark.  a particularly liberal news reporter would note this in the six o'clock news.  . he would be fired the next day. eventually newton began his whisper against the chassis, and we started to decelerate in bangs and booms of bike racks and parking signs against the hull. i had struggled out of shcok to notice the empty back seat and sunk deep underneath it again. I'm not sure how long we skidded for ,the song we'd been listening to had stopped dead as the cd skipped out of its slot, eliminating any estimate. the bcoffe shop accepted us into its arms like a mother.

Scrubup:

One second of wind whipped rotation and the car began its forty foot skid straight down main street. The wing mirror was already a pebble in the avalanche of parts that skittered behind us. My brother's face scraped against the pavement that rushed by the passenger window. He was unconscious, mercifully unaware of the abstract masterpiece his cheek was leaving behind as he ground away his perfect smile. To a helicopter we would appear as a very thin line with a four-door exclamation mark. A particularly shocked, liberal news reporter would note this in the six o'clock news. He would be fired the next day and die ironically in a car accident the next week.

Eventually Newton began whispering to the chassis and we started to decelerate with the bangs and booms of bike racks and parking signs shattering against the hull. I had struggled out of shock to notice the empty back seat before sinking underneath it again, this time with despair and guilt as my guides. I'm not sure how long we skidded for; the album we'd been listening to had been jammed out of its slot, so there was no beat to count to. My best guess would be fourteen seconds before the coffee shop accepted us into its arms like the most homely mother.


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Theme--Clockwatcher by apocathary

Wordspill:

this man stands at the head of a cube of water, frown creasing his forehead, polyester covering his gaunt form. he is staring deeply into the water, into the shadows and angles that mottle its surface. little wavelets that strike the edge, orginiating df from the young man who flails his arms in the middle. in his in the man's hands is a stopwatch. black, with two buttons. a no-nonsense piece of quipment build to mark the passage of time in short sweeps of a needle. so far it has swept its own full arc many times, and the man is not impressed. this is the reason for his forehead.

the child, however, is not concerned with seconds, or split seconds. he is concerned for the wetness in his lungs, with the ache in his shoulders. with the string on his bathers. by the time he reaches the end of this pool of shadows, he is naked. he drips on the quartz and pebbled surface. his father says nothing. the man says nothing. he walks back to the dressing rooms. do not run, the sign mocks him as he walks.

Scrubup:

This man stands hunched at the head of a great rectangle of water. A frown creases his forehead, polyester covers his gaunt frame like the gaudy wrapping of a kite frame. He is staring intently at the water, at the shadows and angles that mottle its surface. Desperate wavelets strike the edge, their origin is a boy who flails his arms in the middle of the lane. In the man's hand is a stopwatch; black, with two buttons. A no-nonsense piece of equipment built to mark the passage of time in precise sweeps of a needle. It has swept its own full arc many times since the boy drenched himself. The man's eyes harden.

The boy is not concerned with the shards of seconds. His focus is on the wetness in his lungs, with the ache in his shoulders. The string on his bather shorts. By the time he reaches the end of the pool with its shadows, he is naked. He drips on the quartz and pebbled surface. His father says nothing. The boy walks back to the dressing rooms. No running, the sign mocks him.