Monday, February 10, 2014

Descriptive Language

The rainfall like puppy kisses on a winter morning.

Whenever he would get angry, she felt like a tiny stone adrift in the ocean.

My boss is a race car on Monday mornings determined to beat the competition.

The summer night was like tangled hair held in the grasp of an angry lover.

His house sits on the top of a small hill and reflects the sun in bright yellows and oranges.

Around here, a winter storm is a familiar ache.

The boats toss around on the ocean like the blubber in my belly.

After the sun has gone down, you will hear the sounds of music from the bars along the street; like ivory keys pounded by the sadness of  life.

At night the stories unfold like a soft blanket to wrap us in their familiarity and warmth.

For me, love is like a silver flute; the music of a Ferris wheel whistling all night long.

Friendship is a yellow shutter protecting me from intrusion.

My mother is a monsoon with frequent storms.

Evangeline hadn’t visited the place for years but recognized the smell of incense and beeswax. Her mind flooded with the memory of daily mass and Latin liturgy. She avoided looking into the eyes of the statue standing in the foyer. Her ears pounded and her chest tightened but she forced herself to walk into the empty church.

In the light from the stained glass windows she located the pew directly across from the fifth station of the cross. She genuflected and slid on to the familiar bench, bending close, scanning the seat, using her fingertips to locate the letters E and J. She remembered the day she scratched her initials into the surface while she waited for her turn at the confessional.  The longer she had to wait the deeper she dug in the wood with her bobby pin.

“They’re still here,” she said out loud tracing the letters with her fingertips, “Evangeline Johnson.”

“And whom might she be?” asked a booming male voice from behind her.

Charley's Restaurant was a lively place on Friday and Saturday nights. The other nights were as quiet as a morgue. The regular patrons arrived early just to claim their spot. If anyone sat in one of the regular's spot, let's just say, "it wasn't pretty". Actually, Charley's is more like a beer joint. Beer and cheap wine  splash on the floor leaving counter tops like paint splattered on an old forgotten canvas.

An ancient jukebox stands guard in the corner, wheezes and coughs out old, outdated tunes to customers equally old and outdated.

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