This is the room of no walls, just a few windows, the glass in the panes slowly, agonizingly melting down to the sill, the coffee door chipped at the shoulder from the chair it keeps banging into when it opens, face peeling from the moisture, wax long gone.
This is the room of paper dolls, cut out from yellowed magazines; Dottie Dimple, Lottie Love, Jenney June. Cobalt eyes, tin foil smiles. They plaster the plaster walls, so thickly that you need a palette knife to cut them away, covering every square centimeter except the light source, with its light switch dangling from a ceiling fan that won’t turn.
This is the room of moths, of closed cabinets and incomplete stamp collections. A pile of papyrus sheets lies on the desk next to a brush, blackened with the ink of twenty-three years. Laundry flutters in the humid dense air just outside the window, washed with detergent powder and the grandmother’s tears.
Please critique.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Although some of your references I do not understand, I'm sure they have meaning to you, which is always a good thing. Writers write to get their ideas and feelings on paper, and right now I am seeing yours. I can't really say anything negative idea-wise since ideas are unique to the person.
ReplyDeleteStylistically, I love how you make the most of imagery without actually using too many adjectives. The verbs...they are so...sensory "agonizingly melting down" etc.
This is a very well done piece. I'm sure there are flaws in it, just as there are flaws in everything in life. But the flaws are what makes each piece unique...That's my cheesy fortune cookie saying of the day.
The first two don't really refer to any specific room. I just felt like writing that. :D
ReplyDelete