Friday, November 29, 2013

Week in Seven Words #191

In the dark, the bracelets look like glowworms wriggling over each other.

Their singing sounds like gentle pleading.

Orange liqueur burns my throat and settles with bittersweet warmth in my head.

Beside a windy leaf-strewn path in the park, he talks about his break-up. We nod in sympathy. We don't let on that we could see it coming months ago.

Staid men, pillars of the community, holler like frat boys. It's supposed to be a display of joyful exuberance, but it frequently comes across as forced.

Chairs in disarray, people nibbling on chicken as others pray. The afternoon festivities wind on in unfocused joy.

A man in medieval garb hums under his breath as he cuts past the bicyclists in the park.


Nan said...

Predicted is so sad. I wouldn't want to be around the Raucous fellows. I've never had Bols alone, without being in a cosmo or margarita. I love the sound of sheepys.

Naida said...

I like the sound of bioluminescence. Interesting take on raucous.

Nancy Cudis said...

Their singing sounds like gentle pleading...Your lovely way with words again... :)

HKatz said...

Thanks for stopping by.

@ Nan - yep, 'predicted' was painful to witness.

@ Naida - bioluminescence was a lovely arts and crafts project made for me :)

@ Nancy - thanks!