Friday, October 16, 2015

Week in Seven Words #265

Silver branches with buds that bide their time.

The plum-colored house overlooks an abandoned lot. Papers, cigarette stubs, and glass have piled up on the front steps. Among the weeds along the base of the house - the blur of rodents bolting for cover. The French doors are open by a hair.

I need to be careful, when helping her, to consider my motives and make sure I'm not playing the part of knight errant.

Suddenly the window pops open, and he thrusts half his body out and waves and whistles.

The statue stares at copper-colored pavement, a bicycle rack, a man and woman arguing about a mutual friend.

He dreams of living on a farm. He doesn't know anything about farm life, but he wants to live on one. The city makes him feel like less of a person; he imagines that on a farm, he'll feel like he's made of flesh and not frayed wires. He'll be surrounded by earth and growing plants. He'll rise at dawn and commit himself to bed at dusk. This is his dream of farm life.

The dry vines on the building look like veins on the back of a hand.