Week in Seven Words #237

congested
Most of the air in the room has been absorbed into the furniture - chairs stiff with disuse, a piano that would croak at the touch of curious fingers.

essence
"We should all be well," she says, peering at us with eyes that see nothing but cloudy shapes and light.

fried
Old homes by the ocean criss-crossed by power lines, their bricks glowing and their gables peeling away.

prospects
In the fountain - coins, litter, and a water-logged postcard; maybe someone making a wish about the next place they'd like to visit.

smolder
The smell of cigarette smoke off a leather jacket can be attractive in passing.

splotches
A courtyard: sticky fruit on stone hexagons.

unfurled
Ferns in a blue vase on a balcony, with the river below.

Week in Seven Words #81

glare
A flash of lightning fills up the window like an enraged eye peering into the room.

justification
It's the same situation with the same actors, but I describe it quite differently depending on the person I'm talking to.

manifest
Before leaving the library I drop my backpack on the sofa by the exit and start to rearrange its contents. That's when I see him wave hello from the other end of the room. He comes over, we talk, and the tightness in my chest eases. Sometimes a friend is there at the exact right moment, just when you need friendship most but don't hope for it or think to ask.

parabolic
The shape of the past few years resembles in some ways an inverted parabola, arcing up and then declining.

phrenic
Until the decision is made, it's difficult to breathe.

slops
The writing is ragged with indecision. A sluggish paragraph is cut through by a flash of insight all in capslocks, followed by a puddle of diluted thoughts that trickle off in ellipses.

treading
I look like I'm getting somewhere, typing and rifling through papers, but it's only an illusion of progress. Over time I grow tired and start to sink.

Week in Seven Words #20

almost
Moments when I'm close to something, so close and I don't realize it, and later I know that I've turned away too soon.

effloresce
On nearly every street I come across roses. They grow in cluttered gardens, among scraps of metal and plastic toys. They poke through chain-link fences. They thrust themselves up the sides of houses, twine around trellises, and peek over porch rails. Their heads sometimes bow towards the bright green grass.

geometry
The strange shape of sunburns - circling my leg exactly where my socks begin, or my arms where my sleeves end; patching around my knees and calves where I didn't apply suntan lotion evenly, or framing my left wrist where my watch has kept the skin beneath it pale. My skin is sore in triangles, trapezoids, and ellipses.

lighthouse
In the daytime there's an elegance to it, perched on a rocky ledge above the rush and murmur of the bay.

promenade
Quiet streets overlooking the ocean, where boats are peacefully scattered. The air smells like salt water, flowers and mown grass. The houses are large and silent, multi-layered with wide windows, balconies, porches with white wicker chairs.

seawater
When I approach the sea I try to guess what color I'll find it. A misty melting gray in the fog, or fracturing the sunlight on a clear bright day. A hard gemstone blue, or light blue with dark folds and white foam.

tranquil
At the peak of the old maritime signal tower, with a view of rooftops, sea craft, and water all around, I sit next to a soft-spoken guitar player. There's sunshine, music, and from time to time the clomp of people climbing the winding wooden steps.