Thursday's 3 Word Wednesday
The 3WW prompt words are bridge, disturbed and still; this bloomed from a conversation I had with a artist friend who confessed she sometimes had thoughts of death. I told her it was pretty natural - just don't follow through. Because that's just foolish.
Tortured Artist in Repose
She sat motionless and disgusted, naked prickly-heat thighs stuck to a plastic lawn chair on a bland high-rise balcony that overlooked delivery truck dispatch yard.
At least the concrete cubicle she called an apartment was near the bridge; there were days when a breeze would come up just right and she could (imagine) the smell of something wet and alive.
Was it late or was it early? Certainly not dawn, the night stretched like crushed velvet that had been oiled, all crinkly and slick; the air was still and its hot molecules – even at this hour – clung to her skin like being sprawled across baked bricks.
The urge came over her again, that curl of stomach muscles just before the moment you vomit, and beads of sweat appeared at her temples. She gripped the green plastic chair arms with a ferocity of fingernails bent into talons; an anchor to keep herself planted in the chair.
Another wave, the desire to fling herself from the balcony, sail quietly through the air and reach terminal velocity with the grimy street below.
“You’re disturbed,” she whispered.
But that’s what tortured artists on the verge of fame do, right?
Tortured Artist in Repose
She sat motionless and disgusted, naked prickly-heat thighs stuck to a plastic lawn chair on a bland high-rise balcony that overlooked delivery truck dispatch yard.
At least the concrete cubicle she called an apartment was near the bridge; there were days when a breeze would come up just right and she could (imagine) the smell of something wet and alive.
Was it late or was it early? Certainly not dawn, the night stretched like crushed velvet that had been oiled, all crinkly and slick; the air was still and its hot molecules – even at this hour – clung to her skin like being sprawled across baked bricks.
The urge came over her again, that curl of stomach muscles just before the moment you vomit, and beads of sweat appeared at her temples. She gripped the green plastic chair arms with a ferocity of fingernails bent into talons; an anchor to keep herself planted in the chair.
Another wave, the desire to fling herself from the balcony, sail quietly through the air and reach terminal velocity with the grimy street below.
“You’re disturbed,” she whispered.
But that’s what tortured artists on the verge of fame do, right?
Comments
My thighs are having sympathy pains right now as I think of her pulling them off that chair, lol.
And speaking of stomach churning...
Urp.
In this case, Thom, you're the "she".
Didn't your mother ever tell you to share? It's good for the soul, man!
Yet another fascinating post, dude!
(and, by the way, I understand that quoting lines from 'When Harry Met Sally' ain't too macho, but cut me some slack Jack, I'm sick!)
Very descriptive and well-written.
You kept me on the edge with this post.
Introducing myself