paper pilots

be creative every day

carnivalsunshine
feywords
ask/prompt

(500) Days in Wonderland.

Images from (500) Days of Summer official movie poster & Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland promotional photos. 
absolut sloth. absolut sin. 

carnivalsunshine:

Something silly for teamsweetpower. Still not completely satisfied with it, but. :)

image source: toma & maki

writeworld:


Writer’s Block
A picture says a thousand words. Write them.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!


10 - 224
There was a boy she knew once, with eyes like the roaming seas and a smile full of endless tomorrows. A boy with a straw hat.
He used to sit with her in the alleyway, after, when her cheeks were so swollen that it was hard to swallow, when her eyes were red and sensitive and it even though it hurt so bad to cry she could never stop the tears. But he sat with her in silence. Once he held her hand and it was the first time she felt them - the raised circular grooves littering his palm. 
The first time her vision wasn’t blurry with tears, she also saw them. Round pink rings fading to white. The scar under his left eye, behind his ear, the nape of his neck, spanning his arms and legs.
But they weren’t so bad, he said. They’re mostly healed and don’t hurt that much anymore. 
And she wondered how he could be so brave, how he could still smile and laugh that silly laugh and still dream of getting out of this town, of traveling so far, so continuously, that he would never see the setting of the sun. 
That’s why I always keep this with me, he said, tapping his straw hat with a grin.
It sounds nice, she replied. 
Then come with me.

writeworld:

Writer’s Block

A picture says a thousand words. Write them.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

10 - 224

There was a boy she knew once, with eyes like the roaming seas and a smile full of endless tomorrows. A boy with a straw hat.

He used to sit with her in the alleyway, after, when her cheeks were so swollen that it was hard to swallow, when her eyes were red and sensitive and it even though it hurt so bad to cry she could never stop the tears. But he sat with her in silence. Once he held her hand and it was the first time she felt them - the raised circular grooves littering his palm. 

The first time her vision wasn’t blurry with tears, she also saw them. Round pink rings fading to white. The scar under his left eye, behind his ear, the nape of his neck, spanning his arms and legs.

But they weren’t so bad, he said. They’re mostly healed and don’t hurt that much anymore. 

And she wondered how he could be so brave, how he could still smile and laugh that silly laugh and still dream of getting out of this town, of traveling so far, so continuously, that he would never see the setting of the sun. 

That’s why I always keep this with me, he said, tapping his straw hat with a grin.

It sounds nice, she replied. 

Then come with me.

(via carnivalsunshine)

absolut wrath. absolut sin.

09 - 9/16: soap bubbles

Janie splashes earnestly, both arms smacking into the water and sending soap suds and bubbles rippling away from her and over the side of the tub. It is bath time again, but not in Janie’s mind. In Janie’s mind, she is a ship in swirling, storming waters, surrounded by sparkling white glaciers and snow-covered mountains in the distance. The ship and all its crew is in turmoil, pandemonium is wide-spread and men and women and children rush frantically to-and-fro as water rises up to their ankles, to their knees and elbows and everyone is trying to find a lifeboat. In the midst of the chaos, one man and one women, against all odds, find each other and cling desperately together, but it is not for them that Janie’s eyes wet at the corners, salt water dripping down her chin to meet scented soapy water. Janie cries for the old man and woman still lying in bed with their hands clasped together as the water continues to rise. Janie cries for them because they remind her of her grandfather’s twinkle-eyed smile and her grandmother’s gentle hands building soap bubbles in her hair like a diamond tiara during bath time. Janie only cries during bath time because when she dries off, eyes red-rimmed and bloated, she can say the bubbles got into her eyes.

absolut avarice. absolut sin.
writeworld:


Writer’s Block
A picture says a thousand words. Write them.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!


08 - 414.
The house in the center of the village is, in a word, curious. 
"Curious," Mrs. Flowers of Flowers’ Emporium of Curios and Knickknacks remarks, snipping a lilac from her flowerbed to arrange in an exact replica of a 6th century red Byzantine glass vase. "The house is curious."
"No, not the house," Mr. Hormel of the village Butcher Shop says, bringing his cleaver down across a leg of lamb so hard that the blade sticks in the board. "It’s the people. They are - curious. They seldom go out in the day and even less seldom go out at night."
"There’s four of them, I believe," Miss Emerson, the village gossip, says, thumbing the rim of her straw hat. "I’ve seen it, you know, though I’m not quite looking for it, of course, but one does happen to catch a glance every once in a while out her window. The shadows, I mean. There are no windows on the bottom floor, but you can see them congregating upstairs by candlelight. Four shadows. Puttering around until long past midnight and then the candle goes out.” She’s breathless by the end of the sentence, takes a measured pause before finishing. “One really cannot know what they are doing up there all day until so late at night. The four of them, so curious.”
"I simply don’t know what they do for a living," Ms. Harmon, the village spinster, tsks, beady eyes set on her needlepoint. "They’ve a street stall set up right outside their front door but there’s never any business."
"Five," little Melissa Burton, the dentist’s daughter, whispers with wide eyes and gleaming silver teeth. There are warship explosions overhead and she ducks her head under the desk until the shudders die down before peeking her head out once more. "There are five people living in the house in the center of the village." 
"Five? Miss Emerson said there are four," you say gently, ignoring the second tremor and the debris falling from the ceiling, scattering across desktops.
"Miss Emerson likes to believe that she knows everything about everything," Melissa sniffs, shooting you an obvious look of displeasure. "But I know the truth. There are five.”
"But the shadows."
"You can’t very well see the shadow of a child.” 
Then the question that very well should have come first, that would have come first had Melissa not been a child herself (a constant victim of adult-skepticism). “How do you know?”
"I’ve met them, of course." 

writeworld:

Writer’s Block

A picture says a thousand words. Write them.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

08 - 414.

The house in the center of the village is, in a word, curious. 

"Curious," Mrs. Flowers of Flowers’ Emporium of Curios and Knickknacks remarks, snipping a lilac from her flowerbed to arrange in an exact replica of a 6th century red Byzantine glass vase. "The house is curious."

"No, not the house," Mr. Hormel of the village Butcher Shop says, bringing his cleaver down across a leg of lamb so hard that the blade sticks in the board. "It’s the people. They are - curious. They seldom go out in the day and even less seldom go out at night."

"There’s four of them, I believe," Miss Emerson, the village gossip, says, thumbing the rim of her straw hat. "I’ve seen it, you know, though I’m not quite looking for it, of course, but one does happen to catch a glance every once in a while out her window. The shadows, I mean. There are no windows on the bottom floor, but you can see them congregating upstairs by candlelight. Four shadows. Puttering around until long past midnight and then the candle goes out.” She’s breathless by the end of the sentence, takes a measured pause before finishing. “One really cannot know what they are doing up there all day until so late at night. The four of them, so curious.”

"I simply don’t know what they do for a living," Ms. Harmon, the village spinster, tsks, beady eyes set on her needlepoint. "They’ve a street stall set up right outside their front door but there’s never any business."

"Five," little Melissa Burton, the dentist’s daughter, whispers with wide eyes and gleaming silver teeth. There are warship explosions overhead and she ducks her head under the desk until the shudders die down before peeking her head out once more. "There are five people living in the house in the center of the village." 

"Five? Miss Emerson said there are four," you say gently, ignoring the second tremor and the debris falling from the ceiling, scattering across desktops.

"Miss Emerson likes to believe that she knows everything about everything," Melissa sniffs, shooting you an obvious look of displeasure. "But I know the truth. There are five.”

"But the shadows."

"You can’t very well see the shadow of a child.” 

Then the question that very well should have come first, that would have come first had Melissa not been a child herself (a constant victim of adult-skepticism). “How do you know?”

"I’ve met them, of course." 

absolut pride. absolut sin.

07 - 145: Nothing you say will make this better.

writeworld:

Writer’s Block

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

Nothing you say will make this better. 

His bones feel ground to dust, hollow, aching, but he would magnify his physical pain by a thousand-fold if he could make anything better. 

She sits before him on dirt covered knees, an elbow thrown over her eyes and fingers splayed and clawing at the air. Before her, she’s erected a little mound of dirt with a bare, leafless twig stuck at the top. Her shaking has stopped and there are patches of dried blood on her hair, through ragged, torn holes in her clothing.

Nothing you say will make this better.

He kneels at her side, places his threadbare coat over her shoulders but it slides completely off and she makes no moves to save it. Nothing he can say or do will make this better, but he will be here for her until after the end.