The Abstract Art Gallery
A writing gallery created by writers from around the world. From poetry to song lyrics, from essays to entire novels and short stories.
…divided us. I had a Buzz Lighting doll. She had a Woody doll. I burnt Woody’s hat. I left it on a lamp while she was either in the bathroom or asleep. The top of his hat glued to the lamp. I wasn’t creative. I never wanted anything because I didn’t know that those things would be possible. It was awful how jealous of my sister I was. I wanted everything she wanted. Every time she came up with something new I wanted a part of…
By Cristina C.
Read More…hair was super thick and flowed halfway down her back. A pile of bobby pins, all without their nubbins, lay on the counter, ready to get to work. She studied her face in the mirror, as she did every morning, trying to decide who she would be today. Decisively, she grabbed her mass of rich auburn hair and the magic began. Twisting, pinning, folding, swirling, pinning, winding, pulling, tucking, pinning. The intricately spiralling braid wrapped regally like a crown upon her head. Another final glance and she turned and walked away, ready for the day.
"It's way too hot to…
By Sharon Cunningham
Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/sharon.cunningham.5076
Read More…gingerly upon her knees, under the hot sun.
He sits upon the bench, watching her; his gaze steady and intent.
Delicately, but purposefully, she pulls pensively with her hands.
He urges her to pull just a little harder, "or it won't come out," he says!
She licks her lips.
He notices how charmingly her moistened lips glisten in the sun.
Expectantly, he looks down at her bent head, intent on the task at hand.
"Aaaah," he proclaims, as she cheekily leans back to rest on her heels!
Triumphantly, she holds her trophy in her soiled hands.
Delightedly, she proclaims, "Well,…
By Sharon Cunningham
Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/sharon.cunningham.5076
Read More…like this is where I belong, in the embrace of an infinite Ocean of love. The briny taste is inviting me to spill my own salty tears. Now I know why the Ocean is saline!! Others have been here before. Others who were also me.
But this is about you, not about them.
Try again...What do you feel?
I feel love.. almost more than what my heart can hold. For my child. But there is more love there. For more children. Children that I did not have, maybe? ...Hold on…. this is not about your child, not about other…
By Shilpa K
Website: https://touchingthecloud.wordpress.com/meandering/barefoot/
Read More…natural drug. She stopped feeling, she stopped caring, she was just one with the cold elements and like a harsh parent it controlled her with its cruelty.
She was now wet through. All her colours had drained away and her face was like a wrung-out cloth. From afar, she was a large bundle of damp darkness – the dark hues of failure. Her face failed to smile and her eyes refused to brighten as they had done once upon a time. Her skin was pallid apart from her weather-beaten cheeks and her hair was a lifeless grey. She was a shadow that nobody…
By Sarah Bowden
Read More…than before.
The giant knocked me down cold in the first round. When I regained consciousness, I looked at its face. It refused to give up. I was astonished. The lines on its forehead mirrored mine. The dark under its eyes was a lot like mine, but only darker. Perhaps it had fought many similar fights or even wars. It had my eyes, my lips. It was all me. But its hands were different. Why ? How can I be fighting against myself ? But I am. Right? If this giant is anything like me, then I know its weaknesses and…
By Mohini Awasthi
Website: http://mohini19blog.wordpress.com
Twitter: mohini_awasthi2
Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/mohiniawasthi.96
Read More…at the top of his voice! His Mommy open the door he just slammed and asked him, What’s wrong Harper? “Are you still mad about the cookie?” she asked. “YES and Daddy won’t play with me! I’m so bored!!!” He replied.
“Is that all?” Mommy asked with concern in her eyes. You see they were moving again and they had done a lot of moving. They called it “adventures” but Harper was attached this time. He was only three when they arrived in Washington but now he was turning 5 and he was feeling a lot more. More fear…
By Trina Casey
Website: http://galaxyswhale.com
Twitter: TrinaCasey13
Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/GalaxysWhale/
Read More…how my friends and I insulted each other. John had started it and we followed whatever John did without thinking much about it. He wrote U2 on his schoolbag and within a week we’d all done the same. John had got the Arab thing from his dad who’d been in prison. There were no Arabs in our part of Avon.
Stephen looked up, eyes wide, shaking his head.
“What?” I sneered, staring at the streaks of red sauce.
“What you just said…
By Matthew Roy Davey
Website: https://matthewroydavey.wordpress.com/
Read MoreMemories form the fabric of our identities: we encode, we store and we retrieve. Children's memories are often formed from play, games and fun finding. In an infant, memory is like sand used in a play pit. When shaken through a toy sieve most of the sand works its way through the grid and disperses. As adults to the grid is covered with a fine gauze mesh, most of the memories remain as they can't work through the holes. As toddlers, we make recollections from a smell, from sight, from touch, from what we hear, from indifference or…
By Alison Little
Website: http://alisonlittleblog.wordpress.com
Twitter: Alison05
Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/alison.little1
Read MoreI had already killed three when I read the prompt “Bad Traditions” and thought of submitting. It seemed appropriate that I should consider myself a follower of bad traditions rather than a serial killer. Indeed, bad traditions had been responsible for a lot of my criminal development. First off, my family had bad traditions. One was called my father and he was a Marxist and a political fanatic. The second bad tradition was my sister and she was a global feminist with very bad traditions – one being to write boring academic texts about famous nineteenth-century women writers. There were many other bad traditions in my family. For instance, regular holidays to Dublin and to St. Malo, so regular that their repetitive nature became a major pain in the ass. Drinking too much beer was a bad tradition I must hang round my own neck like a frothy, mad albatross.
And it was this last-mentioned tradition that got me killing the fourth.
It was a summer night and I made for a couple humping in the sand dunes up above the nudist stretch of the Ostia beach outside Rome. It was nine-thirty and I possessed two long, pretty sharp blades. Why two? Well, I wanted a fourth and a fifth. As luck would have it, he thumped me on the head and ran away…but only after twisting off her, seeing her dying there under the Italian moonshine, pushing himself inside his downed trunks, and moaning off. That knock on the head led to other bad stuff, traditions, really, like the self-confessional writing up of murders I’m doing now.
As I watched that bastard who’d hit me and avoided the second blade running or scampering away from me, blubbering and wailing, I knew I’d made a big mistake. The bad tradition had been broken and he’d got away.
I’m sure there will come a knock at my door one of these days. They’ll come and want to know what I was doing on those Ostia sands, why a girl was found dead, why a panicked guy had turned up at the carabinieris, blabbing about a maniac with two blades, slicing down on his naked bird. It’ll happen….that other bad tradition that gets killers caught.
By Jonathan Finch
Website: https://www.amazon.com/author/finchjf
Twitter: JonathanFinch12
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/writereflect123go/?ref=bookmarks
