“She’s a cute kid. It is a little awkward, and I’ll just say it’s a little creepy, but she’s still cute.”
“Yeah, but… I don’t know,” Dave said.
They rewound the tape and watched it a fifth time.
The girl danced awkwardly, reflected in the mirror.
Her gangly and uncertain movements were adorable.
“See? Reflections don’t lie… admit it.”
“Yes, but they’ll just think it’s a fake.”
Karen sighed…
“Probably. It does look strange having just a reflection of her dancing.”
The cracked sidewalk led up to the creaky steps of the old Victorian house. He took a deep breath… and began walking up to the porch just above the stairs. With each step, it felt like he was walking in molasses. Slowly, his legs felt heavier the closer he got. At the steps, he struggled…
The anticipation of the launch filled the room as everyone waited with bated breath. The tanks of the rocket were full, and the countdown had begun. This damned rickety control station, hastily constructed, rocked to and fro as everyone concerned focused on the impending launch. Somewhere, two solid objects of the control platform were thumping…
The light flickered… the landscape, reflected and mirrored, stretches out, filling the expanse. The little pieces are placed—trees and bushes set, and then adjusted perfectly. The intricate details were difficult to manage, but these… miniature, small… diminutive… I am not even sure anymore what to call them. They are detailed and seem perfect for the…
Last night, I could hear them fighting again. Why she lets him control her like that, I will never understand. I push lightly at the door, just to check. It is locked again. Poor girl. She never leaves except when she takes her car for groceries. I had burst in once, but I was no…
The canvas set.Every stroke vivid.Every line drawn, nuanced.Painting with deep, resonant colors.The tones shift, the lighting rewrought.Building in layers upon layers, each subject meticulously captured.Standing back, we look again before changing direction.Every subtlety intentional.The canvas complete, the critics arise. In painted prose—a novel.
The young waitress sat at the counter, her tips laid out in front of her as she counted. Old country songs, soft in the background, as she felt around for her glasses. A movement from the corner caught her attention. The last booth. The last customer… creepy. The guy seemed to be staring at her…
