Submitted by A Canvas Torn
Use these three words (in any form) in a poem, scene, or short story. Try to include each one naturally.
There were the gelid flakes of snow,
Blinked away with incredible artistry,
Melted within seconds, cooling a warm heart.
There were the few seconds of faith,
Broken by some harsh words,
A lost girl settled beneath the ice,
Her dejection as a blanket,
Her world actively falling apart.
A delightful atrocity,
Her skin shed like a snakes,
Her serpentine veins were filled with venom,
Eating away at ...
Three years ago, Hannah was hit by a drunk driver. His punishment was atrociously minuscule in comparison to the life-altering injuries she sustained. Just 5 years of probation and a $10,000 fine for a drunk with a bad temper versus paralyzation from the waist down for a star high school athlete.
The day he was sentenced, Hannah picked up the last trophy she’d ever earned - ever would earn - and ...
He eyed her from his hospital bed, searching for signs that the flattery landed.
He saw her unmoved.
He backed out the flattery to give someone else credit and put her in her place.
He feigned sleep as he planned his next attack.
How did the hold he had over her as a child atrophy?
The honor to edit his 900-page work of genius would be his magnanimous gift.
A trophy to bring glory t...
Garden variety atrocities
tight bands around my chest
restraining my long atrophied wings
In the place
between all the things I have to do
and all the things I need to do
late pillow cool nights of deep lavender
Quiet hours precious as diamonds
high on the trophy shelf
Deep within the city's concrete swells,
Amid the husks, loneliness dwells,
The sewer tide rolls foul in the swollen dark,
You find me beneath the ebb, atrophy's special mark,
Rot's song bloats the body then time's teeth wither them down,
My special children are a trophy of murder, or here to join the drowned,
I pluck each special for they are my fruit,
They decay much sweeter, all beneath th...
Eighteen years of life and ten summers of the hunt were enough to teach Demiric, son of the chief, that the stag before him was a rare trophy indeed.
The majestic creature weaved between a web of low slung branches and thick patches of morning-bright fog. It looked his way, then stilled like stone.
Dem notched an arrow, muscles taut and aim ready, and a breath later let it fly. The shaft cut s...