In Search Of. . . Written Words: Writing Prompt

In Search Of. . . Written Words: Writing Prompt

Start with a number.

210,380

Two hundred and ten thousand, three hundred and eighty hours.

Plus or Minus.

Two hundred and ten thousand, three hundred and eighty hours, I've been sitting here, waiting. Not with baited breath, not even with apprehension, because I had no earthly idea of what I was waiting for.

No unearthly idea either.

I just sit here waiting.

Glancing down at my watch occasionally, I tick the seconds off. Sometimes, for the sake of my own morbidity, I count to six, gasp, and begin again.

When I was a little girl, someone told me that every six seconds a person died. I remember waiting in grade school counting them out. Sometimes I still do.

Now, I watch the clock, wondering if in another six seconds I will be the one, suddenly finding myself standing in eternity.

Those six seconds have passed, and another six in the time it takes me to write this. It’s a horrible fascination with death—a fixation almost. It is a constant in life.

In my 210,380 plus or minus hours, I've witnessed the death of eras. My life began at the end of one. I've watched millennium change. Every year, I celebrate the life of a new year, forgetting to mourn the death of the old one.

We often forget death. It’s odd though.

It’s everywhere.

We are all dying from the moment we enter the world. The cells break down second by second. We see it. A wrinkle here, a sag there. Maybe even a grey hair. Maybe our ears go, then our eyes until finally—

The heat will leave our bodies at some point. It seems the thing that makes us alive is how warm we are.

To be cold is to be dead.

I’ve felt the heat leave a body before. He’d already gone into the afterlife, but I held his hands as his body caught up to what his soul had already done.

So, I sit here waiting for nothing to happen, ticking off six seconds at a time.

Maybe I’ll have counted down to the death of someone I know.

I pray not.

But, who knows. . .

210,380

Two hundred and ten thousand, three hundred and eighty hours.

Plus or Minus.

And still counting.

As Always, 

In Search Of. . . A Good DIY: Cross Stitch Key Hook

I have this thing about doing everything myself, this way everything always matches exactly. A while back I saw this big wall mural. It was paint, but it had the same effect as a cross stitch. I’d always thought it was pretty, but I never knew exactly where I’d paint one since I live in an apartment.

Then, the other day I was looking for a creative way to make a key hook, and I came across a picture with hooks drilled into the bottom.
Then it hit me. I could make a cross stitch painting key hook.
Here's how I did it.


All right, so to do this you need supplies, obviously.

You’ll need

•  A canvas
•  A ruler
•  Tracing paper
•  A pencil
•  Tape
•  Paint brushes/plate/rinsing cup
•  Paint
•  Lacquer
•  Hooks
•  A drill
•  Nails

Wow, that’s a lot of stuff.

The first step is come up with a design. If you don’t want to, you can also just get a real cross stitch and follow that pattern. I have these teapot dish rags that I wanted to carry over. That you can just draw out on a piece of regular paper, or tracing paper.

Next, make a grid on the tracing paper.
To do this, you measure the actual paint area, not the canvas size. If you go by actual canvas size, your grid will be wrong and you’ll have to adjust.
Unless you want to perfect your grid making techniques, tape this one down to your surface and use it every time.

Then, you want to a color study, to see how your colors and your design will fit together. I did two, one in colored pencils, and the other in paint. You don’t have to do two, but it helps your mind be prepared for the actual thing.

Tape a second piece of tracing paper over your grid paper. I will tell you this now; you can sketch it on there, but follow the rules of cross stitch. If you don’t, it won’t look exactly right, unless you don’t care. I wanted mine to look like an actual cross stitch.
So remember, your “stitches” need to look like this.

All right, so now that you've driven yourself insane with painting your grid, you get to draw yet another one, but this time on the canvas.

If you do a color wash on your canvas, do it before rather than after you draw the grid. Be sure to draw the lines lightly, because they don’t exactly erase very well. You won’t see them unless you know what you’re looking for or have really light colors.

Now, you begin painting. It takes a while unless you've got an easy design and a small canvas. It took me a few days to get it to where I wanted it to be. That’s because I accepted some terms and agreements that obligated me to do everything the long way. I shaded mine.

Once you’re done painting it, spray some lacquer on it to make it shiny and protect the paint. Do this part outside. Your painting will smell for a while.

You’re perfectly all right to stop here if you just want a painting. It will look really pretty.

If you want the key hook, you go a little further.

On the bottom, mark out where you’d like the key hooks to go. You want the kind that has the screw on one end, if there are any other kinds. You also want the sturdy kind to hold the wait of your keys. I got mine from Walmart for a whopping $0.97.

Take your drill and start a hole where you marked. It will take a little bit to get through the canvas.

Once you do that, take the screws and twist them into the start holes. Hold them straight because they will turn and you’ll have to do the drilling bit over at least three times.

And Finito!

Hang your practical work of art and enjoy.

As Always,

In Search Of. . . Written Words: Worthless

Worthless

Worthless.
It's such an insignificant word for such a poignant feeling,
For such a terrible, inevitable fate.
Worthless.
We all feel it at some point or another.
Or maybe feel it constantly.
Worthless.
It's a feeling of nothingness.
Of a talentless, uselessness.
Worthless.
An oppression crushing down on you.
Down on your soul and spirit.
Worthless.
It's such an insignificant word for such a poignant feeling.
For such a terrible, inevitable fate.
Worthless.



Some days, I feel like this amazing avant garde, haute couture gown that's been put in the Goodwill bin.

That's all.

In Search Of. . . Written Words: Writing Prompt

In Search Of. . . Words: Writing Prompt

Your villain sneaks into your hero’s bedroom one night.

She lay there, full lips parted slightly, blonde curls covering her face. I lifted the sash to the window, wincing as it shrieked in protest. I stared at her, watching her stir. She must be exhausted; normally any sound would wake her instantly; that or she was completely at ease. She gave a snorting breath, but didn't wake.

I melted into the shadows of the room. Zariel Harcos slept soundly, unaware that I was in her room. It wasn't the first time, either. I’d been slipping into her room here by the ocean since she’d left the Haven. She’d come to visit her cousins on their holiday, or rather, guard her young cousin.

I kept my distance.

If I got to close, I’d find the end of her blade under her pillow lodged which ever fleshy part of my body was closest to her. I turned towards her vanity, trailing my fingers over the perfume bottle, brush, and little hand mirror. There was even a puff with powder to drain the color out of her face, in case she spent too long in the sun. It was too feminine for her, even if she was my Littlest Lion Princess.

They must have wanted her to blend in with the local color. Her taught muscles always made her stand out. She wasn't soft. Well, maybe except her lips. Those were soft and sometimes her eyes reminded me of a frightened doe. Normally, she hid it all behind a diamond exterior. I picked up her brush and inhaled the scent. It took me back to those early days. She’d stand in front of me waiting for me to teach her a lesson. Her hair had brushed the small of her back then. It almost did now, but it looked different somehow. Maybe it was the moon light that streamed into the room.

I wanted to touch that hair again. Hold it in my fingers, as I did when she was young and pliable to my plans. Now, she steeled herself against my most earnest entries. I stood at the foot of the bed, watching her chest drift up and down, almost not moving. I sauntered next to her face. I hovered over it.

I leaned down, careful not to touch the bed. My left hand rested above the one that would grab her blade nestled under her pillow. She had the other pinned under her face. My right hand brushed the curve of her neck.
I pressed my lips to hers.

She jerked awake; her hand immediately grasped for the blade. I dropped my weight on her hand that went for the blade. She struggled. I squeezed.