To make this honest, this is another blog wars challenge.
This one is up against Shruti Vijh, who creatively writes the blogspot, Shruti -Click There!
Check out her work centered around romantic essential validity.
The Challenge: Who can write the better romantic fiction?
The Response: I have Marion Cotillard on a silver platter begging with Chocolat et les Fraises.
Instead of standard Flash fiction, I will toss around the sculptured masterworks known as rant-indulged prose.
--
Marion's Eyelash
The day I will meet Marion Cotillard is not a mystery to my intensivities. If an eyelash flew from the corner near her tear duct and floated across a thousand suns and moons only to have the gentle breeze drop it on my cheek, I would gasp like the first time I heard music on 12 strings.
I would press my fingers against the lash, and I would know…I would just know that in some strange corner between the universe and nothingness Marion Cotillard’s fingers were on her cheek, and she was dreaming of a strange man, for whom she did not know but wished so greatly to encounter. However, as she dreamt of this stranger from the acid dream of contemplation, I would run the tiny eyelash between my fingers and stare into it with mystery. I would know that the tiny specimen was not my own, for the single smallest feeling of contact would send the shivers like the ending of “La Vie en Rose” into my mindset with the force of plate tectonics.
At that single moment, I would know that I was holding a piece of Marion Cotillard, and her vision would not see anything in front of her other than the dream of drawing her lips close and for a fraction of time itself kissing the stranger that perhaps has je ne sais quoi and also perhaps has a silent connection with even more descriptive words than Sylvia Plath’s Thesaurus.
At that single moment of paradise and the fortune of the creators of paradise, I would lean my face forward, and my lips would begin to form into a kiss. I would reach out, and I would feel the smacking of Marion against me like July afternoon when the heat is overbearingly hot, but you just have to stay outside. Then once the kiss is over, the only taste in my mouth will be the ecstasy of a French woman beyond the sea.
The eyelash will float away in the soft breeze, but in many ways it will still remain on my cheek.
QATFYG:
Shruti Vijh, can you top this?
This one is up against Shruti Vijh, who creatively writes the blogspot, Shruti -Click There!
Check out her work centered around romantic essential validity.
The Challenge: Who can write the better romantic fiction?
The Response: I have Marion Cotillard on a silver platter begging with Chocolat et les Fraises.
Instead of standard Flash fiction, I will toss around the sculptured masterworks known as rant-indulged prose.
--
Marion's Eyelash
The day I will meet Marion Cotillard is not a mystery to my intensivities. If an eyelash flew from the corner near her tear duct and floated across a thousand suns and moons only to have the gentle breeze drop it on my cheek, I would gasp like the first time I heard music on 12 strings.
I would press my fingers against the lash, and I would know…I would just know that in some strange corner between the universe and nothingness Marion Cotillard’s fingers were on her cheek, and she was dreaming of a strange man, for whom she did not know but wished so greatly to encounter. However, as she dreamt of this stranger from the acid dream of contemplation, I would run the tiny eyelash between my fingers and stare into it with mystery. I would know that the tiny specimen was not my own, for the single smallest feeling of contact would send the shivers like the ending of “La Vie en Rose” into my mindset with the force of plate tectonics.
At that single moment, I would know that I was holding a piece of Marion Cotillard, and her vision would not see anything in front of her other than the dream of drawing her lips close and for a fraction of time itself kissing the stranger that perhaps has je ne sais quoi and also perhaps has a silent connection with even more descriptive words than Sylvia Plath’s Thesaurus.
At that single moment of paradise and the fortune of the creators of paradise, I would lean my face forward, and my lips would begin to form into a kiss. I would reach out, and I would feel the smacking of Marion against me like July afternoon when the heat is overbearingly hot, but you just have to stay outside. Then once the kiss is over, the only taste in my mouth will be the ecstasy of a French woman beyond the sea.
The eyelash will float away in the soft breeze, but in many ways it will still remain on my cheek.
QATFYG:
Shruti Vijh, can you top this?
poetry!
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