Karimah Peart
Bio
I've always had difficulty in being raw and vulnerable but fine and literary art allows me the ability to do so and the process gives me joy. I hope that my art inspires you to do the same and if it does, you try to inspire others as well.
Stories (17/0)
Smoke Day
“Run! Hurry! Hurry people! Hurry! Move it! We’re running out of time!” said Amiel. A seven foot giant, with incredibly tanned skin, the body of an Olympian, and a revoltingly handsome face crowned with jet-black wavy hair that moved freely. “Get to the outskirts as fast as you can! Don’t stop! Keep going!” he shouted to the crowd in his raspy voice, running along side them. Some of whom were bloody and bruised, all in shock, frantically looking and screaming for loved ones.
By Karimah Peart3 years ago in Fiction
How 'The Bull' turned to Blu
Color was everywhere except in his eyes and I’m sure if he could speak he would say the same of Maddy’s. A thousand Arabian suns could have risen as they stood upon the carpet of marigolds garnishing Kentucky bluegrass but none could have broke their sight. He was a beast, standing at roughly six feet and weighing maybe twenty-five hundred pounds of sheer muscle; donning distinctive white and gray horns each spanning a foot in length, gracefully curved with needle point black tips and a tendency to flaunt them by ramming them into the already worn fence that enclosed the pen.
By Karimah Peart3 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - August 2021
My Process Is My PeaceTop Story - August 2021
As a little girl, I grabbed every drawing medium in sight. At first I found my way into every crayon box, then tasting every color trying to assess which one spoke to me best internally-the brilliance of a 4 year old mind. Then I chose where I wanted that medium to display itself for everyone to react, to feel, to sense and connect with and most of the time that ended up being somewhere I could actually reach and that was often the wall. My father never paid attention to any of my artistic rendezvous, but my mother did. So she wasn’t too overjoyed whenever she’d find a new stickman that had walked across her wall to go find his friend or grab his dog. That played no part in my further endeavors to share my art. In fact it fermented the fact that the walls was where I needed to be to educate and demonstrate the value of having art adorn walls. A few years later and I decided other ventures were worth my interest. So I picked up carving and well, I found myself creating a masterpiece on my mom’s mahogany table using her house key. An artist is an artist and creativity must be exploited to discover one’s abilities. So yes, I stand by the stick girl with the afro, the dog by her side and the apple tree that lent her shade. Again with my father more focused on himself and his career, never quite using the house for other than nourishment and sleep, he didn’t notice the solid body of work greeting faces as meals were devoured. My mother on the other hand, having a fit after she found it.
By Karimah Peart3 years ago in Motivation
4x4 inches
“Nah nah nah nah nah, you’ve got rolls. You look like a donut on a pole!” Jay's feet began to quiver like spaghetti dancing on a fork. The right one faster than the left. He could feel himself slipping down the yellow steel pole he tried to climb and although proud that he made it that far, he was petrified that he was now entertainment for the people who hated me most- his classmates. Harry McClaire- the principal’s son being the worst of them.
By Karimah Peart3 years ago in Fiction