COLOR
In Louisiana, the color drips from the sky to the earth beneath our feet -
there's more color on one block in the French Quarter than there is in all of Southern California, i'm certain i must be right, her bright yellows are blinding, kind of like the light bad filmmakers imagine Los Angeles is submerged in every day no matter the season -
NOLA drips with character. her skeletons of wood and black/white/blue/pink iron are protagonists in a book that i am eager to read and never finish, though i'll put it down for a time, let it sink in, let me ruminate -
it stays humid, my face dripping with the day, slipping down my collar, marinating my body. i love this spicy green river flavor, i savor every drop -
About the Creator
Camille Ora-Nicole
Hi! I'm a writer, artist, placemaker, and producer from Southern California. When I'm not writing, I'm drawing, and if i'm not drawing I'm working on a project, and if not doing any of that, i'm Netflix and chillin'. IG: @oracami_studio
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More stories from Camille Ora-Nicole and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Such a gorgeous photo 😍. Beautiful writing too.