Entries Tagged 'chisels' ↓

Old prospector
touch starved,
carved by a life
courageous.
slow experience
indulgent of
long expeditions
through sandstone,
diverting thought
through seventy years alone.
Desire for expression
reduced to improvisation,
art on a rock,
tacit knowledge,
graffiti facit,
stone faced,
fossil.
Chiseled,
dreamed,
dead.

The only thing I would change would be the spacing, I think you didn't put enough on each line to make it flow easier.

I am looking for some stone masonry tools, chisels for lettering & carving as a present, where is the best place to buy them from.

Hi Cassie

I work with stone sometimes, i bought my chisels online. I phoned up and asked for advise first and they were really helpful.
heritage-supplies.com

I have pasted a link to there site

Hope this helps

Phil

bon tools is where i buy all my masonry specialty items… bontool.com

I have to write a short story for Creative Writing and this is what I've come up with so far. Please give me good feedback; this is for a grade! D:

I had this one dream once that everyone in the world was of Chinese origin. Don’t ask why, I probably overdosed the Asian food or something. But the really weird thing about this dream (besides the fact that everyone was Chinese) was that nobody spoke and we all communicated via codes and symbols that we carved into shiny wooden planks.
Most of my dreams tended to be this way –pointless and, well, odd. still, they were dreams, figments of my overly complex mind, not anywhere at all near reality. And I never expected them to be. But when I first woke up from this one dream, I knew for sure that it was different from all the others.
See, my grandfather was a carpenter, and for many, many years (ever since he was a little boy to be exact) he had loved to engrave things into solid objects. he cut trees and used their bark for building furniture, statues, and many other things that he then sold. But the other leftover wood he would chop into little planks, no larger than my history textbook, and etch within their surfaces deliberate arts and designs. he used to let me paint these after he was done, back when I used to be a little boy. I loved helping him. I loved the way the planks would sit out in the faint evening breeze to dry, how they would glisten under the sun the next morning. oh, how grandpa’s face would glow with pride. He’d pat me on the back and say, “Look at that, Seth. look, my boy, how beautiful. Think of how proud your mother’s gonna be when she sees these!”
And my mother was happy with these. She hung them all around the house. over and under her springtime paintings, in the kitchen above the sink, they also framed the fireplace in the living room. Soon, our house was filled with them. every corner, every wall, every surface had a piece of grandpa and his designs. I even hung some in my room. But instead of pretty flowers and words from different languages, I asked grandpa to carve me things like planes and cars, guitars and drums, suns and moons that danced in the deep burgundy.
I had exactly twenty-three of those. ten had musical instrument on them –the ones I could play, like violin, drums, and piano. Grandpa even made me one with a ukulele. I never learned how to play it, though grandpa promised he’d teach me. still he insisted I had one, because it would remind me of him and how he used to play ukulele for us in the backyard on those warm summer nights. But then he made another seven with airplanes and speed cars on them; five had crescents; one was a dazzling sun.
The night I dreamt of these planks was the night of my grandpa’s first death anniversary. I spent the whole day out in his workplace –a little cabin beside our house with small glass windows. there, his tools and old, abandoned projects lay the same from when he left them. Paintbrushes remained dipped in open paint cans, dried and hard; woodchips coated the ground where you stepped; old axes, chainsaws, and chisels sat untouched on the dusty wooden surfaces. there was even one of his favorite comic books open to the page where he left off on his chair, I noticed with amusement. some of these last touches of his seemed pretty creepy, I admit. But mostly they just triggered some kind of deep, stirring emotion inside of me –an ache, a missing. I’d mingled too much with my grandfather, and we were really close. Sometimes, I even thought I’d grew on to him a little too much. It only made it worst when he left, you see. I missed him a lot. And as I stood there, staring around his empty cabin, I was surprised to feel the tears streaming down my face.
I decided to stay there for the night. I didn’t feel like going back home, facing family and friends – happy faces who knew nothing of what it felt like to be a simple boy with no real talent but dream of sharp paint aromas and still feel comfort. Maybe they’d never know, and it wasn’t their fault. still, I think I just needed some time alone. Losing someone as special as grandpa was never something you really got used to.

its very good !!!! i really enjoyed reading it! i think u have a reall talent for this stuff. i want a sequal! lol jk bu ti like the way u start out…it attomatically gets the reader interested in this dream that u are had. im glad u had a conclusion too must people in creative writing just stop when its the end but u didnt and i appreciated that!! also i would like to say that it was very very good!