It’s that thing, right. You know, that thing. That thing that you hold out and kind of dangle there in order to grab those things. You know, those things…the things with the wings, those things that flutter by…those things, you know. Well I was holding out this thing…
The catcher?
Yeah, the catcher!
Like a drop of water sliding down a sad windowpane, I am caught by the disheartening windowsill. It doesn’t end my existence; it only alters my way of life. And as such, many windowsills have been in and out of my so-called life.
what this is only one per day? i don’t quite get this game yet. Hello< i
ve just started. Don't judge me! D: This is ridiculous. Actually, this is great fun! ALALALALALA. How are you today? Why are you reading this? Will anyone ever read this? Blah blah blah blah. I don't think this is the point of this game
Im thinkin catcher in the rye. How Holden just wanted to catch the children in the field. He just wanted to be a child and play. How danny told me that when he thinks of my name he thinks of Holden. He said because it was an H name and he hadn’t heard it before. He told me don’t worry your not like Holden
Catcher. Of dreams, of thoughts, of love. I want to catch and hold these things for myself. Remind myself that they are always there and prevalent. They are the only constants in a world that is constantly evolving and morphing around me.
in the rye, she caught me, then let me go. It seemed I had her but for a moment. Now she is lost to me. The bitter taste of loss upon my tongue, burns in my heart, but forever will I hold that picture of her face inside my mind.
The baseball game was not very exciting, in Fran’s opinion. She wasn’t big on sports, and baseball in particular was slow-moving and excruciatingly dull, dull, dull.
She was, however, rather big on the baseball players. The catcher in particular had a really cute behind. It was enough to hold her attention until the game was over.
Halfway to the plate bill saw the catcher. she had thrown her mask away and a cascade of raven silk clung to her sweaty brow. he caught her eye and she was startled at his rugged handsomeness. so startled in fact, she was killed by the incoming ball meant to be caught.
The young girl looked up to the setting sun. Knowing she had only minutes before all the excitement would begin, she stood up and walked over near the bushes. “Hello firefly” she whispered as it landed on her finger. She admired it and let it drop into her mason jar in the soft summer grass.
The excess water dripped off the eaves, into the small wooden bucket placed below. She looked up at the worn gutter, beaten and bruised herself, and laughed. “Your trash is my treasure.”
In the rye we reside, with seeds for eyeballs and a small child roiling behind them. Don’t look at me that way, I don’t need to see your stare, your vicious, evil look. Pretend. Just pretend. (For me).
The words marched across the page in a straightforward fashion, as dry and emotionless as he could manage. With a huff that struggled to not be emotional, he reread his words for the last time, folded the page, and set it on the table on his way out the door, his backpack bouncing with the promise of each new step.
Falling is such a scary thing, whether it be from height or love, and I know that one day I will experience both at the same time. My heart dangles from a string, but slowly all these feelings of pain and heartache inside will build up and make it feel so heavy. One day there will be too much weight for the string to handle and it will snap and fall, and I’d hope that you’ll be the one that catches my heart before it hits the ground.
Butterflies are at their prettiest when they’re affixed with a needle to a cardboard. Many sought to find a beauty in death, equal to that of the butterfly, and decorated their self-inflicted wounds with words of poetry. My only wish regarding such glum matters as death, is that the afterlife includes coffee.
Catch her, please, and don’t let her go. She needs someone to save her but she doesn’t know. She’s falling hard and there’s nowhere left to go. Catch her, please, and don’t let her go.
“Please! You have to do it! You have to jump!”
The boy was crying now, half choking as smoke filled the air. A hand appeared on his shoulder and a face appeared in his vision.
“Honey, you have to jump. Do it. For me.”
And the little boy was pushed to the window and he fell as an explosion rocked behind him, sending him hurtling along with glass shards.
The Catcher and the Rye. I have always wanted to read that book. It’s supposed to be really good. I don’t know if I would like it though. I’ll put it on my list. What else? The Tale of Two Cities.
I used to play baseball, softball, those sports where you catch, throw, run. Funny, because looking back, sports may have been the closest thing to raw passion that I had, where I was genuinely excited to play, to practice, to show myself. I don’t know why it’s no longer a part of my life, and it makes me kind of sad.
“No!”
The ball was soaring above her head and she could hear cheers erupting from the opposing team as she tripped on impossibly gangly legs and fell.
A thud sound was heard as her knees planted themselves into the dirt and her glove flew from her hand as the ball landed harmlessly several inches away from her.
“The Catcher in the Rye? Really?” Jamie asks. Conrad sets the book against his chest, it’s worn out, older than he is and picked up at one of those second hand shops downtown.
“Shut up,” Conrad says, “I like it. You can’t judge me, you don’t even read.”
“Your reading list is like that of try-hard. I bet you like Palahniuk and Austen too?”
You can run all you want. They say you can run to the ends of the earth, you can hide where you please, change your name, anything. They say you can do all that and the catchers will still find you. It’s what they do really, if it wasn’t they wouldn’t need to be called catchers. They catch.
Catcher in the rye. Or a little boy with a baseball glove, staring into a huge sky, waiting for that thudding collide, that catch that will lead to a whole throwing forward of spirit. A web, a trap, a grab at something that’s not yours. Hay fields and gossamer golden threads with treasure suspended. Or – catch her, catch her quick – she’s falling. Breath catches in a gasp.
The catcher of the baseball team was reading Catcher in the Rye in the locker room while his son hung a dreamcatcher in his bedroom about two hundred miles away. If the catcher looked really hard at the pages of his book, he could catch a glimpse or smudges on the print. Meanwhile, his son was catching up with his homework and watching the feathers of his new decoration dance against the light breeze caught from his bedroom window.
I never fully understood the dream catcher.
I mean I understood that they were made to catch all your bad dreams.
But I never understood why people felt the need to tattoo themselves with it or anything. I mean, what higher purpose could it have to you to where you’d want it on your body?
I suppose it makes sense.
Catch your bad dreams, so only the good dreams are left.
Hm.
The catcher stood behind home plate.
“Strike!” Yells the ref as a bat barely misses the catchers masked face. Taking a few steps back, an eye catches his from the stands…
I sat in Spanish engrossed in The Catcher in the Rye. I was terrifeid someone would look over and see what I was reading, not because I didn’t want people to know I read, but because how could I explain such a book to people who stared inside of screens instead of out of windows of books and words?
I’d always sit in the bleachers watching the game, the pitches making their throws. I’d watch the people who’d catch the missed throws, their names always forgotten in the excitement of the experience. I’d watch the catches made in the outfield, when I’d always think that the hit was going to be a home run. The catcher always had a way of making the game end.
I’ve never read The Catcher in the Rye. My sister did and apparently it was absolutely brilliant and I should read it. It doesn’t seem like it would interest me, but then again I’ve said the same things about the Hunger Games, The Twilight Series (in my younger years, I assure you) and various other books she’s told me to read that I didn’t think I would like. Then again, she’s never been wrong yet.
the catcher in the rye is one of my favorite books. there is just something about the teenage angst which the novel is so famous for. Though i normally stick to a completely different style of literature, this one book caught my attention and i really enjoyed it.
The catchers were quick, so she had to be quicker. But how can you outrun something that isn’t even there? The only way is to not be there yourself– to run so fast that you’re essentially never there at all, or at least not long enough to leave a trace. To make sure no one ever remembers you, to never be caught, you can never been seen and never be noticed.
She’s the best catcher we have, but years of squatting behind the plate have worn her knees and threaten to wear her future. Can she give it up and move – oh god! – to the outfield? That’s where an arm of her caliber needs to be, if not throwing out would be base stealers.
It’s that thing, right. You know, that thing. That thing that you hold out and kind of dangle there in order to grab those things. You know, those things…the things with the wings, those things that flutter by…those things, you know. Well I was holding out this thing…
The catcher?
Yeah, the catcher!
impatient lines ahead.
look out,
behold.
the life is calling.
why was i never told?
Like a drop of water sliding down a sad windowpane, I am caught by the disheartening windowsill. It doesn’t end my existence; it only alters my way of life. And as such, many windowsills have been in and out of my so-called life.
what this is only one per day? i don’t quite get this game yet. Hello< i
ve just started. Don't judge me! D: This is ridiculous. Actually, this is great fun! ALALALALALA. How are you today? Why are you reading this? Will anyone ever read this? Blah blah blah blah. I don't think this is the point of this game
Catcher
Im thinkin catcher in the rye. How Holden just wanted to catch the children in the field. He just wanted to be a child and play. How danny told me that when he thinks of my name he thinks of Holden. He said because it was an H name and he hadn’t heard it before. He told me don’t worry your not like Holden
in the rye
baseball
dad
falling
ball
glove
picture
land
bases
sex
first base
book
book case
my face
facebook
annoying
Catcher. Of dreams, of thoughts, of love. I want to catch and hold these things for myself. Remind myself that they are always there and prevalent. They are the only constants in a world that is constantly evolving and morphing around me.
in the rye, she caught me, then let me go. It seemed I had her but for a moment. Now she is lost to me. The bitter taste of loss upon my tongue, burns in my heart, but forever will I hold that picture of her face inside my mind.
The baseball game was not very exciting, in Fran’s opinion. She wasn’t big on sports, and baseball in particular was slow-moving and excruciatingly dull, dull, dull.
She was, however, rather big on the baseball players. The catcher in particular had a really cute behind. It was enough to hold her attention until the game was over.
Halfway to the plate bill saw the catcher. she had thrown her mask away and a cascade of raven silk clung to her sweaty brow. he caught her eye and she was startled at his rugged handsomeness. so startled in fact, she was killed by the incoming ball meant to be caught.
The young girl looked up to the setting sun. Knowing she had only minutes before all the excitement would begin, she stood up and walked over near the bushes. “Hello firefly” she whispered as it landed on her finger. She admired it and let it drop into her mason jar in the soft summer grass.
The excess water dripped off the eaves, into the small wooden bucket placed below. She looked up at the worn gutter, beaten and bruised herself, and laughed. “Your trash is my treasure.”
In the rye we reside, with seeds for eyeballs and a small child roiling behind them. Don’t look at me that way, I don’t need to see your stare, your vicious, evil look. Pretend. Just pretend. (For me).
There’s a book called The Catcher in the Rye. I’ve never read it. A catcher is one who catches something.
You can’t catch me.
The words marched across the page in a straightforward fashion, as dry and emotionless as he could manage. With a huff that struggled to not be emotional, he reread his words for the last time, folded the page, and set it on the table on his way out the door, his backpack bouncing with the promise of each new step.
When I saw her in the bar, I tried to catcher in the rye.
Falling is such a scary thing, whether it be from height or love, and I know that one day I will experience both at the same time. My heart dangles from a string, but slowly all these feelings of pain and heartache inside will build up and make it feel so heavy. One day there will be too much weight for the string to handle and it will snap and fall, and I’d hope that you’ll be the one that catches my heart before it hits the ground.
Butterflies are at their prettiest when they’re affixed with a needle to a cardboard. Many sought to find a beauty in death, equal to that of the butterfly, and decorated their self-inflicted wounds with words of poetry. My only wish regarding such glum matters as death, is that the afterlife includes coffee.
Catch her, please, and don’t let her go. She needs someone to save her but she doesn’t know. She’s falling hard and there’s nowhere left to go. Catch her, please, and don’t let her go.
“Please! You have to do it! You have to jump!”
The boy was crying now, half choking as smoke filled the air. A hand appeared on his shoulder and a face appeared in his vision.
“Honey, you have to jump. Do it. For me.”
And the little boy was pushed to the window and he fell as an explosion rocked behind him, sending him hurtling along with glass shards.
The Catcher and the Rye. I have always wanted to read that book. It’s supposed to be really good. I don’t know if I would like it though. I’ll put it on my list. What else? The Tale of Two Cities.
I used to play baseball, softball, those sports where you catch, throw, run. Funny, because looking back, sports may have been the closest thing to raw passion that I had, where I was genuinely excited to play, to practice, to show myself. I don’t know why it’s no longer a part of my life, and it makes me kind of sad.
“No!”
The ball was soaring above her head and she could hear cheers erupting from the opposing team as she tripped on impossibly gangly legs and fell.
A thud sound was heard as her knees planted themselves into the dirt and her glove flew from her hand as the ball landed harmlessly several inches away from her.
“The Catcher in the Rye? Really?” Jamie asks. Conrad sets the book against his chest, it’s worn out, older than he is and picked up at one of those second hand shops downtown.
“Shut up,” Conrad says, “I like it. You can’t judge me, you don’t even read.”
“Your reading list is like that of try-hard. I bet you like Palahniuk and Austen too?”
You can run all you want. They say you can run to the ends of the earth, you can hide where you please, change your name, anything. They say you can do all that and the catchers will still find you. It’s what they do really, if it wasn’t they wouldn’t need to be called catchers. They catch.
Catcher in the rye. Or a little boy with a baseball glove, staring into a huge sky, waiting for that thudding collide, that catch that will lead to a whole throwing forward of spirit. A web, a trap, a grab at something that’s not yours. Hay fields and gossamer golden threads with treasure suspended. Or – catch her, catch her quick – she’s falling. Breath catches in a gasp.
And I fall
From these great heights
And I fell from dirty skies
And i fell,
Into the arms of the bitter catcher
The catcher and the cry.
The catcher of the baseball team was reading Catcher in the Rye in the locker room while his son hung a dreamcatcher in his bedroom about two hundred miles away. If the catcher looked really hard at the pages of his book, he could catch a glimpse or smudges on the print. Meanwhile, his son was catching up with his homework and watching the feathers of his new decoration dance against the light breeze caught from his bedroom window.
I never fully understood the dream catcher.
I mean I understood that they were made to catch all your bad dreams.
But I never understood why people felt the need to tattoo themselves with it or anything. I mean, what higher purpose could it have to you to where you’d want it on your body?
I suppose it makes sense.
Catch your bad dreams, so only the good dreams are left.
Hm.
The catcher stood behind home plate.
“Strike!” Yells the ref as a bat barely misses the catchers masked face. Taking a few steps back, an eye catches his from the stands…
I sat in Spanish engrossed in The Catcher in the Rye. I was terrifeid someone would look over and see what I was reading, not because I didn’t want people to know I read, but because how could I explain such a book to people who stared inside of screens instead of out of windows of books and words?
I’d always sit in the bleachers watching the game, the pitches making their throws. I’d watch the people who’d catch the missed throws, their names always forgotten in the excitement of the experience. I’d watch the catches made in the outfield, when I’d always think that the hit was going to be a home run. The catcher always had a way of making the game end.
I’ve never read The Catcher in the Rye. My sister did and apparently it was absolutely brilliant and I should read it. It doesn’t seem like it would interest me, but then again I’ve said the same things about the Hunger Games, The Twilight Series (in my younger years, I assure you) and various other books she’s told me to read that I didn’t think I would like. Then again, she’s never been wrong yet.
There is one thing i’m sure i’ll never become and that is a catcher, i have the coordination of a strawberry and the ball skills of a rhinoceros
“CATCH HER,” he screamed. His nightmare was finally coming true; she was slipping, falling, she was gone.
the catcher in the rye is one of my favorite books. there is just something about the teenage angst which the novel is so famous for. Though i normally stick to a completely different style of literature, this one book caught my attention and i really enjoyed it.
The catchers were quick, so she had to be quicker. But how can you outrun something that isn’t even there? The only way is to not be there yourself– to run so fast that you’re essentially never there at all, or at least not long enough to leave a trace. To make sure no one ever remembers you, to never be caught, you can never been seen and never be noticed.
catch this dont miss everyone will laugh at you ridicule never understand
Makes me think of the Catcher in the Rye. I really didn’t like that book. Holden Caulfield was a brat.
She’s the best catcher we have, but years of squatting behind the plate have worn her knees and threaten to wear her future. Can she give it up and move – oh god! – to the outfield? That’s where an arm of her caliber needs to be, if not throwing out would be base stealers.