So where do you live? I live in a junkyard, there is so much fun and cool stuff here. I found this computer in someones house, and since it looked abandoned i gave it a home, one less stray computer in this world. Ok, maybe the owner had gone to the store and left their window open. Ok it wasn’t open but people shouldn’t just leave largish rocks around breakable stuff like windows where anyone can reach them.
The light off the piles of Junk cast odd shadows as I made my way through the piles. My Blond hair escaping the confines of the camouflage Yankees cap I had tucked it into. I could hear my mother’s voice screeching in my ear as I walked through the yard. “Now Lizzie, don’t go playing around junkyards.”
The junkyard. She hated it. She hated that damn junkyard more than any other think in her confining world. She would give anything to escape it. She just couldn’t leave. She didn’t have anything to give.
The junkyard dog was a throw-away. He would have preferred to hang out on the hills of scotland and chase sheep that he had no intention of biting. Instead, the spiky dogcollar entrapped him.
I once went to one with my dad and i remember unloading everything in the wrong area because he didn’t want to pay the extra fee for what we were disposing of. The big tractors were amazing to me at that age and it stunk horribly.
Junkyards are the graveyards of kitchen appliances. Every oven a tomb. The stench is the same stench. Everything is death and dying in a junkyard. Everything is salty from the rain.
I have see a junkyard before. Sometimes there is a big dog who guards the junkyard. I think that there may be some treasures in the junkyard… one just has to dig in the right places. You know what they say. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. So why not call it a TreasureYard?
i once saw this episode of house where the patient got radiation poisoning from something his dad gave him from his junkyard. the thing is, the dad lied to the doctors and said he worked at a construction company because he thought that the type of job he had would affect the type of treatment his son got. that’s just stupid. doctors don’t really care what you do for a living as long as you can pay for whatever treatment you’re receiving, and besides the guy’s son died anyway.
I feel like junkyards are waste places to certain people, but to others, it holds the treasures we have yet to find. They hold stories no one will ever tell or hear. But maybe, if we look hard enough, the stories will tell themselves.
The junkyard. To the naked eye, it looks like a mass of garbage and things no one would want anymore. But to some, it could mean a treasure trove of possibilities. Oh the creations! The art! Why would anyone want to throw away this broken bike? Or this recliner chair with a spring sticking up out of the cushion?
I walked nervously into the dark, seemingly deserted junkyard. Looking around, I noted the large, scary-looking guard dog sleeping fitfully buy the shed. I’m going to make this quick, I kept telling myself. Get in, talk to them, and get out. Simple as that, right? Right?
I looked out the back door of the store, which overlooked a junkyard in the distance. Normally, there would be crows and gulls reeling about in the sky. There was nothing. Panic and misery finally welled up in me, and I collapsed on the stoop, sobbing until I had no tears left.
All the things. Disposed of. Abandoned. Dead and forgotten. A single soul walked though the piles of junk and realized how consumption stains our existence and everything we do. The sight is shocking and revolting, but also proof that humanity has developed an unhealthy culture were consume and dispose play leading roles. The wandering soul wonders what the future might bring. Will we destroy ourselves in an act of ignorance, or cease to be blinded by fame and greed? Will we save this flawed planet?
It had been a while since I’d left the house. The light burned as it lit my eyes and I felt like an insect emerging from a tunnel beneath the ground. It had been weeks and only now could I stomach the outside world. And I walked over the hills I knew as a child and crossed beneath the trees where I held my first kiss, and I entered the clearing I’d known all my life. The junkyard we hid in when my father drank too much, the old cars we played on when we wanted to be older. This place was full of dust covered memories and burnt edged photographs.
Well, I met you at the junkyard, you were looking kind of pale. Wondering if any of the colours matched any of the books that laid on your bed. You said look after me when I’m lost, it’s hard for me to make sense of things, when all my feints have fallen and my mind is searching for memories that don’t make me long for the past.
junkyard dog..
horders
car parts and random parts of any and every random things that exist. metal
other people’s trash are another person’s treasures.
her belt,at least she still had her belt.it was a virtual junkyard of tools.small,compact tools:efficient tools.ah-ha!her p.g. phone.she may no longer be able to fly out of this soon to be hell hole,but she could call for rescue
Nobody knew where the junkyard ended, it was so large. It spread for miles, some would say. Who lived there? Only the birds and Ol’ Man Bevins, so he was called. He scrapped a lowly living, even though he was a millionaire.
My room is like a junkyard. A person could do an archeological dig and see what I am all about, just by spending time in my room. There are artifacts like clothes and shoe, bits of history like homework and pictures and food, oh the food!
Come and visit!
junkyards are cool. theyre like a playground for hillbillies. you go in and get ywhatever you need off of an old broken down car and put it in your car. how does that not sound like fun. fuck i wish i was a hillbilly. i could go to a playground everyday. that playingground being the junkyartd. ahahahahahaha.
Broken tools and spools of wire
littered the school grounds.
The children were held inside for their recess, so as to not get broken shards of glass embedded in their feet by a game of tag gone awry. Still, no one complained, because they had a place to learn. Be grateful for your life. Some live in a junkyard.
We stood in the junkyard, my father and I, for the longest time, just the two of us. Then, today, I brought Kyle with me. “What are we doing here?” he asked. “Shhh.” I picked through the pieces left behind, searching, trying to find. “Stacey?” “Shh.” I lifted it, the exact thing I wanted to find, “Look.” “What is it?” “Recycling, rich boy.”
With my camera round my neck I tiptoed through mounds of junk, other peoples’ lives buried in other people’s dirt and shining in a corner of soil the face of a man long dead smiling with pride into the junkyard.
Onec e there was a man who lived in a junkyard and he was happy because nobody bothered him. except the aliens who hovered around over his head every night. then he died. but his legacy of fine dinning lived on.
My bedroom has become less of a home and more of a junkyard. Then again, the state of my bedroom has always reflected the state of my mental space… so what does that say about me?
Once upon a time there was a large dog. Charlie, which was the name of this dog, lived in a junkyard. There he guarded the junkyard from intruders and bod people. He was a happy dog because he was keeping his home safe and sometimes he also got to bite people. Charlie thought that biting people was very fun and liked to do it often.
Memories of Sanford and Son, during the 70’s, watching the show in Detroit, I learned so many punchlines about El Segundo, it wasn’t until I visited 20 years later to realize the punchline was dated and in short, junk!
“What in the hell is wrong with your room?!” My mom yelled at me. “It looks like a damn jumkyard!” She started picking things up and throwing them away.
“What in the hell are you doing?!” I yelled back at her, grabbing the things out of the trash. She glared at me. I’ll never let her know why I never clean, I’ve kept it the same ever since you left me.
I Knew it was here. It had to be. The scrap of meaning I want. No need. The meaning of life is something out of mind, out of thought that occasionally comes out to bother you, like a bird that always manages to get up before you do. But it had been bothering me too long, and now i needed to find it. Where else to look but the place no one else would? Why not look in a junkyard.
a junkyard. a place to throw your trash. but rememeber one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. embrace your junk, sometimes it’ll remind you of the things you once loved. a junkyard contains rando’s junk. it’ll tell you a story about who they were and what defined them. take a peak.
There I stood. Alone in a junkyard. Cold, shivering, and lonely. I wondered for a moment how I had gotten here, then came to the conclusion that a flashback would be necessary.
I live in a junkyard. By myself. No friends or family come to visit me here, here in my world of misfit toys, of thrown out food, and washed up treasures. They think my home is dirty, that I’m dirty, but really there just too clean. But I suppose that’s just the way of the world, the modern one, at least.
I’ve never seen a junkyard in real life– do they exist outside of the universe of cartoons in which packs of children must navigate obstacles in order to retrieve something lost? How did that plotline come to be so overused?
So where do you live? I live in a junkyard, there is so much fun and cool stuff here. I found this computer in someones house, and since it looked abandoned i gave it a home, one less stray computer in this world. Ok, maybe the owner had gone to the store and left their window open. Ok it wasn’t open but people shouldn’t just leave largish rocks around breakable stuff like windows where anyone can reach them.
Making my way through the junkyard, I spied many interesting things. The bird circled overhead and shiny objects caught my eye. An uninhabited heaven.
The light off the piles of Junk cast odd shadows as I made my way through the piles. My Blond hair escaping the confines of the camouflage Yankees cap I had tucked it into. I could hear my mother’s voice screeching in my ear as I walked through the yard. “Now Lizzie, don’t go playing around junkyards.”
The junkyard. She hated it. She hated that damn junkyard more than any other think in her confining world. She would give anything to escape it. She just couldn’t leave. She didn’t have anything to give.
The junkyard dog was a throw-away. He would have preferred to hang out on the hills of scotland and chase sheep that he had no intention of biting. Instead, the spiky dogcollar entrapped him.
I once went to one with my dad and i remember unloading everything in the wrong area because he didn’t want to pay the extra fee for what we were disposing of. The big tractors were amazing to me at that age and it stunk horribly.
Junkyards are the graveyards of kitchen appliances. Every oven a tomb. The stench is the same stench. Everything is death and dying in a junkyard. Everything is salty from the rain.
I have see a junkyard before. Sometimes there is a big dog who guards the junkyard. I think that there may be some treasures in the junkyard… one just has to dig in the right places. You know what they say. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. So why not call it a TreasureYard?
i once saw this episode of house where the patient got radiation poisoning from something his dad gave him from his junkyard. the thing is, the dad lied to the doctors and said he worked at a construction company because he thought that the type of job he had would affect the type of treatment his son got. that’s just stupid. doctors don’t really care what you do for a living as long as you can pay for whatever treatment you’re receiving, and besides the guy’s son died anyway.
I feel like junkyards are waste places to certain people, but to others, it holds the treasures we have yet to find. They hold stories no one will ever tell or hear. But maybe, if we look hard enough, the stories will tell themselves.
The junkyard. To the naked eye, it looks like a mass of garbage and things no one would want anymore. But to some, it could mean a treasure trove of possibilities. Oh the creations! The art! Why would anyone want to throw away this broken bike? Or this recliner chair with a spring sticking up out of the cushion?
I walked nervously into the dark, seemingly deserted junkyard. Looking around, I noted the large, scary-looking guard dog sleeping fitfully buy the shed. I’m going to make this quick, I kept telling myself. Get in, talk to them, and get out. Simple as that, right? Right?
I looked out the back door of the store, which overlooked a junkyard in the distance. Normally, there would be crows and gulls reeling about in the sky. There was nothing. Panic and misery finally welled up in me, and I collapsed on the stoop, sobbing until I had no tears left.
i had a dream about a junkyard once… there was dragons and trash monsters… and yes that dream came when i was two.
All the things. Disposed of. Abandoned. Dead and forgotten. A single soul walked though the piles of junk and realized how consumption stains our existence and everything we do. The sight is shocking and revolting, but also proof that humanity has developed an unhealthy culture were consume and dispose play leading roles. The wandering soul wonders what the future might bring. Will we destroy ourselves in an act of ignorance, or cease to be blinded by fame and greed? Will we save this flawed planet?
It had been a while since I’d left the house. The light burned as it lit my eyes and I felt like an insect emerging from a tunnel beneath the ground. It had been weeks and only now could I stomach the outside world. And I walked over the hills I knew as a child and crossed beneath the trees where I held my first kiss, and I entered the clearing I’d known all my life. The junkyard we hid in when my father drank too much, the old cars we played on when we wanted to be older. This place was full of dust covered memories and burnt edged photographs.
Well, I met you at the junkyard, you were looking kind of pale. Wondering if any of the colours matched any of the books that laid on your bed. You said look after me when I’m lost, it’s hard for me to make sense of things, when all my feints have fallen and my mind is searching for memories that don’t make me long for the past.
junkyard dog..
horders
car parts and random parts of any and every random things that exist. metal
other people’s trash are another person’s treasures.
junkyard
is
a
hateful
place
for
your
trash
’cause
EVERYONE
SUCKS.
her belt,at least she still had her belt.it was a virtual junkyard of tools.small,compact tools:efficient tools.ah-ha!her p.g. phone.she may no longer be able to fly out of this soon to be hell hole,but she could call for rescue
old. scrappy. cool stuff. cars. metal. junk. tetnus shots. tires. barking dogs. chains.
Nobody knew where the junkyard ended, it was so large. It spread for miles, some would say. Who lived there? Only the birds and Ol’ Man Bevins, so he was called. He scrapped a lowly living, even though he was a millionaire.
My room is like a junkyard. A person could do an archeological dig and see what I am all about, just by spending time in my room. There are artifacts like clothes and shoe, bits of history like homework and pictures and food, oh the food!
Come and visit!
junkyards are cool. theyre like a playground for hillbillies. you go in and get ywhatever you need off of an old broken down car and put it in your car. how does that not sound like fun. fuck i wish i was a hillbilly. i could go to a playground everyday. that playingground being the junkyartd. ahahahahahaha.
Broken tools and spools of wire
littered the school grounds.
The children were held inside for their recess, so as to not get broken shards of glass embedded in their feet by a game of tag gone awry. Still, no one complained, because they had a place to learn. Be grateful for your life. Some live in a junkyard.
We stood in the junkyard, my father and I, for the longest time, just the two of us. Then, today, I brought Kyle with me. “What are we doing here?” he asked. “Shhh.” I picked through the pieces left behind, searching, trying to find. “Stacey?” “Shh.” I lifted it, the exact thing I wanted to find, “Look.” “What is it?” “Recycling, rich boy.”
With my camera round my neck I tiptoed through mounds of junk, other peoples’ lives buried in other people’s dirt and shining in a corner of soil the face of a man long dead smiling with pride into the junkyard.
Onec e there was a man who lived in a junkyard and he was happy because nobody bothered him. except the aliens who hovered around over his head every night. then he died. but his legacy of fine dinning lived on.
Junkyard dogs are real scary. They’ll eat just about anything or anyone. They’re real loud, too. Mexican junkyard dogs are the scariest.
She was so big it was not right to say she had junk in her truck, her ass was the whole junkyard.
My bedroom has become less of a home and more of a junkyard. Then again, the state of my bedroom has always reflected the state of my mental space… so what does that say about me?
Once upon a time there was a large dog. Charlie, which was the name of this dog, lived in a junkyard. There he guarded the junkyard from intruders and bod people. He was a happy dog because he was keeping his home safe and sometimes he also got to bite people. Charlie thought that biting people was very fun and liked to do it often.
Memories of Sanford and Son, during the 70’s, watching the show in Detroit, I learned so many punchlines about El Segundo, it wasn’t until I visited 20 years later to realize the punchline was dated and in short, junk!
A junkyard dog still needs love.
“What in the hell is wrong with your room?!” My mom yelled at me. “It looks like a damn jumkyard!” She started picking things up and throwing them away.
“What in the hell are you doing?!” I yelled back at her, grabbing the things out of the trash. She glared at me. I’ll never let her know why I never clean, I’ve kept it the same ever since you left me.
I Knew it was here. It had to be. The scrap of meaning I want. No need. The meaning of life is something out of mind, out of thought that occasionally comes out to bother you, like a bird that always manages to get up before you do. But it had been bothering me too long, and now i needed to find it. Where else to look but the place no one else would? Why not look in a junkyard.
a junkyard. a place to throw your trash. but rememeber one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. embrace your junk, sometimes it’ll remind you of the things you once loved. a junkyard contains rando’s junk. it’ll tell you a story about who they were and what defined them. take a peak.
There I stood. Alone in a junkyard. Cold, shivering, and lonely. I wondered for a moment how I had gotten here, then came to the conclusion that a flashback would be necessary.
I live in a junkyard. By myself. No friends or family come to visit me here, here in my world of misfit toys, of thrown out food, and washed up treasures. They think my home is dirty, that I’m dirty, but really there just too clean. But I suppose that’s just the way of the world, the modern one, at least.
I’ve never seen a junkyard in real life– do they exist outside of the universe of cartoons in which packs of children must navigate obstacles in order to retrieve something lost? How did that plotline come to be so overused?