Jim never did do the washing. His dirty clothes collected in a rumpled pile in the corner, which Bryson would jump into with glee, still too young to find the idea of a teenaged boy’s used clothes repulsive.
I want to pile all my emotions on you, let them flood all over. I want to pile my grief and insecurities and lie them there for you to see. It’s lonely being the only one who is part of this conversation, being the only one who wants to be a part of it. little things, one by one, stack together, until it becomes a tower of terror that we cannot face alone.
what would it be like to eskimo kiss again, like the first time when blushes and shyness lightly wrapped how enamored we were. to simpler times when you actually liked talking to me.
There is a sort of art amongst the violence of it, the mud and the bodies; as if someone had decided one day to embrace surrealism whilst armed with all the misfortunes of a troubled past, perhaps too many Gothic novels, too much damned thinking-
Flanders in the springtime is not a holy place, nor remotely attractive in the year of 1917.
on the top of this pile, and slowly sinking down, all i can see is darkness and the world folding in over me, buried alive, crying alone, laughing to myself, and struggling to get away. life is never quite what it seems, because our predictions are never quite right
Her face was rough needing a good wipe. The cotton circles removed the outer layers of foundation and pencil marks, eyeshadow and light creams. She placed the dirty cotton pads one ontop of another, ontop of the white modern sink just under the mirror. It took ages to remove most of her makeup. She thought about tomorrow. It was easy to think about her next face for the next day when the sink had the remnants of her yesterday’s face.
Mal wieder keine Ahnung was das heißt. Ich muss dringend mein Englisch aufbessern. Ich ärgere mich so darüber, dass meine Schulbildung so unglaublich schlecht war. Gerne würde ich mehr wissen und können aber alles muss ich mir mühsam aneignen.
the pile was huge- overflowing and ginormous in every way. It was magnificent. Inspiring. Books, every where. Pile after pile of books, fantastic, wonderful, fragrant books. I didn’t know what to think. I wanted to pick one up, but- which one? There were so many; I couldn’t choose. The room was very nearly filled to the brim with piles of books. I didn’t know how I fit. It was ridiculous.
Troy couldn’t take everything with him when he left, of course not, so some of Troy’s things got left behind at the apartment. The first day after Troy is gone, Abed skips school and goes around the apartment collecting all the loose little objects that Troy left behind.
He finds Troy’s favorite coffee mug to use when they film Troy and Abed In The Mornings. He finds a pair of sneakers that Troy’s had since his first football game freshman year of high school. They’re beat up, but Troy couldn’t bear to toss them. The soles are only held together by yards of sticky white tape wrapped all around them until the shoes look more like mummies.
He goes and takes all the little things that Troy couldn’t and he puts them in a pile inside the Dreamatorium. Abed sits amongst the pile of Troy’s forgotten belongings, his abandoned things because it’s where he belongs.
There was still a pile of clothes at the end of their-his bed. She had left them behind and he couldn’t bear to touch them, her rain-soaked-pavement scent saturating the balled up material. It was heaven and hell all at the bottom of his bed.
The bodies pile up around us and I cannot stop to even cry over them. So many fallen. So many of them could have been myself, Nathaniel, Walker even… but we were lucky. I wonder why we always get so lucky.
I keep searching the piles, hoping that I wont spot my father’s face.
The night sky gleamed
in the open field
as a pile of logs
burnt heavy summer flames.
The grass hot with ash
and paper crumbs.
People making noise,
light banter,
a few punches being thrown,
bodies striving to get off
of the grass floor,
back up again
to throw another punch,
laughter surrounding
like fireflies,
popping up here and there.
It was a night everyone
would remember.
sighing, she tossed the last of them onto the pile. ‘that should about do it’, she thought to herself as she wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow. sighing heavily, she picked up the bloody cricket bat on the ground and swaggered away from the heap of corpses in the dirt.
We do what we must because we can. For example, we go to the bathroom on the pile of clothes sitting in the hallway just because it’s there. I don’t know whose clothes that is, but they won’t be wanting it back, I’ll tell you that. They’re ugly clothes anyway. I shouldn’t say anymore; that belongs in part 4 of my confessions.
there was a pile of dirty clothes on the floor beside her bed. she could smell them from where she lay pressed against the wall, blankly staring at the pillow next to her. the laundry was stale and musty, much like the rest of the room. everything was silent but for the buzzing of a lone fly.
We collapsed into a pile of bodies, heaving with exertion and exalting at our own brilliance. Never before had a pack run through New York the way we did. Never before was anyone so daring.
doggggyyyy pileeeeee!!! ahhh the sweet memories of thine childhood. running, playing, sweating, sun on young skin and friends. together forever. no worries. not a single care in the world-except for one thing; what flavor popsicle you wanted after the games ceased.
Pile of mud
Pile of hopes and dreams, clustered together, waiting to be discarded and reused, unwanted and broken.
They all pile onto the bus, squashed and uncomfortable.
A pile of books, stacked haphazardly, leaning, swaying as if going to fall.
It was hard to see past the glaring sun, but I saw the end, and I think she saw it too. It was under a pile of regret and tears and deeply buried emotions that neither of us could register at the moment. We both felt the tug of adulthood, and I wanted her to hold onto my arm for help. But I remembered we were in a small shop with strangers, and I still had a girlfriend. I wanted to uncomplicate things, but not until the sun set on the most perfect day in months.
All of these things that I haven’t done but should do, all the people I could be but aren’t, all these dreams I could catch but can’t get far enough off my chair to… they keep piling up. Desperately trying to get out.
He hefted the dark mass onto his shovel and lunged back into the heat of the furnace. The pile of charcoal never seemed to diminish, his dreams (bubbling throughout the day under the labor) never seemed to set to motion or dwindle quite like the steam room. Its steadiness was the only thing keeping him there. He left everyday grim but a part of him was pleased with setting something forward. The crew leader never bothered him, not while the engine roared and clattered so loudly. The break whistle screamed and he fell back into the heap, bent at the knee. It caught his fall. He was so stained and bone wearied that one of the foremen could just as easy pile him into the furnace. It was whimsical thought; a first in months.
Leaves. Every autumn, we raked up the leaves together. Just me and my dad. The he’d toss me up into the air and I’d come down with a squeal of laughter and a rush of flailing limbs and I’d shout “Again! Again!” So we’d rake them back and repeat.
If it meant digging under the pile of artifacts we all thought were trash, then we would do it. Nothing could stand in our way of claiming the inheritance that would serve as a band aid for the wound which growing up a Gil had left me and my sisters. We pulled up our sleeves and started digging.
Their lips and teeth clacked like ice cubes in a clammy glass. He piled her shirt on top of her shorts and seemed to melt the rest off her bones. Then, once, she was disassembled they stared at each other. She shivered.
pile it on. the laundry awaits the soi disant happy housewife. careless as a commercial visage staring out over a cityscape. piled about the functionary, his paperwork took on an air of menace or so it seemed to him.
When Tobias awoke it was to an all-to-familiar cheeping sound.
He sat up immediately, glaring at the pile of ducklings on the floor beside his bed, a dark shock of hair barely visible through the colorful, scrambling mass.
He opened his mouth to give some sort of protest, then decided against it, turned over, and fell back asleep.
The pile of leaves sat quietly at my feet. A gust of wind would so easily take them away from me; sending them into a whirling dance of colors. But alas, here they lay, for my viewing pleasure. Slowly, but with deliberation, I kick the pile, for I am in control of my own destiny.
there is a pile of papers just waiting to be written. They lie on the desk, while the student procrastinates to avoid the ever-growing workload. They instead turn to the internet
Every life is a pile of good things and bad things, he told her. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things either.
And in that moment, she supposes it was the right thing to say. But now, now that she was alone and he was gone, maybe it didn’t quite work so well. All she could make out was one pile, one ominous mess of the good and the bad stacked precariously high.
Perhaps she could sort through it. The top, the outside, those would be safe. Soft memories and quaint trains of thought she kept upfront to hide behind. But the bottom, the buried, those were less friendly.
So she climbs to the peak and sits on the mass of sugar-coated dynamite, buying her time until someone else makes her topple.
There was a gigantic pile of rubble where her dining room table had once been. Rubble is what it seemed to her now, but it had once been paper and yarn and books. It had calcified over the years into this immovable pile, this pile beyond all recognition or hope, this pile of crap so deep and so wide there was no way to use the table, or even to find it.
Problems were beginning to pile up. Zombies were spilling out of houses as were people. It was complete chaos. But she understood it. She understood chaos. She understood zombies. It was her job now to report on them. Her job was to stop this from happening again.
I will pile all of my worries one on top of the other. I will pile all of my anger inside, all of my sorrows. All of it weighs heavily upon my shoulders, dragging me down, my steps slowly losing its skip, its innocence.
What is it about today that makes time seem worthless? Things just pile up non-stop,one new thing after another that I must do, and I must spend all my time sorting them out, making lists, prioritising which means I get nothing done at all.
OBryonsville attracted me in the summer of my 19th year, while I was still restless and continued to move about listlessly. The main street was lined with art parlours and coffee shops full of old women meeting once and again, wearing piles of makeup and preparing weeks in advance. I lost myself for a time. The sun shone always on that peculiar strip, and the structure of the buildings were in an old fashion which attracted me. Time had lesser influence.
It would be here that I met the man who I would learn so much from, and in return, I would write him this.
The step up for a few seconds, water trickling down, the vase is wet and the room is wet, foggy and stepping stones lining the walls and leading up to the stainless glass door, outside grass and limestone
Jim never did do the washing. His dirty clothes collected in a rumpled pile in the corner, which Bryson would jump into with glee, still too young to find the idea of a teenaged boy’s used clothes repulsive.
I want to pile all my emotions on you, let them flood all over. I want to pile my grief and insecurities and lie them there for you to see. It’s lonely being the only one who is part of this conversation, being the only one who wants to be a part of it. little things, one by one, stack together, until it becomes a tower of terror that we cannot face alone.
what would it be like to eskimo kiss again, like the first time when blushes and shyness lightly wrapped how enamored we were. to simpler times when you actually liked talking to me.
There is a sort of art amongst the violence of it, the mud and the bodies; as if someone had decided one day to embrace surrealism whilst armed with all the misfortunes of a troubled past, perhaps too many Gothic novels, too much damned thinking-
Flanders in the springtime is not a holy place, nor remotely attractive in the year of 1917.
on the top of this pile, and slowly sinking down, all i can see is darkness and the world folding in over me, buried alive, crying alone, laughing to myself, and struggling to get away. life is never quite what it seems, because our predictions are never quite right
Battery
head of an arrow
multi items above each other
Her face was rough needing a good wipe. The cotton circles removed the outer layers of foundation and pencil marks, eyeshadow and light creams. She placed the dirty cotton pads one ontop of another, ontop of the white modern sink just under the mirror. It took ages to remove most of her makeup. She thought about tomorrow. It was easy to think about her next face for the next day when the sink had the remnants of her yesterday’s face.
Mal wieder keine Ahnung was das heißt. Ich muss dringend mein Englisch aufbessern. Ich ärgere mich so darüber, dass meine Schulbildung so unglaublich schlecht war. Gerne würde ich mehr wissen und können aber alles muss ich mir mühsam aneignen.
the pile was huge- overflowing and ginormous in every way. It was magnificent. Inspiring. Books, every where. Pile after pile of books, fantastic, wonderful, fragrant books. I didn’t know what to think. I wanted to pick one up, but- which one? There were so many; I couldn’t choose. The room was very nearly filled to the brim with piles of books. I didn’t know how I fit. It was ridiculous.
Troy couldn’t take everything with him when he left, of course not, so some of Troy’s things got left behind at the apartment. The first day after Troy is gone, Abed skips school and goes around the apartment collecting all the loose little objects that Troy left behind.
He finds Troy’s favorite coffee mug to use when they film Troy and Abed In The Mornings. He finds a pair of sneakers that Troy’s had since his first football game freshman year of high school. They’re beat up, but Troy couldn’t bear to toss them. The soles are only held together by yards of sticky white tape wrapped all around them until the shoes look more like mummies.
He goes and takes all the little things that Troy couldn’t and he puts them in a pile inside the Dreamatorium. Abed sits amongst the pile of Troy’s forgotten belongings, his abandoned things because it’s where he belongs.
There was still a pile of clothes at the end of their-his bed. She had left them behind and he couldn’t bear to touch them, her rain-soaked-pavement scent saturating the balled up material. It was heaven and hell all at the bottom of his bed.
The bodies pile up around us and I cannot stop to even cry over them. So many fallen. So many of them could have been myself, Nathaniel, Walker even… but we were lucky. I wonder why we always get so lucky.
I keep searching the piles, hoping that I wont spot my father’s face.
I pray that we continue to be so lucky.
The night sky gleamed
in the open field
as a pile of logs
burnt heavy summer flames.
The grass hot with ash
and paper crumbs.
People making noise,
light banter,
a few punches being thrown,
bodies striving to get off
of the grass floor,
back up again
to throw another punch,
laughter surrounding
like fireflies,
popping up here and there.
It was a night everyone
would remember.
sighing, she tossed the last of them onto the pile. ‘that should about do it’, she thought to herself as she wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow. sighing heavily, she picked up the bloody cricket bat on the ground and swaggered away from the heap of corpses in the dirt.
We do what we must because we can. For example, we go to the bathroom on the pile of clothes sitting in the hallway just because it’s there. I don’t know whose clothes that is, but they won’t be wanting it back, I’ll tell you that. They’re ugly clothes anyway. I shouldn’t say anymore; that belongs in part 4 of my confessions.
there was a pile of dirty clothes on the floor beside her bed. she could smell them from where she lay pressed against the wall, blankly staring at the pillow next to her. the laundry was stale and musty, much like the rest of the room. everything was silent but for the buzzing of a lone fly.
We collapsed into a pile of bodies, heaving with exertion and exalting at our own brilliance. Never before had a pack run through New York the way we did. Never before was anyone so daring.
doggggyyyy pileeeeee!!! ahhh the sweet memories of thine childhood. running, playing, sweating, sun on young skin and friends. together forever. no worries. not a single care in the world-except for one thing; what flavor popsicle you wanted after the games ceased.
it was pile of lust
jealously, eyeless eyes
glances, silence
you looked to your right
and saw me from your left
and yet you kept on talking
before we were dead
piled everything on
there’s nothing here
we’re done
it was a pile of lust
of jealously, lust, love, hate
stop it love, stop makin’ me hate
Pile of mud
Pile of hopes and dreams, clustered together, waiting to be discarded and reused, unwanted and broken.
They all pile onto the bus, squashed and uncomfortable.
A pile of books, stacked haphazardly, leaning, swaying as if going to fall.
It was hard to see past the glaring sun, but I saw the end, and I think she saw it too. It was under a pile of regret and tears and deeply buried emotions that neither of us could register at the moment. We both felt the tug of adulthood, and I wanted her to hold onto my arm for help. But I remembered we were in a small shop with strangers, and I still had a girlfriend. I wanted to uncomplicate things, but not until the sun set on the most perfect day in months.
All of these things that I haven’t done but should do, all the people I could be but aren’t, all these dreams I could catch but can’t get far enough off my chair to… they keep piling up. Desperately trying to get out.
He hefted the dark mass onto his shovel and lunged back into the heat of the furnace. The pile of charcoal never seemed to diminish, his dreams (bubbling throughout the day under the labor) never seemed to set to motion or dwindle quite like the steam room. Its steadiness was the only thing keeping him there. He left everyday grim but a part of him was pleased with setting something forward. The crew leader never bothered him, not while the engine roared and clattered so loudly. The break whistle screamed and he fell back into the heap, bent at the knee. It caught his fall. He was so stained and bone wearied that one of the foremen could just as easy pile him into the furnace. It was whimsical thought; a first in months.
Leaves. Every autumn, we raked up the leaves together. Just me and my dad. The he’d toss me up into the air and I’d come down with a squeal of laughter and a rush of flailing limbs and I’d shout “Again! Again!” So we’d rake them back and repeat.
If it meant digging under the pile of artifacts we all thought were trash, then we would do it. Nothing could stand in our way of claiming the inheritance that would serve as a band aid for the wound which growing up a Gil had left me and my sisters. We pulled up our sleeves and started digging.
Their lips and teeth clacked like ice cubes in a clammy glass. He piled her shirt on top of her shorts and seemed to melt the rest off her bones. Then, once, she was disassembled they stared at each other. She shivered.
pile it on. the laundry awaits the soi disant happy housewife. careless as a commercial visage staring out over a cityscape. piled about the functionary, his paperwork took on an air of menace or so it seemed to him.
When Tobias awoke it was to an all-to-familiar cheeping sound.
He sat up immediately, glaring at the pile of ducklings on the floor beside his bed, a dark shock of hair barely visible through the colorful, scrambling mass.
He opened his mouth to give some sort of protest, then decided against it, turned over, and fell back asleep.
The pile of leaves sat quietly at my feet. A gust of wind would so easily take them away from me; sending them into a whirling dance of colors. But alas, here they lay, for my viewing pleasure. Slowly, but with deliberation, I kick the pile, for I am in control of my own destiny.
there is a pile of papers just waiting to be written. They lie on the desk, while the student procrastinates to avoid the ever-growing workload. They instead turn to the internet
Every life is a pile of good things and bad things, he told her. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things either.
And in that moment, she supposes it was the right thing to say. But now, now that she was alone and he was gone, maybe it didn’t quite work so well. All she could make out was one pile, one ominous mess of the good and the bad stacked precariously high.
Perhaps she could sort through it. The top, the outside, those would be safe. Soft memories and quaint trains of thought she kept upfront to hide behind. But the bottom, the buried, those were less friendly.
So she climbs to the peak and sits on the mass of sugar-coated dynamite, buying her time until someone else makes her topple.
There was a gigantic pile of rubble where her dining room table had once been. Rubble is what it seemed to her now, but it had once been paper and yarn and books. It had calcified over the years into this immovable pile, this pile beyond all recognition or hope, this pile of crap so deep and so wide there was no way to use the table, or even to find it.
Problems were beginning to pile up. Zombies were spilling out of houses as were people. It was complete chaos. But she understood it. She understood chaos. She understood zombies. It was her job now to report on them. Her job was to stop this from happening again.
I will pile all of my worries one on top of the other. I will pile all of my anger inside, all of my sorrows. All of it weighs heavily upon my shoulders, dragging me down, my steps slowly losing its skip, its innocence.
What is it about today that makes time seem worthless? Things just pile up non-stop,one new thing after another that I must do, and I must spend all my time sorting them out, making lists, prioritising which means I get nothing done at all.
The laundry was everywhere. On the floor, on the window sill, in the doorway. So she lit a match and ran to Macy’s.
OBryonsville attracted me in the summer of my 19th year, while I was still restless and continued to move about listlessly. The main street was lined with art parlours and coffee shops full of old women meeting once and again, wearing piles of makeup and preparing weeks in advance. I lost myself for a time. The sun shone always on that peculiar strip, and the structure of the buildings were in an old fashion which attracted me. Time had lesser influence.
It would be here that I met the man who I would learn so much from, and in return, I would write him this.
I looked at the pile of papers with dread. So much work. If I don’t do it I might be fired. But if I do it I’ll lose sleep. Will I ever win?
The step up for a few seconds, water trickling down, the vase is wet and the room is wet, foggy and stepping stones lining the walls and leading up to the stainless glass door, outside grass and limestone