It had rained for a week. Sometimes it was just a light drizzle, and sometimes the skies cracked themselves open as though they had a fatal wound. Perhaps the clouds which frequently assaulted the little islands of Great Britain meant to finally finish them off in one fell swoop. While they didn’t succeed, the barrage did leave the earth remarkably soggy.
On the first day the sun dared to show itself, Mycroft took his 18th birthday present for a test drive. Excited and still a bit unruly behind the wheel, he streaked down the driveway and swerved into the yard a bit, leaving a deep tire trench in the muddy grass. A firm scolding from Mummy ensured that he would be more careful next time, or she would simply take the car back, and he would simply be chauffered for the rest of his life, and how would he like that.
It rained again later that day, trapping the boys inside once more with their schoolwork and reading.
Three days later, it seemed the clouds had finally exhausted their efforts, and Sherlock was scooted out the door in a pair of tall rubber boots (“And don’t even THINK about getting your trousers muddy, young man!”) while Mycroft went cavorting with his mates. As he was about to leave, Mycroft saw Sherlock crouched near the ground, poking at something with a stick.
Upon further inspection, Mycroft found that the tire-trench he’d left in the yard had filled up with water and become the hatchery for fifty-odd tiny little black tadpoles. The curious eight-year-old was toying with them with mild interest as his brother approached from behind. “Look, Mycroft,” he grinned, as the elder boy’s shadow fell across the puddle, “You’ve created a habitat!”
Mycroft chuckled softly. “If you want to call it that. Just because a toad can’t tell the difference between a hole in the mud and a proper pond doesn’t mean it’s really a habitat.”
Sherlock considered this, and realized the distinction- the little puddle had enough room in it for eggs to hatch, sure, but had not been in existence long enough to cultivate a layer of algae for the tadpoles to eat. “They’ll all die, won’t they?”
Mycroft hummed softly as he continued on his stroll to the car. “Probably. Most amphibians do these days, for one reason or another. I would be surprised if there are any left twenty years from now.” He clambered into the driver’s seat, all long legs and umbrella and posh suit, and was soon gone.
Sherlock dawdled at the puddle for a moment longer, somehow regarding these unfortunate tadpoles with a new sense of importance. The inclination passed after a while, however, as he remembered how Mycroft had dismissed conservation as a valiant but futile effort. The young boy tossed his stick aside and gave a frustrated kick at the stagnant water, sending a couple tadpoles flying into the soggy grass.
puddle puddle puddle puddleasdfghjkl;qwertyuiopzxcvbnmasdfghjkl’llkkkjjhhhgfsaqwerrtyuiopzxcvbnmasdfgjklqwertryyyyyyyuiop123456678990.peekyyysss and sneekyyyyss.
Daymon
Puddle. Its weird how certain words make you feel certain ways. and the context is always important. A puddle could be a lake depending on the feet splashing in it. I feel like I’m treading water in a little puddle of a conversation. Only hanging on a few words “Hadley, i think you do.” Hanging on to the some certainty that he shouldn’t have given me. The worst part is that he started out with my name, like i couldn’t even pretend later that he was actually just talking to someone else in the room or to the fish bowl or the lamp. I have to learn to stop falling into puddles. Or at least the same puddle over and over and it just gets deeper and deeper. When will i get to the ocean. When will i be able to mention him without someone saying “Hadley, do you think you still have feelings for him?” and when will i be able to say “no” and mean it. And mean it enough to not have this conversation anymore.
We all jumped into the big puddle after the rain storm. I love to jump in a puddle. A puddle is what happens when it rains or it snows and the snow melts.
a rain puddle something that you can normally see on a road after a storm that is made of rain water. but there is also a mud puddle, which can be found on a bike trail also after a storm.
Anna Kapsner
When we were kids we jumped in puddles, we aimed to disturbed the small peaceful glass-like surface; so we could watch something so perfect explode, so we could feel the spray of pavement water dampen out corduroy pants and freckled skin. When we were kids we danced when there was no music playing, and our cheeks were pink and puckered with sunburn. When we were kids the whole world was no bigger than our own neighbourhood, our dreams soared as high as the vine-tangled elm tree that towered in my backyard, and our bicycle-wound induced tears were wiped dry by the soft hands of our mothers until we smiled again.
Now we wear expensive shoes that loathe the rain. We don’t dance, and no one sings. We wear make up to cover our imperfections, to perhaps create the illusion we are not who we are. The world is big, so big, that most people get lost in it because they’re not careful. And you are not one of those people, because you are always careful. Dreams are something that don’t exist even in the comfort of sleep anymore, and you don’t cry. You can’t cry. People might think you’re weak if you do.
When I think of puddle I think of rain or something similar to that like maybe a toilet being flushed.
Bubbinator99
It’s raining today. When I was a child a day like this was a nightmare for my mother. On the way home I was on a seek and destroy mission. No puddle in my path was safe; neither were my clothes or shoes. To this day I secretly want to jump in puddles on my way home, but at 28 I really shouldn’t, or should I?
i was such a youngin to the group. sometimes they made fun of me for trying to be a paramedic with the “boys”. but today was different. the sight of a newborn head first into the puddle, helpless, and drowned was enough to make even the strongest men on our team feel like helpless little girls.
I stepped over the puddle as I stepped into the house. Waiting for me behind the screen door, four big brown eyes lookimg up at me as if to say ” welcome home.”
Crisnole
step into puddles. that’s what my dog’s mother did. she bothered to hop into puddles. she loved water. but my sis told me this, i haven’t witnessed how she did that. i wish i did. for i will never get to see her again.
kaorita
I jump splash scatter mud puddle bits over neighbors skipping away like a, well, a splash, they skittle and dodge my splash spray as giggle in glee I’m three again and love it.
joe
I stepped in the puddle, that’s true. But my feet are in the clouds and birds fly all over me. My feet are wet, for sure. But my dream are far better than my toes.
Nathalie (@spacedlaw)
a puddle is the big brother of the pond . it is usually made after rain . people get wet after
going in tu the puddle
hassan
There is a song in the Vietnamese nurseries about a girl who fell into a puddle and got all wet and was picked up by her dad. It is true, puddles are an extremely messy and muddy business that I’ve never felt the urge to indulge in despite my fellow classmates’ tendency to fool around in them.
it’s raining cats and dogs don’t step in a poodle.
hana
Splashy, rainy day, jumping in, sitting, waiting undisturbed, still
BD
A puddle of blood seeped through his travel-worn boots and turned his white socks pink. He didn’t care much at the moment, since the knife at his throat was more than a little distracting. He cleared his throat nervously.
Krospgnasker
It had been raining for days, the constant pitter patter of the tiny drops of water had began to annoy me. Preventing me carrying out my daily tasks and enjoying the summer days! However, there was something quite beautiful about it, the reflections that bounced off the moving ripples as the light hit, created interesting and inspiring patterns.
I guess this was how she treated my ideas. I’d give it to her, let it drift somewhere and let it spread and let it run away and lose control to make it creative. She just stepped into it and watched as everything splashed and dried up later on.
Running around the lake, avoiding puddles and poodles, was his daily obsession. In this pursuit he set daily targets and initiated challenges for variety, counting the number of cracks or people he passed, the number of birds he saw and his breaths. Winter was his favourite season, when he could be granted time alone accompanied by his frosted exhilations.
I stood at the edge of an oasis, the puddle in front of me the salvation I had been waiting for in the arid desert. I fell to my knees, cupped my hands and reached for the water.
I stopped, the edge of my bare toes just at the edge of the bright blue puddle. At first I thought it was reflecting the sky but, in fact, another world lay on the other side — another me staring back at me, older and sad.
Caitlin
Kale splashed in the water, laughing as it soaked his brother’s pants and dodging out of the older boy’s reach. “Kale!” Talos gasped. “What’d you do that for?!”
“Cause it’s fun! I like puddles!” he declared.
“Well so do I, but not soaking my shorts,” grumbled his brother.
A small puddle is a great satisfaction if you are a child, you wear new clean clothes and you are not supposed to jump in – but you choose do it anyway.
corinnele
I got caught again. “What’s wrong with you?” they asked me. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I didn’t know how to answer them, so I averted my eyes and kept my mouth clamped. It was never anything important, I reasoned. Mostly novels. How could they understand? The adrenaline was a drug, just like any other. I would pretend that I was a master thief, creeping amongst the bookshelves that held treasures lying in wait for me to take. The guards would never notice my hands making quick and silent work of these tomes, I thought, as I stuffed the works of Stephen King down my pants and waddled off as fast as my little legs could take me into some unseen corner, away from prying eyes so I could disappear into fantastic worlds of horrific evils in bliss and peace.
I always got caught. My imagination was no match for the cold reality of CCTV cameras and sharp-eyed bookstore security attendants, and though I never had any traces of evidence on me (for I was much too smart to keep the books on my person), they always managed to find me at the most inopportune moments to carry out their attempts at justice, which consisted of me being dragged to my father for whatever form of corporal punishment he felt fit to carry out that day.
Today had been a particularly bad day for him, and I could see it on his face the moment the security guard left me in his grip. “I’m so goddamn sick of your stupid little antics,” he hissed. I mumbled out a stuttering attempt at an apology as he yanked me by the arm, but it faded away sadly, unheard as he flung me into a chair. He had been drinking sake and I could smell it, thick and oily on his breath as he bellowed his frustrations at my face. I watched his mouth as spittle started to form at the corners. All I could think about was the smell of the book I had stolen; the vanilla sweet scent mingling slightly with the slight undertone of ink. He saw my eyes starting to drift into that dream world and slapped me. Spots exploded before my eyes, and I could hardly make out his angry shouting as my ears rang from the force of the blow, the familiar salty taste of blood flooding into my mouth from where I had bitten into my cheek.
I knew better than to cry. He paused to take another shot of sake and knocked over the glass instead, spilling that precious elixir into a puddle on the floor. He was an angry sea captain in a storm, a raging general in the middle of a war as expletives bounded forth from his lips, taking on a life of their own, conjured in the heart of fury and rage. He poured another shot and flung it at my face. I watched the glass slowly slip as it left his fingers, arching gracefully as time crept to a stand still. I felt the porcelain shatter as it hit my face, and instantly I was numb.
I will never forget the look of anguish on my father’s face.
The blood dripping from his hand began to form an even larger puddle, each small plinking sound making him even more nervous. He could only sit there in distress and wait for help, as he was too weak to even stand up. When his sister went out to the barn to check up on him, she had found him holding his mutilated hand. He imagined that he must be extremely pale right now, but he felt as if all his nerves were beginning to die out from crying so loudly.
I wasn’t sure what brought on this metamorphosis, yet I had found myself evaporated only to let fall upon a dastardly stream, where my thoughts rushed through me and to nowhere. But at the end I was expanded, my singular thoughts echoed through the vast eternity of consciousness.
the thick puddle of water on the ground. Making me uneasy about the road ahead. I have no one. Myself alone will have to make go through with this. If only i had the strength.
messy brown rainy
splash children
splosh splosh
gumboots
umbrellas
g
i fell in a puddle, it was my fault to meddle. anyway, why was the puddle there in the first place. a house is no place for puddles. it is a place for rainbows, and love. any puddle in a place it doesn’t belong is certainly not welcome. where is a puddle welcome for that matter. does it have a place where it belongs. ah, the messies of life, who would know that one day it would bump into mine, and we would cross paths, or fall into puddles.
when it rain there are some puddles where they have pot holes.
This morning i stepped in a pee puddle, i had to walk back to my house and wash my foot and change my shoes.
It had rained for a week. Sometimes it was just a light drizzle, and sometimes the skies cracked themselves open as though they had a fatal wound. Perhaps the clouds which frequently assaulted the little islands of Great Britain meant to finally finish them off in one fell swoop. While they didn’t succeed, the barrage did leave the earth remarkably soggy.
On the first day the sun dared to show itself, Mycroft took his 18th birthday present for a test drive. Excited and still a bit unruly behind the wheel, he streaked down the driveway and swerved into the yard a bit, leaving a deep tire trench in the muddy grass. A firm scolding from Mummy ensured that he would be more careful next time, or she would simply take the car back, and he would simply be chauffered for the rest of his life, and how would he like that.
It rained again later that day, trapping the boys inside once more with their schoolwork and reading.
Three days later, it seemed the clouds had finally exhausted their efforts, and Sherlock was scooted out the door in a pair of tall rubber boots (“And don’t even THINK about getting your trousers muddy, young man!”) while Mycroft went cavorting with his mates. As he was about to leave, Mycroft saw Sherlock crouched near the ground, poking at something with a stick.
Upon further inspection, Mycroft found that the tire-trench he’d left in the yard had filled up with water and become the hatchery for fifty-odd tiny little black tadpoles. The curious eight-year-old was toying with them with mild interest as his brother approached from behind. “Look, Mycroft,” he grinned, as the elder boy’s shadow fell across the puddle, “You’ve created a habitat!”
Mycroft chuckled softly. “If you want to call it that. Just because a toad can’t tell the difference between a hole in the mud and a proper pond doesn’t mean it’s really a habitat.”
Sherlock considered this, and realized the distinction- the little puddle had enough room in it for eggs to hatch, sure, but had not been in existence long enough to cultivate a layer of algae for the tadpoles to eat. “They’ll all die, won’t they?”
Mycroft hummed softly as he continued on his stroll to the car. “Probably. Most amphibians do these days, for one reason or another. I would be surprised if there are any left twenty years from now.” He clambered into the driver’s seat, all long legs and umbrella and posh suit, and was soon gone.
Sherlock dawdled at the puddle for a moment longer, somehow regarding these unfortunate tadpoles with a new sense of importance. The inclination passed after a while, however, as he remembered how Mycroft had dismissed conservation as a valiant but futile effort. The young boy tossed his stick aside and gave a frustrated kick at the stagnant water, sending a couple tadpoles flying into the soggy grass.
puddle puddle puddle puddleasdfghjkl;qwertyuiopzxcvbnmasdfghjkl’llkkkjjhhhgfsaqwerrtyuiopzxcvbnmasdfgjklqwertryyyyyyyuiop123456678990.peekyyysss and sneekyyyyss.
Puddle. Its weird how certain words make you feel certain ways. and the context is always important. A puddle could be a lake depending on the feet splashing in it. I feel like I’m treading water in a little puddle of a conversation. Only hanging on a few words “Hadley, i think you do.” Hanging on to the some certainty that he shouldn’t have given me. The worst part is that he started out with my name, like i couldn’t even pretend later that he was actually just talking to someone else in the room or to the fish bowl or the lamp. I have to learn to stop falling into puddles. Or at least the same puddle over and over and it just gets deeper and deeper. When will i get to the ocean. When will i be able to mention him without someone saying “Hadley, do you think you still have feelings for him?” and when will i be able to say “no” and mean it. And mean it enough to not have this conversation anymore.
when i hear the word puddle i think of a mud puddle
She made a big splash in the puddle. she soaked her mother in the prosses.
When it rains hard enough puddles will appear on the ground.
When it rains or snow melts there is always puddles left over. My friends and i like to jump in the puddles also.
We all jumped into the big puddle after the rain storm. I love to jump in a puddle. A puddle is what happens when it rains or it snows and the snow melts.
there’s a puddle of mud on the floor. i look at it and feel bile rising on my throat. mud makes me sick. everything makes me sick.
later on, there’s a puddle of bile almost close to the puddle of mud. i feel sick yet again but i go away.
from everything that makes me sick.
everything makes me sick.
a rain puddle something that you can normally see on a road after a storm that is made of rain water. but there is also a mud puddle, which can be found on a bike trail also after a storm.
When we were kids we jumped in puddles, we aimed to disturbed the small peaceful glass-like surface; so we could watch something so perfect explode, so we could feel the spray of pavement water dampen out corduroy pants and freckled skin. When we were kids we danced when there was no music playing, and our cheeks were pink and puckered with sunburn. When we were kids the whole world was no bigger than our own neighbourhood, our dreams soared as high as the vine-tangled elm tree that towered in my backyard, and our bicycle-wound induced tears were wiped dry by the soft hands of our mothers until we smiled again.
Now we wear expensive shoes that loathe the rain. We don’t dance, and no one sings. We wear make up to cover our imperfections, to perhaps create the illusion we are not who we are. The world is big, so big, that most people get lost in it because they’re not careful. And you are not one of those people, because you are always careful. Dreams are something that don’t exist even in the comfort of sleep anymore, and you don’t cry. You can’t cry. People might think you’re weak if you do.
When I think of puddle I think of rain or something similar to that like maybe a toilet being flushed.
It’s raining today. When I was a child a day like this was a nightmare for my mother. On the way home I was on a seek and destroy mission. No puddle in my path was safe; neither were my clothes or shoes. To this day I secretly want to jump in puddles on my way home, but at 28 I really shouldn’t, or should I?
i was such a youngin to the group. sometimes they made fun of me for trying to be a paramedic with the “boys”. but today was different. the sight of a newborn head first into the puddle, helpless, and drowned was enough to make even the strongest men on our team feel like helpless little girls.
Each puddle has its own story of how it got there. Maybe the rain brought it there, or perhaps the snow.
Pay money to use a house, office, vehicle etc.
I stepped over the puddle as I stepped into the house. Waiting for me behind the screen door, four big brown eyes lookimg up at me as if to say ” welcome home.”
step into puddles. that’s what my dog’s mother did. she bothered to hop into puddles. she loved water. but my sis told me this, i haven’t witnessed how she did that. i wish i did. for i will never get to see her again.
I jump splash scatter mud puddle bits over neighbors skipping away like a, well, a splash, they skittle and dodge my splash spray as giggle in glee I’m three again and love it.
I stepped in the puddle, that’s true. But my feet are in the clouds and birds fly all over me. My feet are wet, for sure. But my dream are far better than my toes.
a puddle is the big brother of the pond . it is usually made after rain . people get wet after
going in tu the puddle
There is a song in the Vietnamese nurseries about a girl who fell into a puddle and got all wet and was picked up by her dad. It is true, puddles are an extremely messy and muddy business that I’ve never felt the urge to indulge in despite my fellow classmates’ tendency to fool around in them.
it’s raining cats and dogs don’t step in a poodle.
Splashy, rainy day, jumping in, sitting, waiting undisturbed, still
A puddle of blood seeped through his travel-worn boots and turned his white socks pink. He didn’t care much at the moment, since the knife at his throat was more than a little distracting. He cleared his throat nervously.
It had been raining for days, the constant pitter patter of the tiny drops of water had began to annoy me. Preventing me carrying out my daily tasks and enjoying the summer days! However, there was something quite beautiful about it, the reflections that bounced off the moving ripples as the light hit, created interesting and inspiring patterns.
I guess this was how she treated my ideas. I’d give it to her, let it drift somewhere and let it spread and let it run away and lose control to make it creative. She just stepped into it and watched as everything splashed and dried up later on.
I worked hard for all of that.
Running around the lake, avoiding puddles and poodles, was his daily obsession. In this pursuit he set daily targets and initiated challenges for variety, counting the number of cracks or people he passed, the number of birds he saw and his breaths. Winter was his favourite season, when he could be granted time alone accompanied by his frosted exhilations.
I stood at the edge of an oasis, the puddle in front of me the salvation I had been waiting for in the arid desert. I fell to my knees, cupped my hands and reached for the water.
My hands came back empty.
I stopped, the edge of my bare toes just at the edge of the bright blue puddle. At first I thought it was reflecting the sky but, in fact, another world lay on the other side — another me staring back at me, older and sad.
Kale splashed in the water, laughing as it soaked his brother’s pants and dodging out of the older boy’s reach. “Kale!” Talos gasped. “What’d you do that for?!”
“Cause it’s fun! I like puddles!” he declared.
“Well so do I, but not soaking my shorts,” grumbled his brother.
A small puddle is a great satisfaction if you are a child, you wear new clean clothes and you are not supposed to jump in – but you choose do it anyway.
I got caught again. “What’s wrong with you?” they asked me. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I didn’t know how to answer them, so I averted my eyes and kept my mouth clamped. It was never anything important, I reasoned. Mostly novels. How could they understand? The adrenaline was a drug, just like any other. I would pretend that I was a master thief, creeping amongst the bookshelves that held treasures lying in wait for me to take. The guards would never notice my hands making quick and silent work of these tomes, I thought, as I stuffed the works of Stephen King down my pants and waddled off as fast as my little legs could take me into some unseen corner, away from prying eyes so I could disappear into fantastic worlds of horrific evils in bliss and peace.
I always got caught. My imagination was no match for the cold reality of CCTV cameras and sharp-eyed bookstore security attendants, and though I never had any traces of evidence on me (for I was much too smart to keep the books on my person), they always managed to find me at the most inopportune moments to carry out their attempts at justice, which consisted of me being dragged to my father for whatever form of corporal punishment he felt fit to carry out that day.
Today had been a particularly bad day for him, and I could see it on his face the moment the security guard left me in his grip. “I’m so goddamn sick of your stupid little antics,” he hissed. I mumbled out a stuttering attempt at an apology as he yanked me by the arm, but it faded away sadly, unheard as he flung me into a chair. He had been drinking sake and I could smell it, thick and oily on his breath as he bellowed his frustrations at my face. I watched his mouth as spittle started to form at the corners. All I could think about was the smell of the book I had stolen; the vanilla sweet scent mingling slightly with the slight undertone of ink. He saw my eyes starting to drift into that dream world and slapped me. Spots exploded before my eyes, and I could hardly make out his angry shouting as my ears rang from the force of the blow, the familiar salty taste of blood flooding into my mouth from where I had bitten into my cheek.
I knew better than to cry. He paused to take another shot of sake and knocked over the glass instead, spilling that precious elixir into a puddle on the floor. He was an angry sea captain in a storm, a raging general in the middle of a war as expletives bounded forth from his lips, taking on a life of their own, conjured in the heart of fury and rage. He poured another shot and flung it at my face. I watched the glass slowly slip as it left his fingers, arching gracefully as time crept to a stand still. I felt the porcelain shatter as it hit my face, and instantly I was numb.
I will never forget the look of anguish on my father’s face.
The blood dripping from his hand began to form an even larger puddle, each small plinking sound making him even more nervous. He could only sit there in distress and wait for help, as he was too weak to even stand up. When his sister went out to the barn to check up on him, she had found him holding his mutilated hand. He imagined that he must be extremely pale right now, but he felt as if all his nerves were beginning to die out from crying so loudly.
I wasn’t sure what brought on this metamorphosis, yet I had found myself evaporated only to let fall upon a dastardly stream, where my thoughts rushed through me and to nowhere. But at the end I was expanded, my singular thoughts echoed through the vast eternity of consciousness.
the thick puddle of water on the ground. Making me uneasy about the road ahead. I have no one. Myself alone will have to make go through with this. If only i had the strength.
messy brown rainy
splash children
splosh splosh
gumboots
umbrellas
i fell in a puddle, it was my fault to meddle. anyway, why was the puddle there in the first place. a house is no place for puddles. it is a place for rainbows, and love. any puddle in a place it doesn’t belong is certainly not welcome. where is a puddle welcome for that matter. does it have a place where it belongs. ah, the messies of life, who would know that one day it would bump into mine, and we would cross paths, or fall into puddles.