he was a rocker. he felt an urge for destruction as a mode of expression. he grew with the influence of drugs, he burnt his brains out and made music with the ashes.
sam
I want to be a rockstar, just like the ones that you see on t.v. I also wish that I was born in the 80s because I love the scene from back then. It was a time where you could express yourself through music of your choice and not be judged for it; a true rocker!
Olivia
are you off your rocker? she asked grandma.
oh, whoops, i afraid i am, dear. would you help me up, please?
she held out both her hands, but didn’t grab onto hers and raise her up. she held her grandmother’s arms, gently, careful not to squeeze too hard, careful not to bruise or break.
MJ
he was a rocker he played day and night without a care in the world until he fell in love with a beautiful woman at one of his shows
rocker I think of an old rocking chair In an old home. something someone’s own grandmother has turned into her family comfort because nobody comes to visit her anymore. they told her they were putting her in there only because they loved her.
Creighton
You told me to keep rocking despite it’s death hitting the digital millennium. I told him the 90s is long gone. “Lets move on,” I screamed at him, but he kept banging his head in a finale that I had to pay tribute. A tribute to his relentless persistence in holding on to his passion, his memories, his ageing youth.
Lim Paik Yin
The aging rocker sat slumped in the old rocking chair…which is about as close as he comes to being a rocker these days. Which is what the people around him say to each other. But in his mind he relives every note he ever played, only slower, with every motion he makes. Some days it is all he can do to push that rocking chair back and forth to match the beat of the music that plays in his head…but something had to give. Either rock faster than he can make the chair go or slow the songs down to stay in sync. In the end he decided this compromise wasn’t so bad, this way he can concentrate on the girls who would crowd around the stage, yelling his name.
Paulie Aragon
I’ve always wanted to be a rocker. A punk rocker because they’re so cool. I want to go on tour, have lots of tattoos, and not care about a thing In the world. Then I realized, that I don’t care. I will be a punk rocker. Who could stop me?
No one could.
Lauren
a person full of life, unconventional and rebellious, simply put a person who loves life from another perspective A rocker will always show too much emotion and will always approach a problem creatively.
Željko
She was a punk rocker. He wasn’t. One guitar, never used. One house, never used. One relationship, wasted. One life, never lived.
The end?
Shaleila
She rocked in front of hundreds each night; sometimes in the little rundown cafe on the street corner, and sometimes in big arenas.
She always mulled over her set list; it was a rocker thing, apparently.
Her set list always told a story; whether it was the story of her high school life, her first heartbreak, the last boyfriend she had, or her friends.
And tonight, her set list would tell the story of them.
I remembered she held me so tightly back then…back and forth…back and forth…
I wish we could have remained there forever…back and forth…back and forth…
But I had to grow up and she had to grow old.
She forgot who I was and mixed up our identities.
She mistook me for the guy who took her life away.
She took my life away…
Now all I can do is rock..back and forth…back and forth…
Holding that grudge until this perpetual forward and backward motion comes to a halt.
She sat in the old chain, back and forth, back and forth- the incessant creaking a balm to her tattered soul.
The shadows that filled the room seemed to flicker and wave, as though they were dancing to the chair’s bizarre tune. She smiled, cracked lips bleeding.
Perfect.
ExGlitch
I wonder if Kristi is a rocker chick, she’s from B.C., and that could mean anything!
As my grandmother sat in her rocker and read to me bed time stories I never realized how precious this time was. How as an adult I would look back and remember all of these good times and miss her. I would miss our conversations and the walks that we took when I was just a child. The baking lessons and carrying the christmas decorations into the attic when she got older. All of the love and cookies that she showered on us grandkids and the way that she brought the whole family together. Love you Grandma and miss you.
Emma
The rocker sat, unmoving. A lazy cat dozed beneath, oblivious to the danger presented to its tail, should the rocker suddenly become occupied.
“You’re off your bloody rocker mate, turning over merchandise like this without testing the first hand,” he licked his broken lips. “I mean, how do we know it works?”
His hand snaked out towards her barely covered thigh, only to be halted when Seriph’s hand wrapped around his wrist, tight enough to ground the bones together.
“If you want to keep that hand, you’ll keep it to yourself,” she said, her voice even.
He ripped his hand back, cradling it to his chest. “Alright, alright. I won’t touch the girl. Scout’s honor,” he promised, offering her the mocking imitation of a salute.
“See that you don’t,” she said, turning her eyes back to the fire.
he was a rocker, if she’d ever pegged one before. his long hair and leather jacket with “the ramones” written across the back in silver glitter was the giveaway. she wanted him. bad. it’d been ages since she met someone her own age who obviously loved music the way she does. her mind raced for the perfect opening line. the moment was now.
l
He was off his rocker. The old man had to only be in his late fifties, but he was as off as someone on their death bed. It seemed to me that he had lost his sense of smell, his hearing, and his speech was scrambled and barely understandable.
Brenna
She’s a rocker.
She’s a superstar.
She’s bored of cheap and cheerful.
She wants expensive sadness.
odhran
Lets do this. Let your hair loose. Find someone to dance with. Jump around. Feel the energy jolt through you and understand the moment. You are the people. The people are you. See their faces. Hold their stare, embrace their soul touching times.
Maria
The hotel was smashed to a pulp.
Quite literally.
As the door opened, nothing but dust escaped into the hallway.
The tattooed walls that led up to the room should have been the first clue
But when the doors opened, the magic escaped,
And all that was left was rubble.
Hair pulled up into a high ponytail, Black Sabbath t-shirt stretched tightly over her chest; torn jeans ending just below her jutting hip bones; converse flopping with each step. She is the rocker girl; guitar pick necklaces strewn around her neck, hanging like icicles in her cool 80s breeze. Stereotypical; ears are filled with small diamond studs and her fingers sparkle with rocky-rings, curled around a thick setlist.
Hair pulled up into a high ponytail, Black Sabbath t-shirt stretched tightly over her chest; torn jeans ending just below her jutting hip bones; converse flopping with each step. She is the rocker girl; guitar pick necklaces strewn around her neck, hanging like icicles in her cool 80s breeze.
The only sounds I could hear in the almost perfect silence of the night was my pouding heartbeat and the resounding thuds of my feet on the pavement.
I’m being followed.
My breath came in short ragged burst. I’d been running for quite a while, trying to escape the man chasing me who (I was sure) was well off his rocker.
Celine Wu
Reminds me of my dad because he is always telling me how much of a rocker I have turned out to be, just by my music taste.
Keely
As the old Nana sat on the porch in the setting sun, the rocker creaked each time she rocked back and forth as she quietly knit.
since I could remember, all ever wanted to be was a rocker. I wanted to up on the stage singing my heart out, giving it everything I had and leaving it all on that stage. I could imagine the crowd cheering me on, as I’d sing on about the things i’d seen and felt. But now i don’t see much, at all actually. I’m blind, have since I was 10.
It’s easy to leave a woman in labor. I like the corner-room rockers that allow for a quiet presence. I can better tell when it is truly time to birth, and with much less need for touching her body when I am in the room. I am not a knitter, but I am interested in a quiet hobby of focused micro hand movements.
On the way to the house, we stopped at Ma’s. She sat in her rocker in the living room, reading magazines about Lucille Ball that she’d shoplifted from Meijer’s. We told her we were going to Aunt D’s, but Ma shook her head. Her sister was plain nuts, she said. Best to leave her be. How could we tell her that we loved Aunt D more? We kissed her forehead and agreed that Desi had been no good for Lucy, but hadn’t they made a sexy couple, and we were off, backing out the driveway in our Pinto, waving at the empty windows as if she had, for once, got out of her rocker and come to them to say goodbye.
He was the rocker type, I suppose you would call him. He was tall, and amazingly slender, tattooed from wrist to shoulder and all along his belly where an elegant script announced “Fuck Yeah” to the world. His cocaine habit rivaled Clapton’s. He loved to laugh but was maybe the saddest boy I knew.
Someone who sings rock music.
he was a rocker. he felt an urge for destruction as a mode of expression. he grew with the influence of drugs, he burnt his brains out and made music with the ashes.
I want to be a rockstar, just like the ones that you see on t.v. I also wish that I was born in the 80s because I love the scene from back then. It was a time where you could express yourself through music of your choice and not be judged for it; a true rocker!
are you off your rocker? she asked grandma.
oh, whoops, i afraid i am, dear. would you help me up, please?
she held out both her hands, but didn’t grab onto hers and raise her up. she held her grandmother’s arms, gently, careful not to squeeze too hard, careful not to bruise or break.
he was a rocker he played day and night without a care in the world until he fell in love with a beautiful woman at one of his shows
rocker I think of an old rocking chair In an old home. something someone’s own grandmother has turned into her family comfort because nobody comes to visit her anymore. they told her they were putting her in there only because they loved her.
You told me to keep rocking despite it’s death hitting the digital millennium. I told him the 90s is long gone. “Lets move on,” I screamed at him, but he kept banging his head in a finale that I had to pay tribute. A tribute to his relentless persistence in holding on to his passion, his memories, his ageing youth.
The aging rocker sat slumped in the old rocking chair…which is about as close as he comes to being a rocker these days. Which is what the people around him say to each other. But in his mind he relives every note he ever played, only slower, with every motion he makes. Some days it is all he can do to push that rocking chair back and forth to match the beat of the music that plays in his head…but something had to give. Either rock faster than he can make the chair go or slow the songs down to stay in sync. In the end he decided this compromise wasn’t so bad, this way he can concentrate on the girls who would crowd around the stage, yelling his name.
I’ve always wanted to be a rocker. A punk rocker because they’re so cool. I want to go on tour, have lots of tattoos, and not care about a thing In the world. Then I realized, that I don’t care. I will be a punk rocker. Who could stop me?
No one could.
a person full of life, unconventional and rebellious, simply put a person who loves life from another perspective A rocker will always show too much emotion and will always approach a problem creatively.
She was a punk rocker. He wasn’t. One guitar, never used. One house, never used. One relationship, wasted. One life, never lived.
The end?
She rocked in front of hundreds each night; sometimes in the little rundown cafe on the street corner, and sometimes in big arenas.
She always mulled over her set list; it was a rocker thing, apparently.
Her set list always told a story; whether it was the story of her high school life, her first heartbreak, the last boyfriend she had, or her friends.
And tonight, her set list would tell the story of them.
sdNi
My hair fell around my face as the wind blew. I felt exhilarated as the music swept over me!
I wanna be a rocker, I wanna be a superstar.
you are winged eyeliner, uneven
you are cocaine, cut but i don’t care
you are cheap beers, and 2 am spent
throwing up on the bathroom floor
because that’s what i ended up doing
last night
:)
I sat here…back and forth…back and forth…
I remembered she held me so tightly back then…back and forth…back and forth…
I wish we could have remained there forever…back and forth…back and forth…
But I had to grow up and she had to grow old.
She forgot who I was and mixed up our identities.
She mistook me for the guy who took her life away.
She took my life away…
Now all I can do is rock..back and forth…back and forth…
Holding that grudge until this perpetual forward and backward motion comes to a halt.
She sat in the old chain, back and forth, back and forth- the incessant creaking a balm to her tattered soul.
The shadows that filled the room seemed to flicker and wave, as though they were dancing to the chair’s bizarre tune. She smiled, cracked lips bleeding.
Perfect.
I wonder if Kristi is a rocker chick, she’s from B.C., and that could mean anything!
As my grandmother sat in her rocker and read to me bed time stories I never realized how precious this time was. How as an adult I would look back and remember all of these good times and miss her. I would miss our conversations and the walks that we took when I was just a child. The baking lessons and carrying the christmas decorations into the attic when she got older. All of the love and cookies that she showered on us grandkids and the way that she brought the whole family together. Love you Grandma and miss you.
The rocker sat, unmoving. A lazy cat dozed beneath, oblivious to the danger presented to its tail, should the rocker suddenly become occupied.
“You’re off your bloody rocker mate, turning over merchandise like this without testing the first hand,” he licked his broken lips. “I mean, how do we know it works?”
His hand snaked out towards her barely covered thigh, only to be halted when Seriph’s hand wrapped around his wrist, tight enough to ground the bones together.
“If you want to keep that hand, you’ll keep it to yourself,” she said, her voice even.
He ripped his hand back, cradling it to his chest. “Alright, alright. I won’t touch the girl. Scout’s honor,” he promised, offering her the mocking imitation of a salute.
“See that you don’t,” she said, turning her eyes back to the fire.
he was a rocker, if she’d ever pegged one before. his long hair and leather jacket with “the ramones” written across the back in silver glitter was the giveaway. she wanted him. bad. it’d been ages since she met someone her own age who obviously loved music the way she does. her mind raced for the perfect opening line. the moment was now.
He was off his rocker. The old man had to only be in his late fifties, but he was as off as someone on their death bed. It seemed to me that he had lost his sense of smell, his hearing, and his speech was scrambled and barely understandable.
She’s a rocker.
She’s a superstar.
She’s bored of cheap and cheerful.
She wants expensive sadness.
Lets do this. Let your hair loose. Find someone to dance with. Jump around. Feel the energy jolt through you and understand the moment. You are the people. The people are you. See their faces. Hold their stare, embrace their soul touching times.
The hotel was smashed to a pulp.
Quite literally.
As the door opened, nothing but dust escaped into the hallway.
The tattooed walls that led up to the room should have been the first clue
But when the doors opened, the magic escaped,
And all that was left was rubble.
Hair pulled up into a high ponytail, Black Sabbath t-shirt stretched tightly over her chest; torn jeans ending just below her jutting hip bones; converse flopping with each step. She is the rocker girl; guitar pick necklaces strewn around her neck, hanging like icicles in her cool 80s breeze. Stereotypical; ears are filled with small diamond studs and her fingers sparkle with rocky-rings, curled around a thick setlist.
Hair pulled up into a high ponytail, Black Sabbath t-shirt stretched tightly over her chest; torn jeans ending just below her jutting hip bones; converse flopping with each step. She is the rocker girl; guitar pick necklaces strewn around her neck, hanging like icicles in her cool 80s breeze.
the rocker is sweating all over the stage, screaming his lungs out. his band members are jumping up and down and the crowd is going wild.
Reminds me of grade 5 when literally got up and sang, I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair in front of the whole school
The only sounds I could hear in the almost perfect silence of the night was my pouding heartbeat and the resounding thuds of my feet on the pavement.
I’m being followed.
My breath came in short ragged burst. I’d been running for quite a while, trying to escape the man chasing me who (I was sure) was well off his rocker.
Reminds me of my dad because he is always telling me how much of a rocker I have turned out to be, just by my music taste.
As the old Nana sat on the porch in the setting sun, the rocker creaked each time she rocked back and forth as she quietly knit.
since I could remember, all ever wanted to be was a rocker. I wanted to up on the stage singing my heart out, giving it everything I had and leaving it all on that stage. I could imagine the crowd cheering me on, as I’d sing on about the things i’d seen and felt. But now i don’t see much, at all actually. I’m blind, have since I was 10.
It’s easy to leave a woman in labor. I like the corner-room rockers that allow for a quiet presence. I can better tell when it is truly time to birth, and with much less need for touching her body when I am in the room. I am not a knitter, but I am interested in a quiet hobby of focused micro hand movements.
On the way to the house, we stopped at Ma’s. She sat in her rocker in the living room, reading magazines about Lucille Ball that she’d shoplifted from Meijer’s. We told her we were going to Aunt D’s, but Ma shook her head. Her sister was plain nuts, she said. Best to leave her be. How could we tell her that we loved Aunt D more? We kissed her forehead and agreed that Desi had been no good for Lucy, but hadn’t they made a sexy couple, and we were off, backing out the driveway in our Pinto, waving at the empty windows as if she had, for once, got out of her rocker and come to them to say goodbye.
“You’re off your rocker.” He sneered at her as she stepped aside, moving out of the way of his bulky frame. “There’s no such thing as faeries.”
He was the rocker type, I suppose you would call him. He was tall, and amazingly slender, tattooed from wrist to shoulder and all along his belly where an elegant script announced “Fuck Yeah” to the world. His cocaine habit rivaled Clapton’s. He loved to laugh but was maybe the saddest boy I knew.