The sweater was an itchy old magenta thing. The sleeves worn and tattered, the color faded after many years used. It smelt old, and of moth balls. I had buried it in my closet years ago, claiming that I had lost it so I wouldn’t have to wear it anymore.
It was the tug on a sleeve, a breeze running along side of me. I could not shake the feeling I was about to partake in my biggest mistake wholeheartedly.
Don’t do the cliche thing, please don’t. Write something about a girl who got a full sleeve tattoo of the creepiest faces staring out of the LOTR dead marshes and they haunt her, traumatize her, until she hacks her own arm off. Or something about a sicko at a bar who slips his Blackberry into a sleeve that catches a chick’s eye and she asks about it: “It’s made from the skin of my latest conquest,” the sicko says and lays an ice-cold hand on her arm. Just don’t you dare mention tricks because everyone knows they are for kids…
The sleeves of my new jacket are a little bit too long. I like the feeling around my wrists though.
Bluered
On the sleeve of her shirt was her heart, a small heart, one she barely wore there, but today she felt like expressing house she actually felt, she would leave it there, making her happy or sad. But when she got to her friends house she pulled on the sleeve, trying to remove her idea of where her heart should lie. Hear rose through her, she rolled up her sleeve and placed a fake smile upon her face.
kai
i wear a short sleeve shirt when its hot. if its cold, i will wear long sleeves. its never usually cold here. i miss the cold sometimes.
camilo
She stood up from the pile of leaves. Her face was sternly set. She wasn’t laughing any more. He reached out to pull a leaf from her hair, her sleeve, and he wanted to pull her close. He wanted to kiss her, but that’s what had driven her out of the leaf pile to start with.
Sherry
And then I soaked my sleeve. I felt the liquid sneak its way past my wrists into my elbow crease, and pooling slightly at my finger tips. It was as close as I came to feeling sensual that whole week, washing dishes.
His sleeves were stained even now, after all these years, reminding him of what once was. Everytime he took it out, the stained coarse cloth of what once used to be his favorite shirt burned a hole through his heart, taking him back to that one time when she had spilled her coffee over it, the beginning of the end.
He pulled up his sleeves, and with a frown on his face, looked at her. He couldn’t believe his ears, what he just heard, and the woman in front of him — it was almost like a dream to him. He didn’t want to say that it was all true, he wanted to say that everything was an imaginary thing — hallucination.
I just don’t get it how much should a sleeve cost? Honestly I don’t understand how much do you think it should? Im really stressed out trying to collect the r
Butts
She picked off the thread and brushed the sleeves of her coat down. Looking around, she straightened her collar and, as daintily as she could, rubbed her teeth free of any wayward lipstick. She couldn’t afford to not look her best.
you bite at your sleeves;
i can tell because whenever you uncross your
arms for a second,
i can see the bite marks,
and the red fabric,
maroon with spit.
what else do you hide under those sleeves?
i think i saw a band-aid on your wrist one
friday after your eyes were absent that thursday.
what else do you try to hide from me?
Naomi Tomlin
Cronuts.
Geffory
“Ughhh. I’m so hungry. When is lunch starting?” I groaned.
My friend grinned. “I’ve come prepared.” In a flash, he shot a Twizzler out of his right sleeve and into his hand, handing it to me.
Shr
I think about my shirt’s sleeves. And tricks up one’s sleeve. It makes me think of long things. And winter. That’s all I have to say. Good day and cheers, reader!
Derp
Her sleeve skimmed down to her finger tips showing the pale pink polish of her nails.
For years I would think about painting everyday. It’s not the kind of painting you’re thinking though. It’s painting with a very sharp paintbrush and blood red paint. Sleeves is how I would cover up my pretty paintings. Not anymore.
The sleeves would burn against the red lines that were drawn on my skin. The heat coming from my arms was almost unbearable. Sleeves is what I pulled down for years to hide my old addiction.
The drummer in my first band wiped his nose on his sleeve or his hand so often that we named (we being everyone but him) named the band “Sleeveless Tissue”. He had no idea. He even made a logo for his drum kit.
My mother finished sewing the sleeve to my new Christmas shirt. I hated it even before it was finished. It just wasn’t “me”. But then again… It was a step up from the Christmas socks I got last year. Next year we’ll go for a sweater. The year after that pants. And perhaps after that: a man to fit in those.
maxim
I had some tricks up my sleeve. They were nasty little tricks. Tricks that my aunt would later regret. I finished playing them when my mother died. And my girlfriend. With my son in her tummy. I was done playing.
maxim
It is no one’s guess as to what is up a trickster’s sleeve. The expression itself, dating back to times immemorial, was found in the practice of magicians who would produce their trick from the folds of the sleeve, so to speak. Given the etymology of the term, it is now used widely across to connote a sudden trick across different people.
Shrey
A gyerek ujja, mint mindig, a szájában volt. De miiért? Hiába kérdezgettük tőle viccelődve, hogy miért szopja az ujját, nem mondott semmit. Esetleg azt, hogy tejecske jön belőle. Az egész család felröhögött, nem vették komolyan a gyereket. Aztán pár év múlva leszokott erről, s elmerengő fejjel bámulta a hüvelyk ujját.
-Miaz?
-Elkopott az ujjam.
The curtain was pulled again. She remained motionless at the window. All she saw was tears on the face of a corpse, smiling like an erratic lover.
F
I yanked my sleeve down quickly so they couldn’t see my wrists. No, I didn’t have scars or anything. What I was more concerned about was concealing what I’d written there. ‘Worthless. Ugly. Stupid. Fat.’ They didn’t need to know that I felt this way about myself. As far as anyone else was concerned, I was happy. And I wanted to keep it looking that way.
Corinne M
I wore my heart upon my sleeve and this is how I am repaid. She took one last look at his balcony on the second window. The flowers which had adorned his apartment before now wilted. “How fitting” she thought as she walked away.
polkadots
He felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see his younger brother standing there, looking bashful and a little upset. “Hey bro,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“I was just wondering,” said the younger, “do you think… do you think you could carry me home?”
He had aces up his sleeve — and dices and kinds up hers. The glamour of the games had never ceased to appeal him. One slight of hand, one winning card, one long kiss home… it was a wonder he could focus on anything else on Friday evenings, a few hours before the fun began. It was a wonder anyone who knew him even asked him to.
Up my sleeve is nothing I want to show you. It is where I keep most of my tricks. I won’t let you know them because they are to be used against you in a way that benefits me. I will find what works and what doesn’t and as long as are here, I will use them.
I tugged at my sleeve, self-conscious. Eyes downcast, afraid to meet yours. I knew you’d be looking at me the way you always did, searching for an answer.
I’ve got tricks up my sleeve
and I will eventually show you
but I can’t show you now
because you won’t read my poetry
see the fire in my eyes
makes me dangerous and deceptive
and i try to ignite it
only with my own matchstick
but its easily burnable
and i burn everyday
because i look in the mirror
and blow smoke my own way
lauren
Wear your heart on your sleeve
Out there for the world
But never give it away
For free
Because it’s yours
And no one may take it but you
Becuase it’s yours
And no one may shove it back in your face
Because it’s yours
But I’ll give it away
Some day
Some day
No one may take it away
Because I’ll give it
Just have to wait
Wearing it on my sleeve
For all to see
it’s hard to put my arm through the sleeve of your shirt because it’s been a year since i last pulled it out and the smell is hurting my skin and my heart is about to jump out of my chest and i miss you so bad i can’t remember how to work my voluntary muscles. i’m wishing my heart would fail along with them and forget how to beat but i’ve never been very lucky to begin with.
End of the jumper or t-shirt. the sleeve keeps your arms warm. sleeves are there to protect the biceps, triceps and forearms. if we didn’t have sleeves then we would have goosebumps a lot of the time. they are also chewed by young ones.
ella papenfus
Roll up your sleeves. It’s time to pretend we’re men. Fixing the faucet is a job for a handyman, I know, but do we really want to admit we can’t do it?
Rowan had more than just a few tricks up her sleeve. When the men tried to woo her, her counter flirting completely threw them off guard. She was so poised, so suave, and so comfortable with herself that every dude who wanted to get into her pants at the pub just lowered her red face into the overwhelmingly white suds of his cheap beer. And then a lovely lady wearing curls would sashay by, and that was when Rowan put more of her tricks to use.
The sweater was an itchy old magenta thing. The sleeves worn and tattered, the color faded after many years used. It smelt old, and of moth balls. I had buried it in my closet years ago, claiming that I had lost it so I wouldn’t have to wear it anymore.
It was the tug on a sleeve, a breeze running along side of me. I could not shake the feeling I was about to partake in my biggest mistake wholeheartedly.
Don’t do the cliche thing, please don’t. Write something about a girl who got a full sleeve tattoo of the creepiest faces staring out of the LOTR dead marshes and they haunt her, traumatize her, until she hacks her own arm off. Or something about a sicko at a bar who slips his Blackberry into a sleeve that catches a chick’s eye and she asks about it: “It’s made from the skin of my latest conquest,” the sicko says and lays an ice-cold hand on her arm. Just don’t you dare mention tricks because everyone knows they are for kids…
The sleeves of my new jacket are a little bit too long. I like the feeling around my wrists though.
On the sleeve of her shirt was her heart, a small heart, one she barely wore there, but today she felt like expressing house she actually felt, she would leave it there, making her happy or sad. But when she got to her friends house she pulled on the sleeve, trying to remove her idea of where her heart should lie. Hear rose through her, she rolled up her sleeve and placed a fake smile upon her face.
i wear a short sleeve shirt when its hot. if its cold, i will wear long sleeves. its never usually cold here. i miss the cold sometimes.
She stood up from the pile of leaves. Her face was sternly set. She wasn’t laughing any more. He reached out to pull a leaf from her hair, her sleeve, and he wanted to pull her close. He wanted to kiss her, but that’s what had driven her out of the leaf pile to start with.
And then I soaked my sleeve. I felt the liquid sneak its way past my wrists into my elbow crease, and pooling slightly at my finger tips. It was as close as I came to feeling sensual that whole week, washing dishes.
His sleeves were stained even now, after all these years, reminding him of what once was. Everytime he took it out, the stained coarse cloth of what once used to be his favorite shirt burned a hole through his heart, taking him back to that one time when she had spilled her coffee over it, the beginning of the end.
He pulled up his sleeves, and with a frown on his face, looked at her. He couldn’t believe his ears, what he just heard, and the woman in front of him — it was almost like a dream to him. He didn’t want to say that it was all true, he wanted to say that everything was an imaginary thing — hallucination.
I just don’t get it how much should a sleeve cost? Honestly I don’t understand how much do you think it should? Im really stressed out trying to collect the r
She picked off the thread and brushed the sleeves of her coat down. Looking around, she straightened her collar and, as daintily as she could, rubbed her teeth free of any wayward lipstick. She couldn’t afford to not look her best.
you bite at your sleeves;
i can tell because whenever you uncross your
arms for a second,
i can see the bite marks,
and the red fabric,
maroon with spit.
what else do you hide under those sleeves?
i think i saw a band-aid on your wrist one
friday after your eyes were absent that thursday.
what else do you try to hide from me?
Cronuts.
“Ughhh. I’m so hungry. When is lunch starting?” I groaned.
My friend grinned. “I’ve come prepared.” In a flash, he shot a Twizzler out of his right sleeve and into his hand, handing it to me.
I think about my shirt’s sleeves. And tricks up one’s sleeve. It makes me think of long things. And winter. That’s all I have to say. Good day and cheers, reader!
Her sleeve skimmed down to her finger tips showing the pale pink polish of her nails.
For years I would think about painting everyday. It’s not the kind of painting you’re thinking though. It’s painting with a very sharp paintbrush and blood red paint. Sleeves is how I would cover up my pretty paintings. Not anymore.
The sleeves would burn against the red lines that were drawn on my skin. The heat coming from my arms was almost unbearable. Sleeves is what I pulled down for years to hide my old addiction.
The drummer in my first band wiped his nose on his sleeve or his hand so often that we named (we being everyone but him) named the band “Sleeveless Tissue”. He had no idea. He even made a logo for his drum kit.
Green sleeve oh why’d you leave. You’d think with friends like these you’d need to sieve the wheat from the chaff but oh no. Sleeve relieve reprieved.
My mother finished sewing the sleeve to my new Christmas shirt. I hated it even before it was finished. It just wasn’t “me”. But then again… It was a step up from the Christmas socks I got last year. Next year we’ll go for a sweater. The year after that pants. And perhaps after that: a man to fit in those.
I had some tricks up my sleeve. They were nasty little tricks. Tricks that my aunt would later regret. I finished playing them when my mother died. And my girlfriend. With my son in her tummy. I was done playing.
It is no one’s guess as to what is up a trickster’s sleeve. The expression itself, dating back to times immemorial, was found in the practice of magicians who would produce their trick from the folds of the sleeve, so to speak. Given the etymology of the term, it is now used widely across to connote a sudden trick across different people.
A gyerek ujja, mint mindig, a szájában volt. De miiért? Hiába kérdezgettük tőle viccelődve, hogy miért szopja az ujját, nem mondott semmit. Esetleg azt, hogy tejecske jön belőle. Az egész család felröhögött, nem vették komolyan a gyereket. Aztán pár év múlva leszokott erről, s elmerengő fejjel bámulta a hüvelyk ujját.
-Miaz?
-Elkopott az ujjam.
The curtain was pulled again. She remained motionless at the window. All she saw was tears on the face of a corpse, smiling like an erratic lover.
I yanked my sleeve down quickly so they couldn’t see my wrists. No, I didn’t have scars or anything. What I was more concerned about was concealing what I’d written there. ‘Worthless. Ugly. Stupid. Fat.’ They didn’t need to know that I felt this way about myself. As far as anyone else was concerned, I was happy. And I wanted to keep it looking that way.
I wore my heart upon my sleeve and this is how I am repaid. She took one last look at his balcony on the second window. The flowers which had adorned his apartment before now wilted. “How fitting” she thought as she walked away.
He felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see his younger brother standing there, looking bashful and a little upset. “Hey bro,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“I was just wondering,” said the younger, “do you think… do you think you could carry me home?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
He had aces up his sleeve — and dices and kinds up hers. The glamour of the games had never ceased to appeal him. One slight of hand, one winning card, one long kiss home… it was a wonder he could focus on anything else on Friday evenings, a few hours before the fun began. It was a wonder anyone who knew him even asked him to.
Up my sleeve is nothing I want to show you. It is where I keep most of my tricks. I won’t let you know them because they are to be used against you in a way that benefits me. I will find what works and what doesn’t and as long as are here, I will use them.
I tugged at my sleeve, self-conscious. Eyes downcast, afraid to meet yours. I knew you’d be looking at me the way you always did, searching for an answer.
I’ve got tricks up my sleeve
and I will eventually show you
but I can’t show you now
because you won’t read my poetry
see the fire in my eyes
makes me dangerous and deceptive
and i try to ignite it
only with my own matchstick
but its easily burnable
and i burn everyday
because i look in the mirror
and blow smoke my own way
Wear your heart on your sleeve
Out there for the world
But never give it away
For free
Because it’s yours
And no one may take it but you
Becuase it’s yours
And no one may shove it back in your face
Because it’s yours
But I’ll give it away
Some day
Some day
No one may take it away
Because I’ll give it
Just have to wait
Wearing it on my sleeve
For all to see
it’s hard to put my arm through the sleeve of your shirt because it’s been a year since i last pulled it out and the smell is hurting my skin and my heart is about to jump out of my chest and i miss you so bad i can’t remember how to work my voluntary muscles. i’m wishing my heart would fail along with them and forget how to beat but i’ve never been very lucky to begin with.
She couldn’t help but pick at the sleeve. It just wasn’t right. It was her wedding day and it wasn’t right. She tore it off.
End of the jumper or t-shirt. the sleeve keeps your arms warm. sleeves are there to protect the biceps, triceps and forearms. if we didn’t have sleeves then we would have goosebumps a lot of the time. they are also chewed by young ones.
Roll up your sleeves. It’s time to pretend we’re men. Fixing the faucet is a job for a handyman, I know, but do we really want to admit we can’t do it?
1sleeve=surrounding linkage enough evenly verifying encapsulation
Rowan had more than just a few tricks up her sleeve. When the men tried to woo her, her counter flirting completely threw them off guard. She was so poised, so suave, and so comfortable with herself that every dude who wanted to get into her pants at the pub just lowered her red face into the overwhelmingly white suds of his cheap beer. And then a lovely lady wearing curls would sashay by, and that was when Rowan put more of her tricks to use.