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bottles . . . when I have to do something and don’t want to, I bottle up my energy, turn to my computer and play candy crush saga. When I don’t want to face my feelings or memories, I bottle up my emotions and do anything else.
By Sheila on 08.29.2013
the bottles lined the shelf, looking almost lovely in the light. They sparkled, like glass will when the light hits it just right, and if it wasn’t such a testament to shame, I might have been enchanted by the sight.
It was just so…strange. To see them. It was honestly an eerie feeling, one that gave me chills, and brought forth so many questions. How long had it taken to gather that many bottles, for starters? years? Did that mean this place hadn’t been cleaned in years? Or had it just been the last few weeks? That was an awful lot of bottles to collect in only a few weeks.
By hannah URL on 08.29.2013
Laying scattered such as the ideas that are lost on ears that prefer not to listen. The bottles became a metaphor for the moment. Everything was a picture in her head. She filtered through sepia and dramatic black and white on a second by second basis
By masked habit on 08.29.2013
he handed me a bottle. Rather, he pushed it into my hand without even looking at me, though I doubt he could have managed such an action if he had wanted to. His eyes drifted from side to side, looking nowhere. they certainly weren’t looking at me. I wondered for a split second how long he had been there, sitting in the dark, surrounded by more and more empty bottles, and then I promplty decided I didn’t want to know.
“Lets go home Charlie.” I said softly and took the bottle from his hand, setting it on the table beside me, and taking his hand.
By Sarah Smith on 08.29.2013
there are bottles standing on the wall, each bubbling with a delicious fluid which chimed a melodramatic ending–a poison, only fit for a princess. red lips, a heartfelt goodbye, a worried glance. death.
By scarlett on 08.29.2013
The sand shifted slightly as she picked the bottle up for the shoreline. She couldn’t make out what was inside. A small half-rotten cork stuck out of the top of the bottle.
By Tammi URL on 08.29.2013
Dust collected on its rim as I spied its content empty. Who had drunken from this old bottle? I walked across the room of the saloon, its planks creaked for every step. I know not particularly why, but my father’s alcoholism came to mind. The bottles on the counters drudged up by my hand in a similar manner.
By Eric Harrell URL on 08.29.2013
The bottles hung from the ceiling of the small hut. Filled with water, each glowed eerily with a small flashlight attached to spread the light. He sat in the corner, cross-legged, with a chipped plate in his lap, using his fingers to catch the remains of the gravy from his dinner, noisily sucking the last drops.
By nedra URL on 08.29.2013
All empty. Scattered on the floor around him. His face smiled. But his bones were screaming.
By esky1118 URL on 08.29.2013
Empty bottles of beer are polluting the earth. Scum change. Someone else will get it.
Pushing there carts along the way.
By Golly URL on 08.29.2013
Lot of bottles strewn on the floor, there were green ones, red ones, small ones, long ones, all those didn’t mean a thing to Richard, well, at least not yet. Grandpa told him they were useful, but as to how, he had the faintest clue. But he was interested to know the answer so he stayed put and waited.
By eve URL on 08.29.2013
There are bottles outside my door. They contained the energy drink that I always chug before I go to work. It’s strawberry flavored and it’s aptly named Sting. It helps me stay awake at night when I usually work. I love to work at night because I’m less likely to get distracted.
By Diane de la Cruz on 08.29.2013
Cracking bottles on highway siding brick walls, crumbling into gardens of statues and molten beaten flesh. I’m sitting here, masked on the outside by the walls within which vampires, chains and ornate hanging chandeliers swing and play, swing and sing; masked inside Blythe colours of the world beyond the highway, the canola fields of yellow, yellow, grey and green smokes and tree flickers through passages of cars. I’m silent, theyre waiting, drifting with a speed and dreadless intensity that washes over my slow time dreaming, my flickered eyes and the languid way I beat up against the concrete walls of a hidden void.
By Saudade URL on 08.29.2013
There are lots of bottles that stand on the hill. Green bottles like Heineken. Sometimes you see parts of them washed out on the beach and they look like beautiful rocks. It surprised me the first time I realised it wasn’t natural. But sometimes it seems that pollution can look pretty although it still angers me that people can’t just get up off their lazy asses and and
By Mutated Pear URL on 08.29.2013
We’ve started just leaving them out on the street, in the recycling and they get scattered all over the concrete. There are too many of them, broken glass, broken men, people who need help just to stand up
By Nash URL on 08.29.2013
Empty bottles surrounded him where he sat. Sighing, he let his head drop back against the wall. He felt defeated, broken and drunk. This wasn’t how he had pictured his life turning out.
By panzie on 08.29.2013
He had his first when he was sixteen.
It was by the campfire when he was at camp.
He never knew that it would become like this.
Lying on the floor of the hotel bathroom, Eddie’s eyes watered as he gazed into the ceiling light.
By Karl Whitacre on 08.29.2013
That one makes you bigger, this one makes you smaller, but *this* one makes you both. This one you live in, and this one lives in *you*. This one makes you solid, this one makes you melt, drink too much of *this* one and you’ll blow away in the wind. Yeah, the labels are all the same. Don’t look at the labels. Look at what’s inside. Listen. Do you want to do this, or not?
By amygdala URL on 08.29.2013
Ninety-nine bottles sat on the wall. A parade in all of its green glory and I felt a tinge of jealousy. They were together, comrades in arms. True they were inanimate objects but they belonged together. As for me. I would always be an outside, unwanted and unloved.
By Tracey URL on 08.29.2013
Peeling away the pages with a straight razor, strip by strip, column by column, curl by curl, she created rings of ruined literature, confetti from Confucius. With the utmost care she collapsed a hundred of each into classic coke bottles and lined the wall with their light. It was a start.
By L. A. Smith URL on 08.29.2013
Why so fucking many, he pondered while kicking through his killers.
By Grace URL on 08.29.2013
So many placed about the tables. Different shapes and sizes. It’s lithe fingers, little ridges, and the velvety feel of milk glass. It’s bubbles and swoops on the glide, narrowing, narrowing, narrowing down before choosing carefully the best among all the bottles. Open your eyes and…
By Intuition URL on 08.29.2013
everywhere. shattered on the beach crushed on the sidewalk ground into the dirt. glass, plastic, metal. every color every shape.
By chirpy on 08.29.2013
bottles have an untold story!!lost ones at sea,random ones in the woods,a random bottle at home..where have they been and what brought them to u..u need perspective
By aneela on 08.29.2013
green, glass, clear, plastic, different shapes, sizes, brands, types, quantities, fillings. bottles are versatile. bottles. a word that means so many different things. so how can one only use 60 seconds to write about it? you can’t. that’s how. so bottles. in 60 seconds. think of every bottle you have ever seen, corked, capped, popped, or containered. they’re all bottles that i see. what about you?
By anonymous on 08.29.2013
she kicked the bottles with a firm steel-toed boot. he’d never get what she was trying to express, anyway. why did she feel like she had to go back and insist that he understand? he was not as stubborn as she was, and besides, he might not have heard her clearly. she shrugged the idea off and adjusted the shoulder of her leather jacket that had slumped off her disappointed shoulder
By Melia on 08.29.2013
Bottles lined upon a shelf, filling the bottom of a bag, little stashes of rescue medications, pain pills, muscle relaxer, etc scattered around, so that they are close at hand; these are the things I need to get through the day. Not everyday, some days I manage with no pills, others I take as much as allowed and still curl into a ball of pain and try so very had not to cry. Migraine is not just a headache, it is a neurological pain disorder and mine is chronic. The pills are the balls, the pain is the chains, Migraine is my tormentor; I am a prisoner and cannot escape. I carry the villain around in my brain, waiting to pounce, waiting to strike, waiting to take more of my life and my happiness from me. The brain-fog and med-fog even manage to seal away what I hold most dear, me, myself, my soul, and my mind. Migraine is the monster I cannot slay.
By Drivven Wrinth URL on 08.29.2013
Washed onto the shore slivers of bottles wash up. They remain from the past. Past parties, past binges, past emotions.
By Sophia URL on 08.29.2013
They’re recyclable, and oftentimes they are a wonderful way of bringing in an income that most people don’t appreciate. At five cents a piece, you can make a dollar off of just twenty of them and if you know how to stretch your money a dollar can make all the difference. She was always thrilled to find them on the side of the road.
By Nykee on 08.29.2013
bottles lying the street. empty, drained long ago. every drop spilled, running through gutters. glass smashing under tires as cars drive aimlessly down the alley.
By firelight URL on 08.29.2013
On the mantel above the old fireplace they sat: bottles of every color and shape. There were short bottles, skinny bottles, blue bottles, and beer bottles. Surrounding them, a strand of white Christmas lights shone brightly, creating a luminous, colorful glow. It was the perfect accent for the simple living room.
By Abster on 08.29.2013
bottles full of liquor, they never made you sicker. couldn’t you see. it’s kiling you and bringing you down. stop looking for frowns. throw that bottle out the window. find something to get better and then live and thrive. forever without such vile liquids
By Eilse on 08.29.2013
I remember the blue glass Seltzer bottles in my grandparents’ Bronx kitchen.
I loved the hissing sound the squirting of the seltzer made. each month, the seltzer man came to take the empties and bring new ones, a little slice of life.
By Robin on 08.29.2013
Bottles of Vitamin Water. I WANT.
By Jason URL on 08.29.2013
There is a reason that your aim is off, that you won’t win a toy for your girl.
She’s not your girl, and you’re not her hero, her lover, the only star in her sky, if only, if only, if only, you cry out to the world at night.
Why? What have I done to deserve this, you think, but no. That’s not it at all. There are no obstacles to be knocked down, no easy way to charm the object of your dreams.
No. It’s all hard work. Hard work that you won’t work for. No, it should already be yours. How dare it make you work? Not give itself up, a lamb to the slaughter?
She is not your princess; she is not in a castle waiting to be rescued.
You are the monster she is running from.
By Anna Meursault on 08.29.2013
99 bottles of beer on the wall.
How many bottles will it take to fill the tap?
There are a lot of bottles over there.
Over where? There.
Are all bottles made of glass?
Don’t keep your emotions in bottles.
By michaelbuzz URL on 08.29.2013
She lined up her bottles along the sink wondering , should she dump them? Or keep them for a needed drink? She bit her lip, and dumped them feeling an instant release.
By marylou wynegar URL on 08.29.2013
By Arianna Reiley URL on 08.29.2013
She signed the letter, shoved it into the bottle then sealed the bottle with a cork and wax. She walked to the ocean and hurled the bottle as hard as she could. She watched it drift from her sight with a smile on her lip. She wondered if anyone would ever find her letter and perhaps write back. Only time would tell about her message in a bottle.
By FairyNiamh on 08.29.2013
“Nine million bottles of beer on the wall, nine million bottles of beeeeeeer…”
“Shut up!” Hark screeched from the back of the van, slamming his shackled wrists repeatedly against the interior alloy. “Shut up, shut up, shut UP!”
“Easy, big boy,” grunted the sheriff, though he still nodded a silent “Shut your trap” to his deputy, who abashedly focused on his bottle of iced tea instead of singing as they whisked like a tumbleweed down the dirt road.
By Belinda Roddie URL on 08.29.2013
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.