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House of memories, filled with artifacts both extraordinary and mundane. Mostly things of great value, but really, who can assign worth? Precious bits of the past… priceless.
By lil_nail URL on 11.26.2011
I want to go to a beautiful museum. A history museum. An art museum. To see something beautiful.
By ambie URL on 11.26.2011
My heart is a museum celebrating love long gone. The caretaker hasn’t been doing her job though and the artifacts are covered in cobwebs and dust. Protective sheets have fallen and memories have been exposed to light. They crumble away, lost to me forever.
By Andie on 11.26.2011
A museum is a place where things are stored to keep ones memory of the occurrence fresh. Museums are very valuable to society. They keep the past alive and relevant in todays society.
By nathaniel klein on 11.26.2011
he walked through it, feeling the rustic statues even though the signs told him not to, he needed that inspiration that had come to so many before him, he was gone.. one painting in particular after wiping his hand across the dry canvas worked, and he went home to start working.
By William Gruber on 11.26.2011
I walked into the museum, not knowing where to start. I absolutely hated history and anything related to it, so I tried to search out anything that I could find that was relevant to my current interests. Barely able to find anything, I settled on staring at a painting that seemed particularly interesting, since it was the one painting in the entire museum that, through my studies, I had never heard of.
By Alex URL on 11.26.2011
I loved museums. They helped me take my mind off of things.
They used to, anuways. Now I’m not sure what exactly they do for me, besides bringing back bad memories.
By Megan URL on 11.26.2011
I wonder why I die.
I wonder why no one remembers me.
Must I be shoved into a museum, on set for everyone to see my aching, rotting body
to be remembered?
Don’t forget me;
I know that you told me
that you would remember
but so did someone else
and they forgot
haunts my mind.
A museum of my life is in front of me. Everything distinct about me, from the happy and the horrible times is on display. People are walking around, looking about, glaring, thinking and I’m breaking and about to scream-
By Amanda on 11.26.2011
A museum, a room of stone with staid faces, frozen perhaps from that certain kind of realization you get in the prime, the pinnacle of your life. And we go and spy and peer and jeer at the ones we’ve chosen to lock away, failing to realize that we’ve done the same to ourselves.
By Maddie Mori on 11.26.2011
She liked coming to the museum. Alone. She had never really known why going out alone had always been so appealing to her, but now she realized it was because she had always taken care of her family, friends. She wanted to carry the world on her shoulders, and for a some time, when she was alone, she no longer had to.
By Jessica G on 11.26.2011
Oh i can’t wait to walk those halls,
to wonder aimlessly and stare at walls.
Paintings everywhere surrounding me
fascinating they are, can’t you see?
By Yuki URL on 11.26.2011
I walk slowly and anxiously towards the doors. Wondering and imaging the great things I’m going to see and the many things I’m going to learn. I walk in to such beauty and it simply astounds me. I’m inclined to touch everything that I see beautiful, but with composure I
withhold my instinctual manner of wanting to touch and feel the work of a fellow artist.
By BriannaNicole URL on 11.26.2011
The mantel was a museum
Metal frame and faded photography
By gsk URL on 11.26.2011
The last I went, he was with me. And my little sister and her ‘guy’ it was fun and simple. Gosh how happy everyone was. Before.
I’m glad at least that I have those memories, and glad that I realized I could do much better.
By Drea URL on 11.26.2011
It was exactly like a museum, only it was not nearly as exciting. It also lacked any of the organization found in a museum, save for the fact the objects were stacked neatly on shelves.
By Kevin URL on 11.26.2011
Kirby walked through the halls, the galleries. It all made for a lovely postcard, but nothing took his breath away. Turning the corner he saw it, the painting he had to have. It was the one that reminded him of love and death and everything that mattered.
It was the one SHE had done in art school.
By Leticia on 11.26.2011
I was staring at the mummies. They always fascinated me. The one thing we know isn’t permanent is our body, and yet, it can be. I guess that’s as close as humans ever get to living forever.
By Laura URL on 11.26.2011
At first, Clive felt bereft as he wandered down the first hall-way, thinking to himself that for seven-fifty each, there was plenty they could have have done for the afternoon, and scratched around his trouser pocket irritably. He paused as he saw somebody fixated before one of the displays, a large, glass box with an inscription, ‘Telepathy’. The box was empty.
“Wha… oh, come on!” he spluttered, quietening as Tanya glared at him and sushed. He watched the woman, leaning forward slightly as if to get a better sense of the box and whatever it was that ought to have been inside.
“It’s a rip-off!”, he whispered as loudly as he could as he saw a group of people clustered around a blank canvas, with the word ‘Caravans’ painted underneath.
“Oh dear”, murmured a nearby man good-naturedly, falling into step beside them. “Is this your first time in a muse-eum…?”
By Sam URL on 11.26.2011
it felt like a museum
no, like a tomb
it felt more than still; it felt dead
something inside of me said, “LEAVE”
but my feet wouldn’t listen
they were stubbornly held in place by my curiosity
By Samira URL on 11.26.2011
There’s a showcase in the school library of books. I think it’s pretty pointless, and hampers us when we go looking for the books we want.
Until I realized who puts those books there.
Every Wednesday, a beloved English teacher enters the library and browses the selection. She chooses a handful of deliberately chosen novels and carefully stacks them on the cabinet for display.
A museum of knowledge.
By mistershin URL on 11.26.2011
They used to live,
or maybe they didn’t.
By ancient hands created,
objects never out-dated.
creations so clever,
I wish I could stay,
but we always go our separate ways.
By Ashley R. K. URL on 11.26.2011
It was dark, and and very creepy. We were creeping around the museum at midnight. Not a good thing to do. We could hear a whole lot of commotion coming from inside, then we hear the window smash, and see some burglurs escaping the guards. I put my leg out and trip the douche before he could get much further. The next thing we see is the guard running towards the shattered glass. “Father daughter effort” he smiled at me, then at my friends. If anyone could help Dad, he just knew, it would be me, and my trusty crew.
By Rach URL on 11.26.2011
It had been thirty seven years since the museum had last had a visitor, and on this bright, windy day, someone other than the curator finally stepped into its entrance hall. A tall, gaunt man, he surveyed the hangar-sized gallery with a frown. For a moment, it flickered to a smile, but then returned, as if knowing it had a job to do. Purposefully, he walked up to the reception desk, where stood two racks, one with leaflets about the museum, one with feedback forms. Both had a fine layer of dust over them, sa if they had neither been taken, nor the racks moved, for a very long time.
“Good morning Sir” the receptionist introduced himself, “and welcome to our gallery.”
“There’s more than one of you here?”
“No, no, just me. But the gallery is jointly owned. Would you like a leaflet?”
“Not today, thanks. I’m afraid I’m here to close you down.”
“Close us down? Oh dear, oh dear oh dear…”
Frank had indeed come to close them down, due to a lack of rental payments, and other clients were on the list to use this hangar, among them, an agricultural production company. They were prepared to pay big.
“But you don’t understand…”
“I’m afraid the landlord doesn’t understand, no…why you haven’t been paying him.”
“You can’t close us down. Here, let me show you around.”
Frank had heard it all before, the sob stories. He wasn’t cold-hearted, he was prepared to indulge them a bit, if it would make his task a little easier. The receptionist led him to the first display.
“Here, you see, these are the sorts of things we display. You can see why it’s so important we aren’t closed down.”
Initially unimpressed – there was nothing of particular taste here, after all. But then as he looked, Frank’s jaw began to drop. Here, in front of him, were items he seemed to recognise. Not just recognise. They were his. And not just that. They were from his childhood. It was as if someone had collected all the things from his bedroom as an eight year old, from the baseball collector’s cards, to the beat-up acoustic guitar he used to play just to annoy his drunken father. Everything… everything was here.
Without prompting, Frank moved quickly on to the second display. There again – all the things he owned from when he was thirteen, after they’d moved house. There was his old haircomb, and his football boots, there was the poster of Muhammad Ali he kept above his bed. How the…?
He rushed on, display three, four, five. It was like a goddam mystery. Each display had the things from several years later, and display seven had his wedding ring he had lost several years ago. His wife had gone ballistic when she found out. So what was all his stuff doing there? The hangar was his own personal museum.
“Perhaps you see, Sir, why we mustn’t be closed down” cried the receptionist, hurrying after him as sped through the museum.
“No…no… of course you can’t be closed down… this… all this… how…? No, we need to… you need to stay open while I…”
This was going to take a while to figure out what he had seen. He had two other businesses to foreclose that morning, in other towns. He hoped to God they weren’t going to be like this as well. He didn’t have time to go into details now. He’d have to return, and soon. For now, he’d make an excuse to the landlord.
Without another word, he rushed out to his car across the road, hot and nauseous from the effort of tangling with this unexpected discovery. As he belted up and started the ignition, he looked back across to the museum entrance, where he could see the sign clearly, ‘Museum of Childhood’, below which was now standing a pensive-looking receptionist with an oddly familiar face. Frank gave him a half-smile, something reassuring, but professionally non-committal, in spite of what he had just seen in there.
He put the car into gear, and drove away as fast as he could.
By Gordsthoughts URL on 11.26.2011
All covered in thought provoking creations. Similar, but no two truly the same. A place to really get lost in, consumed in thought and wonder. Ah, the museum.
By Cookie URL on 11.26.2011
The walls were filled with many important and expensive things, the lights from the ceiling were rather tempered and kept together with very little other than the glob of electricity that it took to power them.
The halls themselves were empty in a way that promised ghosts would rise from the floors and shadows would creep from the corners. But when I walked through the doors of that museum, everything within and without felt like home. I knew that the mysteries within were simply waiting to be discovered.
By Sara H. URL on 11.26.2011
I love the museum. The way beautiful expression is hung on the walls for decade after decade to view. Im so thankful im able to live in the city and view art, thats hanging for me, on beautiful white walls, only an hour away.
By Chloe K. URL on 11.26.2011
“Hell, you could open a god damned museum with all the things I’ve seen and been through these past few weeks and charge admission,” Jensen thought. “You could even call it a presidential museum.”
By chole URL on 11.26.2011
The glass in the museum was somehow always free of dust. Maybe it was the darkness, the carefully placed spotlights that highlighted only the jade beads or the ivory statues. Maybe the curator came through every night with a small brush made from squirrel fur, and spent the night hours cleaning every surface. He just didn’t understand how the objects from someone’s memories could be so sterile when he could hardly look her earring that he found behind the bedside table.
By cmsiena URL on 11.26.2011
I was in a field trip with my class to the museum and I missed my bus so everyone was looking for bu
By Catieb on 11.26.2011
The rooms were all full of stuffed animals. Not the fluffy, genial, cuddly type.
Glassy eyes, bristly hair and gleaming teeth surrounded us.
By Guillaume URL on 11.26.2011
walking through a dusty, quiet, dark habitat of ideas living inside cases wanting to get out to BREATHE again if only in your imagination and no other space. Wanting to live forever. Forever in the minds and imaginations of the visiting visitor.
By povestitorul on 11.26.2011
She stepped inside and stopped dead in her tracks. She had no idea something so flat could make you feel so amazing. That mere paint on a canvas could change your world. And as she stood there, she knew that everything was going to be okay.
By Alicia Rice URL on 11.26.2011
I went to the museum of modern art not to look at anything but for the event, just to be seen. It was the food and hospitality show.
By lisao URL on 11.26.2011
Our history helps us avoid future mistakes, but how can we attempt to understand the past, if we never allow ourselves to step beyond the “please don’t touch” signs, the velvet ropes, and the polished glass?
By EllJayCee URL on 11.26.2011
Can you capture it all?
Put it together in a timeless lock?
Keep everything I ever valued,
Away, away from me,
So I never have to face them,
So I can be free from them,
But I doubt that’s how it works,
I doubt I ever will be,
Because they will call for me,
And I will answer.
By Vareesha Khan URL on 11.26.2011
museum. i don’t go to museum here, but why do i get an urge to go to museums when i travel? perhaps i like the fantasy they offer. and the buildings themselves take me somewhere unknown, in an imaginary world. that’s what i like about museum, i guess.
By kaorita on 11.26.2011
Amused by musings at the museum, muses find uses for ruses.
By Marianne URL on 11.26.2011
a museum of her life, all in that small bedroom. Hospital bracelet from the day she was born in a little trinket box, on the same shelf as the wooden bead necklace she wore to the beach when she was fourteen, on the same shelf as the stub of an eyeliner pencil that ran out last week.
By h URL on 11.26.2011
This reminds me of my childhood. Mom took us to every museum in Chicago with our cousins because she wanted us to know our shit, know our art. And I’m so, so glad she did.
By letitbe URL on 11.26.2011
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.