I have stale bred downstairs. Stale bread is hard and not fun to eat. It may be moldy, but birds love it. I don’t know why they love it, maybe because it’s different than worms that they eat constantly. I don’t like stale bread.
The stale smell of the room was incredibly disappointing. She thought that she would be going to a prestigious school, with a fire place in each room. Not this dump.
She sighed and plopped down her bags, ready for another boring day of school work.
The bread was incredibly dry, and caused the young girl’s teeth to hurt when she bit into it. But she was used to this, and knew to look at things with a positive viewpoint, or else, what’s the point at all?
So she sighed and took another bite.
bread, it is crusty, crumbly and dry
it gets all over Hailey’s pants when ahe bites into it
Carlee feeds it to the birds
they are gross, just like stale chips
they can cut your mouth as well
however, if you dip them in soup they’re better
words can be stale as well; when you have nothing better to say, you tend to use the same language to express your thoughts
granmothers’ houses smell stale as well, probably from old cigarettes or cabbage soup
bread, it is crusty, crumbly and dry
it gets all over Hailey’s pants when ahe bites into it
Carlee feeds it to the birds
they are gross, just like stale chips
they can cut your mouth as well
however, if you dip them in soup they’re better
stale is the texture of bread in the bottom of the package the last word of a relationship the smell of hospitals the ending of a friendship that lasted too long to be comfortable. stale can describe food but i think it’s better to use it to describe people.
You have forgotten your family’s name. Your roots are wilting. But all is still well, the old stories will never stale. They were kindled with imperishable flames. Seek the council of our deepest ancestors.
He stepped in to the room. The air was stale and had the stench of death. The floor was covered in bright red blood, pooling from the man he had killed just moments ago in cold blood. “Rest in peace old man.” He said before exiting through the back door.
she was stale like bread left in the fridge too long. stale like love unnurtured. stale like fire untimbered. she was stale like the way she swore she was living a life but she wasn’t, stale like the way she just went through the motions.
stale.
and she ran like timbers falling through a forest, almost like she was getting somewhere but you can’t get somewhere when you just run, because you’re turning around and wasting steps and that\s the only thing she could remember.
like the way you ran through the darkness and held her to your heart and made her believe.
When I clicked the link, I thought perhaps the word would have changed. I thought there would be something new here for me to write about, something for me to make an eloquent and not at all cliche quip about. Alas, upon arriving on this page, I saw that it was the same, stale word for me to write about.
I had smelled this odor before. It was stale, as though it had arisen from some upturned grave; it had the smell of death. As soon as it reached my nose, and subsequently my brain, I knew the end was near. I could hear the ceaseless plodding of their feet as they grew closer.
I wanted some toast, so I headed down to the kitchen. When I arrived downstairs, I noticed that someone had left the bread open. Again. How am I going to have toast if my bread is stale? Or would it even matter, I wondered, because isn’t toast basically stale bread? You put it in the toaster, it comes out dry and tasteless. Sounds like stale bread to me.
It was a hot, sultry night. Nana got up to use the bathroom, and meandered sleepily down the wooden floor of the hallway. As she passed the door of her grandmother’s room, the stale, musky smell of old age wafted out from it, as it always did. Nana held her breath as she passed, but stopped abruptly when she glanced inside. Her grandmother lay awkwardly on the floor, staring up at her. Nana watched; in amazement first, then gradual realisation. Squatting down beside her grandmother, she whispered softly. “Grandma?”
The stale bread tasted better than anything she had ever eaten. After weeks of walking from the wreckage, she finally managed to find a town, a place to stay, and some food. She had no money and her fiance was dead or missing or whatever, but at least she had herself and no injuries to speak of.
the marriage was rancid and ageing by that point. There was little need to stay in it. So she had left, but to do what? She had wandered the earth aimlessly for a few months, discovering herself. But it was now action that was required. The hardest part of one’s story to write.
The air was stale but breathable and Red, the only one able to see in the dark, nodded to the others before disappearing into the cave. Eyes flickering gold as she eased the wolf towards the surface of her psyche, she prowled through the darkness, senses sharp and fangs at the ready.
But when several long minutes of dedicated searching and she’d still found nothing out of the ordinary, she returned to the entrance, burying her wolf as she went.
“It’ll do,”
The leftover food from yesterday was stale. The same food we fought over last night when she leaned in and our hands touched. Warm, i remember. But now, as I eat it again, I’m all alone. Where did you go?
The leftover food from yesterday is hard and stale. The same food we fought over the other night. She tried to pull the last piece of pizza from my hand, but I refused to give in. When she leaned closer, our hands touched.
A slice of bread so stale it made my teeth grind and my jaw muscle wince.This definitely was not the first time I bought something substandard from that bakery.I agree one shouldnt judge a book by its cover, the entrance of the bakery had two Christmas trees on either side and decorated with dwingling silver balls and lights.It appeared exquisite and festive it lifted my moods as i had been under the weather and it was freezing outside.
The bread was stale. It always was.
They tried as hard as they could. They worked day and night. Working for those rich folk who never struggled for anything. Never had to steal for those they loved. Never had to watch as their children slowly became mere shadows of their former selves.
The bread was never fresh. It was what was left at the bakery after everyone bought their fresh bread. It was the unwanted bread. Stolen from the trash can in the back ally.
After ten minutes, the comedian’s act had already gone stale. He left the stage with his head somewhat bowed, as if he had known how lousy his jokes had been. The next comedian, a young woman with red curls, was absolutely hysterical. She had amazing impressions, a great comedic voice (tone and otherwise), and excellent punchlines. And which one did my male friends like more? I’ll give you a hint: He didn’t have red curls.
It had life once. And it was fresh and interesting and full of unexplored nooks and crannies. the potential seemed endless. Then after trial and experimentation and error after error after painful error the newness went away. the excitement went away. everything went away except the reminder that once this was new and exciting and had so much potential.
I believe it is time to toss this idea in the trash can.
After the dust settled, a stranger walked in. Looking for sustinance, all he found was a bag of corn chips. Stale and nasty, he still enjoyed each bite, as that’s all there was for him in this house.
Dry as a cracker
pale, ashen waste in my mouth
a musty mess with no concern
for taste and a texture that’s
a wimpy soft disappointment
always reminds me of
old age and neglect
We had this conversation every day. Every day it was exactly the same. Stale as the bread in the back of the cupboard. Every day, she draped herself on other boys like a mink stole that can’t decide whether or not it’s real.
I told myself over and over again that you have to love someone in order to be happy. But that idea grew stale as I continued to search for happiness. That’s when I realized it. You do have to love someone, but it’s okay if that person is yourself.
There was no way when driving along the freeway that he would give in to the stale nature of the roadside diners. It was only when he saw the deep blue Chevy, and the girl in faded jeans standing beside it in the parking lot of one diner that he considered that going for coffee and french toast would be admittedly, and probably, beneficial.
You drew in a breath. Held it for the longest time. I waited for the puff of air against my neck, my hair. My skin itched for it, so much that I almost inhaled as well, craving that greedy feeling of comfort, affection, being held. Holding someone.
You kept holding it. It got to the point that I worried you were dead, and I was turning my head to look at you when you suddenly exhaled with a puff of laughter.
“I was pretending,” you said, a grin curved across your moon-carved face, “I was underwater.”
The thought of you leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. There’s nothing good left. Nothing alive. You memory has gone stale like the chips you left out on the counter. They can’t be revived. You can’t be revived.
The flavorless, slightly soft skin of the green layer hit my tongue, and I nearly spit it out in protest. What was this, expired? I tried to do everything I could to make it better, but it was nearly impossible to do so.
the bread on my tongue was stale. i distantly remembered that i had brought it home only a day ago, but as the yelling around me continued, i found that the taste slowly slipped away from my mouth.
mom was screaming something at my grandma, and–typical of grandma–she whined something back. “i’m moving out soon,” i muttered against my glass of milk.
I have stale bred downstairs. Stale bread is hard and not fun to eat. It may be moldy, but birds love it. I don’t know why they love it, maybe because it’s different than worms that they eat constantly. I don’t like stale bread.
The stale smell of the room was incredibly disappointing. She thought that she would be going to a prestigious school, with a fire place in each room. Not this dump.
She sighed and plopped down her bags, ready for another boring day of school work.
The bread was incredibly dry, and caused the young girl’s teeth to hurt when she bit into it. But she was used to this, and knew to look at things with a positive viewpoint, or else, what’s the point at all?
So she sighed and took another bite.
bread, it is crusty, crumbly and dry
it gets all over Hailey’s pants when ahe bites into it
Carlee feeds it to the birds
they are gross, just like stale chips
they can cut your mouth as well
however, if you dip them in soup they’re better
words can be stale as well; when you have nothing better to say, you tend to use the same language to express your thoughts
granmothers’ houses smell stale as well, probably from old cigarettes or cabbage soup
bread, it is crusty, crumbly and dry
it gets all over Hailey’s pants when ahe bites into it
Carlee feeds it to the birds
they are gross, just like stale chips
they can cut your mouth as well
however, if you dip them in soup they’re better
Something very hard and no good. Nasty, not good. Similar to a rock.
stale is the texture of bread in the bottom of the package the last word of a relationship the smell of hospitals the ending of a friendship that lasted too long to be comfortable. stale can describe food but i think it’s better to use it to describe people.
You have forgotten your family’s name. Your roots are wilting. But all is still well, the old stories will never stale. They were kindled with imperishable flames. Seek the council of our deepest ancestors.
She bit into her cracker and it was stale, but her hunger didn’t mind. It was so good she closed her eyes and savored it’s chewiness
He stepped in to the room. The air was stale and had the stench of death. The floor was covered in bright red blood, pooling from the man he had killed just moments ago in cold blood. “Rest in peace old man.” He said before exiting through the back door.
she was stale like bread left in the fridge too long. stale like love unnurtured. stale like fire untimbered. she was stale like the way she swore she was living a life but she wasn’t, stale like the way she just went through the motions.
stale.
and she ran like timbers falling through a forest, almost like she was getting somewhere but you can’t get somewhere when you just run, because you’re turning around and wasting steps and that\s the only thing she could remember.
like the way you ran through the darkness and held her to your heart and made her believe.
When I clicked the link, I thought perhaps the word would have changed. I thought there would be something new here for me to write about, something for me to make an eloquent and not at all cliche quip about. Alas, upon arriving on this page, I saw that it was the same, stale word for me to write about.
I had smelled this odor before. It was stale, as though it had arisen from some upturned grave; it had the smell of death. As soon as it reached my nose, and subsequently my brain, I knew the end was near. I could hear the ceaseless plodding of their feet as they grew closer.
I wanted some toast, so I headed down to the kitchen. When I arrived downstairs, I noticed that someone had left the bread open. Again. How am I going to have toast if my bread is stale? Or would it even matter, I wondered, because isn’t toast basically stale bread? You put it in the toaster, it comes out dry and tasteless. Sounds like stale bread to me.
stale bread yuck duck food,. stale food just gross
Emily breathed in the stale air of the dark forest, wondering what was in the deep, dark forest.
It was a hot, sultry night. Nana got up to use the bathroom, and meandered sleepily down the wooden floor of the hallway. As she passed the door of her grandmother’s room, the stale, musky smell of old age wafted out from it, as it always did. Nana held her breath as she passed, but stopped abruptly when she glanced inside. Her grandmother lay awkwardly on the floor, staring up at her. Nana watched; in amazement first, then gradual realisation. Squatting down beside her grandmother, she whispered softly. “Grandma?”
The stale bread tasted better than anything she had ever eaten. After weeks of walking from the wreckage, she finally managed to find a town, a place to stay, and some food. She had no money and her fiance was dead or missing or whatever, but at least she had herself and no injuries to speak of.
the marriage was rancid and ageing by that point. There was little need to stay in it. So she had left, but to do what? She had wandered the earth aimlessly for a few months, discovering herself. But it was now action that was required. The hardest part of one’s story to write.
The air was stale but breathable and Red, the only one able to see in the dark, nodded to the others before disappearing into the cave. Eyes flickering gold as she eased the wolf towards the surface of her psyche, she prowled through the darkness, senses sharp and fangs at the ready.
But when several long minutes of dedicated searching and she’d still found nothing out of the ordinary, she returned to the entrance, burying her wolf as she went.
“It’ll do,”
The leftover food from yesterday was stale. The same food we fought over last night when she leaned in and our hands touched. Warm, i remember. But now, as I eat it again, I’m all alone. Where did you go?
The leftover food from yesterday is hard and stale. The same food we fought over the other night. She tried to pull the last piece of pizza from my hand, but I refused to give in. When she leaned closer, our hands touched.
A slice of bread so stale it made my teeth grind and my jaw muscle wince.This definitely was not the first time I bought something substandard from that bakery.I agree one shouldnt judge a book by its cover, the entrance of the bakery had two Christmas trees on either side and decorated with dwingling silver balls and lights.It appeared exquisite and festive it lifted my moods as i had been under the weather and it was freezing outside.
The bread was stale. It always was.
They tried as hard as they could. They worked day and night. Working for those rich folk who never struggled for anything. Never had to steal for those they loved. Never had to watch as their children slowly became mere shadows of their former selves.
The bread was never fresh. It was what was left at the bakery after everyone bought their fresh bread. It was the unwanted bread. Stolen from the trash can in the back ally.
I watch my bread go stale
its rotting in my hand
days and days go past
and it still continues to rot
My days are the exact replica
I stand here in the way
of everyones happy lives
I’ll just be a burden to stay
So i’m just stale, stale as this bread
After ten minutes, the comedian’s act had already gone stale. He left the stage with his head somewhat bowed, as if he had known how lousy his jokes had been. The next comedian, a young woman with red curls, was absolutely hysterical. She had amazing impressions, a great comedic voice (tone and otherwise), and excellent punchlines. And which one did my male friends like more? I’ll give you a hint: He didn’t have red curls.
It had life once. And it was fresh and interesting and full of unexplored nooks and crannies. the potential seemed endless. Then after trial and experimentation and error after error after painful error the newness went away. the excitement went away. everything went away except the reminder that once this was new and exciting and had so much potential.
I believe it is time to toss this idea in the trash can.
After the dust settled, a stranger walked in. Looking for sustinance, all he found was a bag of corn chips. Stale and nasty, he still enjoyed each bite, as that’s all there was for him in this house.
Dry as a cracker
pale, ashen waste in my mouth
a musty mess with no concern
for taste and a texture that’s
a wimpy soft disappointment
always reminds me of
old age and neglect
We had this conversation every day. Every day it was exactly the same. Stale as the bread in the back of the cupboard. Every day, she draped herself on other boys like a mink stole that can’t decide whether or not it’s real.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ,,,,,,,,,,,,,.
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I was stale. Bored. Sad. Upset. Nothing to do. I sat around for hours. Nothing. I couldn’t move my head, or body. I was stale.
I was stale. Bored. Tired. Sleepy. I couldn’t sleep. I had to stay awake, staring at this wall. I was stale.
I told myself over and over again that you have to love someone in order to be happy. But that idea grew stale as I continued to search for happiness. That’s when I realized it. You do have to love someone, but it’s okay if that person is yourself.
There was no way when driving along the freeway that he would give in to the stale nature of the roadside diners. It was only when he saw the deep blue Chevy, and the girl in faded jeans standing beside it in the parking lot of one diner that he considered that going for coffee and french toast would be admittedly, and probably, beneficial.
You drew in a breath. Held it for the longest time. I waited for the puff of air against my neck, my hair. My skin itched for it, so much that I almost inhaled as well, craving that greedy feeling of comfort, affection, being held. Holding someone.
You kept holding it. It got to the point that I worried you were dead, and I was turning my head to look at you when you suddenly exhaled with a puff of laughter.
“I was pretending,” you said, a grin curved across your moon-carved face, “I was underwater.”
The thought of you leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. There’s nothing good left. Nothing alive. You memory has gone stale like the chips you left out on the counter. They can’t be revived. You can’t be revived.
The flavorless, slightly soft skin of the green layer hit my tongue, and I nearly spit it out in protest. What was this, expired? I tried to do everything I could to make it better, but it was nearly impossible to do so.
the popcorn that i ate was stale i spit it out on my plate as my mom asked what did you do that for?
This popcorn is stale may i pop another bag. Mom this pizza is stale may you get me a different piece
the bread on my tongue was stale. i distantly remembered that i had brought it home only a day ago, but as the yelling around me continued, i found that the taste slowly slipped away from my mouth.
mom was screaming something at my grandma, and–typical of grandma–she whined something back. “i’m moving out soon,” i muttered against my glass of milk.
“what?”
“nothing.”