The old woman looked at her withered hands and wondered where the time had gone. She never pictured herself being old, she was still active and still had a life. But as she looked down at her hands she realized that she in fact was getting older and that time stops for no one.
A pale flower, withered in the high noon sun. So beautiful by moonlight. Youth and beauty sucked clean by the beautiful promise of dawn. The sun was too warm. Its love scorched to bright. The flower did not despair its moment in the sun.
The withered, old woman crouched at her desk. She thought over her life as she put pen to paper. Her memory was failing her and she must get this down before either her mind went or her body went. She wasn’t sure which was going to leave her first.
The flowers had long been withered but there was no point to throwing them away. The vase was barely visible underneath the plates and papers and garbages that had piled up since he had left. She was out and about, but didn’t care to change anything about the interior of their shared space.
Always thought of as old, what about the young? Can’t they be wrinkled and weathered, taken to the winds of time and looked used beyond their years? The old aren’t the only ones to appear like an old oak or abused leather.
Of course he remembered her as he had last seen her; young, wild eyed, with a mischievous smile surrounded by a starburst of freckles, so it was a bit of a shock to see her now, withered and old like himself, the darkened freckles interconnected by wrinkles like a spider’s web, the eyes sunken and distant. She recognised him instantly, though, and her soft voice croaked dryly, the once mischievous smile now wistful, but still as appealing; “Hello Michael! How have you been?”
The dead flower sat directly beneath the only ray of light filtering through the bleachers. The day was filled with the kind of heat that destroyed hope and made your shirt dark with sweat. The glare made it hard to watch the game in front of her. Well, that and the agonizingly awful plays the little guys were making.
The space between me and my husband is starting to feel greater than the chasm of the Grand Canyon. He used to make me feel so alive. Like a flower in spring. His rays of sunshine made me grow and blossom. Now I just feel like a withered dead rose.
The weeping willows her mother had so loved, stood naked and withered beneath the sun’s dim light, their branched knarled and twisted in a way the princess had never seen them. The sight nearly broke her heart.
My hair was withering away. I had a disease that was killing me from the inside out. I knew I wasn’t going to make it. However, I was ready to go. I learned I had cancer four years ago. I was a freshman in high school. I joined the drama club and I was making new friends. During sophomore year I was getting better. I had beautiful hair the color of the vanilla. It wasn’t falling out as much back then, like it is now. Junior year they said i was almost healed. This year I had a relapse and it was worse than it was freshman year. I lost my friends because I pushed them away, it was easier that way. I quit the drama club because my doctor appointments were too frequent. I never had boys chasing me. I was the cancer girl who wasn’t worth the time or wasn’t given the time. This is a love story, but simply a tragedy. I wasn’t going to live, I was going to die like a flower… My petals were withering away now.
Lillian’s look could have withered all the flowers in the room, decadent buds reduced to gray, dead globules of what they once were in their glass prism vases. She snatched the paper out of Herman’s grip and proceeded to tear it, very slowly, in half, never changing her expression as her husband gurgled out a verb-less protest as she threw the pieces to the floor.
“Not.” She uttered it slowly, word by word. “On. Your. Damn. Life.”
All that was left was his old sweatshirt that smelled like her, and a single rose, withered and pressed between the pages of the last book they read together.
Tattered and torn the withered steps that led to the palace gave way only to those who tread lightly. An ability to feel the intent of pressure developed away from, chi, physics, and spirit. In fact it developed all on its own.
Death beheld nothing. All that was perishable expired — life ceased. No thing, no beast, no man moved.There were no souls left to reap. And so — Death withered.
The hand she held out to me – much like the tree I had seen in my dream – was rotten, almost. The other hand had a satin white glove, but I could see the gnarled mess that was under it. The fingernails were yellow, and the veins had seemed long ago to have lost their blood.
There was a small tree in our backyard. It was old, dusty, withered. I used to sit underneath it when I was younger. I begged my parents not to cut down that poor little tree, because it reminded me of me. It was broken down, beaten, defeated by years of weather and destruction. But that poor little tree was steadfast, still clinging to roots and earth and soil. Still standing.
Alex moved to the loud music on the pier, the seagull being the best audience and only yapping and hollering at the standing crowd, watching the wonderful artist at his best.
Jump jump jump kick kick jump
Alex almost sang the words aloud, but his mind concentrated on each step before the dance could wither away into random choreography.
The dried flowers are all that’s left in the empty kitchen now, brittle and dead in their little vase on the window sill. Eleanor sighs, fingers a once-velvety leaf, and finally tips them out into the trash.
She looked at the withered hand the woman held out to her. Should she take it and trust this stranger she had just met? or should she be safe…The hand beckoned to her, and when she looked at the withered old face, Jessie took the old woman’s hand, hoping that she wasn’t making the mistake of a lifetime.
The stems are bare, reaching to the sky with tiny claws. The petals have all fallen away, the leaves have been stripped. Eager for spring, the roses burst into life, only to be stung by a sudden and jealous frost. Left withered and crumpled, the black stalks with their thorns and spikes stand alone, pointless and ugly and tough.
The student wrote, ‘withered’…. “the rose withered on the vine.” Cliche shouted the king. Off with your head! The student crossed out the word, ‘withered,’ and wrote ‘blistered’. The king was pleased, and executed the next in line.
She was a withered soul in ways that could never be described, with her mousy demeanor and her lack of fiery passion it is amazing to hear that back in the day she was an angel of silky wings the color of the purest snow to ever fall. But you see that is the pain of the cancer that over took her body in countless forms before she even had the time to live. She always was beautiful in her sorrow, but this time, this time is different. It’s a shame to see that it could have withered her so extensively in less time than it takes to say I AM ALIVE, even when it is more than clear you are not.
Something about those Tuesday nights at Sandy’s Burger Joint. It became an office building for insurance about twenty years ago, but you could get a full basket of fries for a nickel – didn’t matter that they were withered beyond recognition. With enough salt and ketchup you were in heaven.
Withered. That’s what happens when you don’t take time to drink out of the well of refreshment, rejuvenation. When you don’t take time to give yourself the nourishment you need, your own unique set of nutrients: breath, music, love, sea salt, love
“I could-”
The queen’s eyes flicked toward the young girl to her left. The girl’s hopeful, helpful expression withered under the unflinching, icy stare she received.
Dying.
It’s a replacement word for dying.
A spark of hope
because if it withers,
it can be saved,
it can live,
right?
Wrong.
The old woman looked at her withered hands and wondered where the time had gone. She never pictured herself being old, she was still active and still had a life. But as she looked down at her hands she realized that she in fact was getting older and that time stops for no one.
A pale flower, withered in the high noon sun. So beautiful by moonlight. Youth and beauty sucked clean by the beautiful promise of dawn. The sun was too warm. Its love scorched to bright. The flower did not despair its moment in the sun.
The withered, old woman crouched at her desk. She thought over her life as she put pen to paper. Her memory was failing her and she must get this down before either her mind went or her body went. She wasn’t sure which was going to leave her first.
The flowers had long been withered but there was no point to throwing them away. The vase was barely visible underneath the plates and papers and garbages that had piled up since he had left. She was out and about, but didn’t care to change anything about the interior of their shared space.
Always thought of as old, what about the young? Can’t they be wrinkled and weathered, taken to the winds of time and looked used beyond their years? The old aren’t the only ones to appear like an old oak or abused leather.
She stooped over the table, her withered hands clutching at the glossy wood. A gleam in her eyes, blue and bold, betrayed the life still in here.
“Don’t take me for a fool,” she rasped. “I know who I am.”
She stopped over the table, her withered hands clutching the glossy wood. Her eyes, blue and bold pierced me with the hunger in them.
“Don’t take me for a fool,” she rasped. “I know who I am.”
The roses lay in the dust, withered, a shadow of their former beauty. I felt the same as those roses looked.
Of course he remembered her as he had last seen her; young, wild eyed, with a mischievous smile surrounded by a starburst of freckles, so it was a bit of a shock to see her now, withered and old like himself, the darkened freckles interconnected by wrinkles like a spider’s web, the eyes sunken and distant. She recognised him instantly, though, and her soft voice croaked dryly, the once mischievous smile now wistful, but still as appealing; “Hello Michael! How have you been?”
the grass used to be green in this place. I remember families and noise and laughter.
Now there’s just the smell of death and stasis.
dying, crinkled, no rain, too much rain, too old, frail, hunched over, sad, giving up, diminishing, ceasing to be
The dead flower sat directly beneath the only ray of light filtering through the bleachers. The day was filled with the kind of heat that destroyed hope and made your shirt dark with sweat. The glare made it hard to watch the game in front of her. Well, that and the agonizingly awful plays the little guys were making.
With red.
All she wanted was Marius’ kiss.
She was ready to give him her all. In fact she already has.
Eponine, in the rain.
Shot.
Now withering.
The space between me and my husband is starting to feel greater than the chasm of the Grand Canyon. He used to make me feel so alive. Like a flower in spring. His rays of sunshine made me grow and blossom. Now I just feel like a withered dead rose.
The weeping willows her mother had so loved, stood naked and withered beneath the sun’s dim light, their branched knarled and twisted in a way the princess had never seen them. The sight nearly broke her heart.
lol
it sounds like your saying with a red. it is a really weird word. its kik
This isn’t a love story****
My hair was withering away. I had a disease that was killing me from the inside out. I knew I wasn’t going to make it. However, I was ready to go. I learned I had cancer four years ago. I was a freshman in high school. I joined the drama club and I was making new friends. During sophomore year I was getting better. I had beautiful hair the color of the vanilla. It wasn’t falling out as much back then, like it is now. Junior year they said i was almost healed. This year I had a relapse and it was worse than it was freshman year. I lost my friends because I pushed them away, it was easier that way. I quit the drama club because my doctor appointments were too frequent. I never had boys chasing me. I was the cancer girl who wasn’t worth the time or wasn’t given the time. This is a love story, but simply a tragedy. I wasn’t going to live, I was going to die like a flower… My petals were withering away now.
Lillian’s look could have withered all the flowers in the room, decadent buds reduced to gray, dead globules of what they once were in their glass prism vases. She snatched the paper out of Herman’s grip and proceeded to tear it, very slowly, in half, never changing her expression as her husband gurgled out a verb-less protest as she threw the pieces to the floor.
“Not.” She uttered it slowly, word by word. “On. Your. Damn. Life.”
All that was left was his old sweatshirt that smelled like her, and a single rose, withered and pressed between the pages of the last book they read together.
Tattered and torn the withered steps that led to the palace gave way only to those who tread lightly. An ability to feel the intent of pressure developed away from, chi, physics, and spirit. In fact it developed all on its own.
f*ck everyone who kept telling him to lose weight.
the way he saw it, the more of him there was, the harder it would be for life to suck it out. life would not wither him away.
Death beheld nothing. All that was perishable expired — life ceased. No thing, no beast, no man moved.There were no souls left to reap. And so — Death withered.
The hand she held out to me – much like the tree I had seen in my dream – was rotten, almost. The other hand had a satin white glove, but I could see the gnarled mess that was under it. The fingernails were yellow, and the veins had seemed long ago to have lost their blood.
There was a small tree in our backyard. It was old, dusty, withered. I used to sit underneath it when I was younger. I begged my parents not to cut down that poor little tree, because it reminded me of me. It was broken down, beaten, defeated by years of weather and destruction. But that poor little tree was steadfast, still clinging to roots and earth and soil. Still standing.
No longer withered. No more gray skies. It’s a beautiful life. Gratitude makes the colors brighter, and the wind suddenly smells fresher<3
Jump jump jump, kick.
Alex moved to the loud music on the pier, the seagull being the best audience and only yapping and hollering at the standing crowd, watching the wonderful artist at his best.
Jump jump jump kick kick jump
Alex almost sang the words aloud, but his mind concentrated on each step before the dance could wither away into random choreography.
Tulips bloomed and withered.
Their beauty continued blooming in my memory.
The dried flowers are all that’s left in the empty kitchen now, brittle and dead in their little vase on the window sill. Eleanor sighs, fingers a once-velvety leaf, and finally tips them out into the trash.
something which is broken, in rags or in bad shape. It might not be useful anymore. It might be in pieces or shattered.
She looked at the withered hand the woman held out to her. Should she take it and trust this stranger she had just met? or should she be safe…The hand beckoned to her, and when she looked at the withered old face, Jessie took the old woman’s hand, hoping that she wasn’t making the mistake of a lifetime.
The stems are bare, reaching to the sky with tiny claws. The petals have all fallen away, the leaves have been stripped. Eager for spring, the roses burst into life, only to be stung by a sudden and jealous frost. Left withered and crumpled, the black stalks with their thorns and spikes stand alone, pointless and ugly and tough.
The student wrote, ‘withered’…. “the rose withered on the vine.” Cliche shouted the king. Off with your head! The student crossed out the word, ‘withered,’ and wrote ‘blistered’. The king was pleased, and executed the next in line.
She was a withered soul in ways that could never be described, with her mousy demeanor and her lack of fiery passion it is amazing to hear that back in the day she was an angel of silky wings the color of the purest snow to ever fall. But you see that is the pain of the cancer that over took her body in countless forms before she even had the time to live. She always was beautiful in her sorrow, but this time, this time is different. It’s a shame to see that it could have withered her so extensively in less time than it takes to say I AM ALIVE, even when it is more than clear you are not.
Something about those Tuesday nights at Sandy’s Burger Joint. It became an office building for insurance about twenty years ago, but you could get a full basket of fries for a nickel – didn’t matter that they were withered beyond recognition. With enough salt and ketchup you were in heaven.
Withered. That’s what happens when you don’t take time to drink out of the well of refreshment, rejuvenation. When you don’t take time to give yourself the nourishment you need, your own unique set of nutrients: breath, music, love, sea salt, love
He did it I did it. The wight was taken outwards the wight was part of the air now. No need of consolation. He withered.
“I could-”
The queen’s eyes flicked toward the young girl to her left. The girl’s hopeful, helpful expression withered under the unflinching, icy stare she received.