If the manager looks my way, if he gives me a chance. if i can get off this bench, can take a swing, I’ll knock one out of the park and win that girl over in the third row, seat five. The one is section 18, looking my way. there’s not a chance to fail, if i never get up.
Sitting on the bench, with two minutes left in the game, Alex was certain he would be able to bring his football team back from the 87-0 point deficit. “Coach! Put me in! Put me in!” Coach Howard thought about it for a second and called for a substitution. “Sure, you can play any position you like. What have we got to lose?”
The bench was a solitary recollection of her thoughts as she browse through her life, looking for happy instances that told her everything was going to be fine. She got bored of looking and closed the door to her heart and her eyes. She was devoted to her sole thoughts and opinions, trying to live her quiet life in the best way.
He sat on the old wooden bench staring out into the open. He was unaware of all the things around him and the people living their lives as he sat there unsure how he could go on. He had hit a breaking point and this bench was the only thing keeping him grounded. This bench was solid. It was sure. It would more than likely be there tomorrow when he walked through this park again. He didn’t have to worry about it being pulled out from underneath him.
as I sat on the bench a little birdie came and sat down next to me. She was beautiful, with sweet llittle brown and red feathers and a tiny little yellowy orange beak. And she opened that tiny little beak and let out a shrill shriek that made my blood run cold…
The bench was covered in a thick slime that appeared to oozed from every crack in the wood. Sadly I needed to set her somewhere, lest she die. I laid her down on the bench gently, wishing there were somewhere else to put her.
She was sitting, knees folded under her, the wood catching her skirt every time she moved. She couldn’t get comfortable, and every time she looked up she lost focus. Tapping her pencil against her teeth, squinting, she sighed, before snapping her notebook shut and getting to her feet.
The bench was cold aluminum in an empty stadium. When the place was empty it rang with a silence of a hundred thousand missing eyes. And at night, with the stars above, when we jumped the fence and jumped the wall to run across the freshly painted yardlines, to collapse, breathless, in the midst of the blue paint, it was as if we held the sky in our arms and let it trickle through our fingers. It was you and me, barely within reach on either side of that letter, and I had no choice but to lend you my heart for awhile.
A bench is something you sit on. They are always dependable. They are there, for a long time, rain, shine, snow, ice, summer, winter, fall, spring. They are not always comfortable, but most of the time they are welcoming and a relief to your feet.
We sit on the bench and I stare at your beautiful smiling face. I can’t help but love the dimples on your face. You stare at the falling snow as it gently hits the ground. Your hands are cold, but you don’t mind. You look at me and smile. Everything is okay as long as we’re together.
My father died on the field. But probably not in the way you might imagine. No, there was no glory, no winning touchdown. Not even a flop or fumble to go down in NFL history. My father was sitting on the bench, drinking some water, probably hoping that maybe this time he would get to play. Death by runaway linebacker. I doubt he even saw it coming.
It’s a great brand of clothing. I’m wearing one of their jackets as I’m writing this actually haha. It reminds me of the bench in Notting Hill that Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant find in that garden. It was bought by a husband for his dead wife and the inscription said, “For June who loved this garden, from Joseph who always sat beside her.” For some reason that’s always stuck with me.
Benches provide comfort, relaxation and a well deserved rest to those who might need the break from their activities. When I think of a bench, I imagine a green, picturesque scene, couples on nice holidays, and dog walkers – for whatever odd reason.
the bench was wet when she sat down but she didnt care. the cold leftover rain drops seeped into her jeans, and it sent a shiver up her spine. she sat in an almost comatose state staring at the passers by, and the cars humming slowly around the parking lot. some kids ran by, giggling and she began to smile at this, when he caught her eye. when she saw him her whole body went cold and numb. she couldnt believe it but it was him. it was his car, and he was smiling at her. she began to tremble, the sight of him made her stomach turn, she couldnt turn away. ‘How did he find me?’ she got up to run away, but she stopped. what is he doing? she asked herself. he had the queerest little grin on his face, and he seemed to be working something back and forth in his lap. his face became flush, and then she realized what he was doing as he threw his head back and his whole body shook as he finished himself off.
the plain, brown bench. there is nothing remarkable about it, unless you know the stories it has played a part of. the wedding proposal to start two lives on the path to becoming one; the brother and sister who will always remember it as the place they played with their mom while waiting for the school bus; the man who found a place to sleep there on a warm night; even the dog who marked it as ‘his’ while walking alongside his master…just a tiny piece of so many different stories…
When I think of a bench, I often think of a park. Fitting, seeing as park benches are relatively well known. However, I think I bench can really share a story. Who’s on that bench? Why are they there? Perhaps it’s a man waiting for a date who will never show up? Or someone who’s been walking and needs a rest? Two people catching up for the first time in years? I’m sure you could come up with a million different stories of people sitting on a bench. Such a simple action can lead to so much creativity, eh?
I sit in the sidelines, benched. Self-imposed, of course. I stand away as flashes of what should be my life speed before my sight. They’re pretty and captivating from afar, easy to enjoy from a safe distance where I don’t have to risk my reputation and feelings.
There once was a bench in a park. It was a lovely bench, made of wrought iron. It was painted white, and was like a metal doily. There was an old couple that loved to sit on the bench daily. Cute.
it’d be great if the Tokyo area had more benches. somehow they are not available, probably not to let the homeless sleep there. but in paris i saw so many benches everywhere.
A place in the park where you sit down, you can think, eat do whatever you’d like on it. It’s a place made to relax and is usually made out of wood or iron or both, found in playgrounds, at school, and parks.
When I think of a bench I think of peace. Of sitting with my lover, my best friend, my everything. Sometimes I think of trees. Or snow. Or nothing. It’s so simple to go to a park and sit there. I think of walking around the bench. Sometimes i think of old people feeding birds
A bench, simple, calm, maybe even bland. But they lead to so many emotions; love, hate, pain, joy. So many things occur on benches, that no one realizes. In parks, bench after bench had names carved into their wood. Telling stories that no one will fully understand. Secrets are held within the soft wood. Secrets of us.
You told me not to think, and so I sat down instead, on a bench and pretended I was homeless until the real homeless men with black skin dressed in white aprons gathered around blowing smoke in my face and talking in deep voices until they chased my dream-sleep away.
Who are you? they wanted to know, and I might have answered if I had the words, if you hadn’t stolen them with your reflection in the darkness of the store window front, coming to find me.
i sat on a bench and the seagulls came to give me some company because i was so alone. i grew old and old and my suit turned brown and the sun set down. it was time to leave
i don’t understand why people always talk to me. Perhaps i look approachable? It bothers me. I don’t like people with their good intentions, with their fake smiled and raised eyebrows. just leave me be on my bench, and keep walking.
His psychosis extended to the bench. It felt aware, too, now: all things, in fact, that received his touch began to speak, to think, to dream. And what they dreamed was us, and our dreams began to fade…
this can support a family far better than a black person
trolollllolllolollololololololololololololololololololololollolooololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololoolololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololoilolololololololololololololololololololololololollololol.
The couple was walking along the beach. She was tired and wanted to sit down. He didn’t have anything to use to cover the ground or sand for them to sit on. They finally saw what looked like a bench in the distance close to the beach. They ran and ran to it. When they approached they discovered the bench was actually a large tree stump stuck in the cement.
The park is shaded in dusky light by the time I get there. A few birds flit about; a few spare people meander along the walkway, most of them on their way home, chattering and laughing. But I hardly notice them. I make my way to the old, rickety bench at the edge of the park, and sit down carfully. It emits a groan that i have heard so many times, when he used to sit here with me. The thought of him brings water to my eyes, but i shove it down for now, this ocean that I feel like i’ll never tame. I am tired of crying, of thinking at all. Instead, i watch the sunset. The sun is dying in a beautiful battle: pinks swimming into oranges, yellows jumping over blues, smoky gunfire resounding in the reds.
Crunch of snow beneath your parka. People going to and fro. You snuggle to get warm.
The bench creaks beneath your weight as he comes to sit beside you and you snuggle in the snow.
The bench was hard, and wet with a night of dew. He grimaced at the sight of it, glancing down at his expensive pants. He really didn’t want to sit on that bench. But Amanda was already seated, waiting for him. The chipped green paint and wetness of the bench didn’t seem to bother her. She waited expectantly for him to follow her example, hands folded on her lap. He sighed and took a seat.
The bench was the place I was told to meet him. I wasn’t sure what to expect, because I had only talked to him briefly for ten minutes before he had kissed me so inappropriately.
I heard him approach from behind, so I turned to face him. “Where’s my money?” I asked immediately.
He looked taken aback. “Not even a hello?” He asked with that infuriating sarcasm.
“I pretended to be your fiancé, you promised to give me money.”
When I thought about how this would look to a third party, I cringed. This didn’t look good.
Bench, wow what a word, well Bench is a well known clothes company anyway for a start, there was this old-ish guy at work and a young chick walks by with bench written across her ass and he goes ‘what kind of bench is that’. Kinda funny
I like benches they are awsome I like to sit on them all the toime
If the manager looks my way, if he gives me a chance. if i can get off this bench, can take a swing, I’ll knock one out of the park and win that girl over in the third row, seat five. The one is section 18, looking my way. there’s not a chance to fail, if i never get up.
Sitting on the bench, with two minutes left in the game, Alex was certain he would be able to bring his football team back from the 87-0 point deficit. “Coach! Put me in! Put me in!” Coach Howard thought about it for a second and called for a substitution. “Sure, you can play any position you like. What have we got to lose?”
“I’ll play goalie!”
The bench was a solitary recollection of her thoughts as she browse through her life, looking for happy instances that told her everything was going to be fine. She got bored of looking and closed the door to her heart and her eyes. She was devoted to her sole thoughts and opinions, trying to live her quiet life in the best way.
He sat on the old wooden bench staring out into the open. He was unaware of all the things around him and the people living their lives as he sat there unsure how he could go on. He had hit a breaking point and this bench was the only thing keeping him grounded. This bench was solid. It was sure. It would more than likely be there tomorrow when he walked through this park again. He didn’t have to worry about it being pulled out from underneath him.
as I sat on the bench a little birdie came and sat down next to me. She was beautiful, with sweet llittle brown and red feathers and a tiny little yellowy orange beak. And she opened that tiny little beak and let out a shrill shriek that made my blood run cold…
The bench was covered in a thick slime that appeared to oozed from every crack in the wood. Sadly I needed to set her somewhere, lest she die. I laid her down on the bench gently, wishing there were somewhere else to put her.
She was sitting, knees folded under her, the wood catching her skirt every time she moved. She couldn’t get comfortable, and every time she looked up she lost focus. Tapping her pencil against her teeth, squinting, she sighed, before snapping her notebook shut and getting to her feet.
The bench was cold aluminum in an empty stadium. When the place was empty it rang with a silence of a hundred thousand missing eyes. And at night, with the stars above, when we jumped the fence and jumped the wall to run across the freshly painted yardlines, to collapse, breathless, in the midst of the blue paint, it was as if we held the sky in our arms and let it trickle through our fingers. It was you and me, barely within reach on either side of that letter, and I had no choice but to lend you my heart for awhile.
A bench is something you sit on. They are always dependable. They are there, for a long time, rain, shine, snow, ice, summer, winter, fall, spring. They are not always comfortable, but most of the time they are welcoming and a relief to your feet.
We sit on the bench and I stare at your beautiful smiling face. I can’t help but love the dimples on your face. You stare at the falling snow as it gently hits the ground. Your hands are cold, but you don’t mind. You look at me and smile. Everything is okay as long as we’re together.
My father died on the field. But probably not in the way you might imagine. No, there was no glory, no winning touchdown. Not even a flop or fumble to go down in NFL history. My father was sitting on the bench, drinking some water, probably hoping that maybe this time he would get to play. Death by runaway linebacker. I doubt he even saw it coming.
A bench
two people used to sit here
laughing
talking
whispering
but now
it’s just me.
The longer alligator scoffed at his companion.
“See that man on the bench?”
The smaller reptile nodded at the sight of the old Floridian tourist.
“You can have him. The younger ones are always juicier.”
It’s a great brand of clothing. I’m wearing one of their jackets as I’m writing this actually haha. It reminds me of the bench in Notting Hill that Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant find in that garden. It was bought by a husband for his dead wife and the inscription said, “For June who loved this garden, from Joseph who always sat beside her.” For some reason that’s always stuck with me.
Benches provide comfort, relaxation and a well deserved rest to those who might need the break from their activities. When I think of a bench, I imagine a green, picturesque scene, couples on nice holidays, and dog walkers – for whatever odd reason.
the bench was wet when she sat down but she didnt care. the cold leftover rain drops seeped into her jeans, and it sent a shiver up her spine. she sat in an almost comatose state staring at the passers by, and the cars humming slowly around the parking lot. some kids ran by, giggling and she began to smile at this, when he caught her eye. when she saw him her whole body went cold and numb. she couldnt believe it but it was him. it was his car, and he was smiling at her. she began to tremble, the sight of him made her stomach turn, she couldnt turn away. ‘How did he find me?’ she got up to run away, but she stopped. what is he doing? she asked herself. he had the queerest little grin on his face, and he seemed to be working something back and forth in his lap. his face became flush, and then she realized what he was doing as he threw his head back and his whole body shook as he finished himself off.
the plain, brown bench. there is nothing remarkable about it, unless you know the stories it has played a part of. the wedding proposal to start two lives on the path to becoming one; the brother and sister who will always remember it as the place they played with their mom while waiting for the school bus; the man who found a place to sleep there on a warm night; even the dog who marked it as ‘his’ while walking alongside his master…just a tiny piece of so many different stories…
When I think of a bench, I often think of a park. Fitting, seeing as park benches are relatively well known. However, I think I bench can really share a story. Who’s on that bench? Why are they there? Perhaps it’s a man waiting for a date who will never show up? Or someone who’s been walking and needs a rest? Two people catching up for the first time in years? I’m sure you could come up with a million different stories of people sitting on a bench. Such a simple action can lead to so much creativity, eh?
I sit in the sidelines, benched. Self-imposed, of course. I stand away as flashes of what should be my life speed before my sight. They’re pretty and captivating from afar, easy to enjoy from a safe distance where I don’t have to risk my reputation and feelings.
benchmark. 1995, honda blue accord. nothing worth killing for.
There once was a bench in a park. It was a lovely bench, made of wrought iron. It was painted white, and was like a metal doily. There was an old couple that loved to sit on the bench daily. Cute.
it’d be great if the Tokyo area had more benches. somehow they are not available, probably not to let the homeless sleep there. but in paris i saw so many benches everywhere.
A place in the park where you sit down, you can think, eat do whatever you’d like on it. It’s a place made to relax and is usually made out of wood or iron or both, found in playgrounds, at school, and parks.
When I think of a bench I think of peace. Of sitting with my lover, my best friend, my everything. Sometimes I think of trees. Or snow. Or nothing. It’s so simple to go to a park and sit there. I think of walking around the bench. Sometimes i think of old people feeding birds
A bench, simple, calm, maybe even bland. But they lead to so many emotions; love, hate, pain, joy. So many things occur on benches, that no one realizes. In parks, bench after bench had names carved into their wood. Telling stories that no one will fully understand. Secrets are held within the soft wood. Secrets of us.
You told me not to think, and so I sat down instead, on a bench and pretended I was homeless until the real homeless men with black skin dressed in white aprons gathered around blowing smoke in my face and talking in deep voices until they chased my dream-sleep away.
Who are you? they wanted to know, and I might have answered if I had the words, if you hadn’t stolen them with your reflection in the darkness of the store window front, coming to find me.
i sat on a bench and the seagulls came to give me some company because i was so alone. i grew old and old and my suit turned brown and the sun set down. it was time to leave
she laid down on the bench and stared up at the stars, counting each one as the city lights faded out.
i don’t understand why people always talk to me. Perhaps i look approachable? It bothers me. I don’t like people with their good intentions, with their fake smiled and raised eyebrows. just leave me be on my bench, and keep walking.
His psychosis extended to the bench. It felt aware, too, now: all things, in fact, that received his touch began to speak, to think, to dream. And what they dreamed was us, and our dreams began to fade…
Making people you hate feel uncomfortable is satisfying to no end.
this can support a family far better than a black person
trolollllolllolollololololololololololololololololololololollolooololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololoolololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololoilolololololololololololololololololololololololollololol.
The couple was walking along the beach. She was tired and wanted to sit down. He didn’t have anything to use to cover the ground or sand for them to sit on. They finally saw what looked like a bench in the distance close to the beach. They ran and ran to it. When they approached they discovered the bench was actually a large tree stump stuck in the cement.
The park is shaded in dusky light by the time I get there. A few birds flit about; a few spare people meander along the walkway, most of them on their way home, chattering and laughing. But I hardly notice them. I make my way to the old, rickety bench at the edge of the park, and sit down carfully. It emits a groan that i have heard so many times, when he used to sit here with me. The thought of him brings water to my eyes, but i shove it down for now, this ocean that I feel like i’ll never tame. I am tired of crying, of thinking at all. Instead, i watch the sunset. The sun is dying in a beautiful battle: pinks swimming into oranges, yellows jumping over blues, smoky gunfire resounding in the reds.
Crunch of snow beneath your parka. People going to and fro. You snuggle to get warm.
The bench creaks beneath your weight as he comes to sit beside you and you snuggle in the snow.
ffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
The bench was hard, and wet with a night of dew. He grimaced at the sight of it, glancing down at his expensive pants. He really didn’t want to sit on that bench. But Amanda was already seated, waiting for him. The chipped green paint and wetness of the bench didn’t seem to bother her. She waited expectantly for him to follow her example, hands folded on her lap. He sighed and took a seat.
The bench was the place I was told to meet him. I wasn’t sure what to expect, because I had only talked to him briefly for ten minutes before he had kissed me so inappropriately.
I heard him approach from behind, so I turned to face him. “Where’s my money?” I asked immediately.
He looked taken aback. “Not even a hello?” He asked with that infuriating sarcasm.
“I pretended to be your fiancé, you promised to give me money.”
When I thought about how this would look to a third party, I cringed. This didn’t look good.
Bench, wow what a word, well Bench is a well known clothes company anyway for a start, there was this old-ish guy at work and a young chick walks by with bench written across her ass and he goes ‘what kind of bench is that’. Kinda funny