i’ll be a message in a bottle destined for some shipwrecked-island
i’ll be a text message, or even a phone call
i’ll be a love letter, once hidden,
but brought to the surface by loudly dancing hands and bodies
i’ll be spit from lips and emotions with souls
but never taken for granted
i’ll be a wound up curve ball, just write ily on me first
Maisie had a dream catcher above her bed, it was the therapist’s idea. For six years old her dreams were fairly complex, sophisticated even, but always with an evil finale that far outstretched the most sinister horror films.
The ball flew past me as I raised my mitt.
Coach yelled at me from the sidelines, “Get your head in the damn game, boy!”
I missed my dad, again. Baseball just wasn’t the same without him.
The girl was watching from the outfield as the fly ball careened into the space of that boy. The ball dragged up, up, herding a part of the autumn sky and sun, and then down into that leather pond.
This word immediately reminds me of “Catcher in the Rye.” Ironically, I’ve never read this book.
I used to play baseball, never was I catcher, because I thought that position tedious and boring. I think I was first basemen. I didn’t enjoy baseball.
the catcher in the rye, i fucking hate that book, she sneered at me over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. my heart sank to the bottom of my squeaky converse and i shelved the book gloomily. last time i’ll ever fall for a librarian.
I stared at the book blankly as my English teacher handed out old. battered copies of the novel to my class mates and I. Little did I know that this book would cause a chain reaction of events that turned my world upsidedown.
The boy perched down waiting for the pitch was a catcher, he grew up on a street called thatcher, in front he cut down a tree with a hatchet, and he and his friends got drunk, hell yeah they got ratchet!!
I like to think I’m a person with an open mind. Ready to catch and absorb falling particles of knowledge here and there. Sometimes I have to run to get the little sparkling bits and other times I find myself sitting silently, my welcoming palms outstretched.
in the rye was a beautiful book, its no wonder why it has been deemed a literary classic. the writing was beautiful and the story touched on so many more issues than just racism in the deep south of america
He was once called ‘The Catcher’. He could pursue any woman he wanted and always score. It wasn’t until She came along, ‘The Releaser’. Just as He would drop women like flies, She would drop men. She done onto him what He does onto others. To him, She was worth keeping because they played the same game.
Catcher in the rye really is one of my favorite books. Call me pretentious as much as you want, in all honesty it makes no difference. You see, the thing is, you will never catch me; not my soul nor my dreams. A catcher? I am a catcher. Of my soul, my destiny.
My favorite cathcher in the mlb in yadiar molina, he is very good he can actually hit the ball good unlike other catchers. ‘He has been a part of the cardinals for 7 years and has 3 brothers he is beast
CATCH HER!!
She fell through the air, her body limp within the rushing air, her golden hair a halo about her head. He reached out her arms to grasp her, hold her, save her…
The Catcher in the Rye is meant to be a good book, I haven’t read it yet, but will one day. I used to play the position of catcher on our high school softball team. I’m running out of ‘catch phrases’-Lol
Falling stars can’t choose where to land
People try to chase them as they crash towards the ground
But maybe I’m too naive to understand
That when things like these happen
The only place you’re headed [for] is down.
If there were only a way to surrender my dreams, to string them as little beads in a star-strewn galaxy… if I could spend my life as a feather, catching in my palms saltwater tears and grains of sand, hung in a window in moonshine, I would only bathe myself in nightmares for the rest of my life.
She watched as the man who called himself the Child Catcher slithered, like a snake, across the dirty ground. He writhed on the gravel, in immense pain.
“Mr. Catcher?” the child asked quietly. “Mr. Catcher are you alright?”
Despite the man’s frightful appearance, the girl felt no fear. She had always been a compassionate child. Though this man had been chasing her just a moment before, he was now in pain. She knew he was no threat to her now.
we read, not out of the sheer pleasure of it, but because our marks depended on it. what an excuse to read, to thumb the pages with a mild interest. it is a way to read, but not the best way to read. the best way is with thrill, anticipation, turning the pages a mile a minute, enthralled by the knowledge and thoughts contained in the small object you hold in your hand.
Spring training. I’d waited all year to throw the ball for her. The chop was still floating atop the waves as I launched the ball. Splash! The catcher took her dive into the water and swam toward the falling sphere.
The baseball flies swiftly through the air, destined to land into the catcher’s mitt. This ball was not meant to be cracked high into the air by a bat, it could only fall.
Dreamcatcher…catch all my nightmares, let good dreams seep through. How can I swallow my sleep in one night when dreams float around my bead, filtered by you until dawn’s rays catch the window and make them fade?
The Catcher in the Rye is a terrible book. Or so I’ve heard. What the title means, or what the book’s even about, is beyond me. Personally, I don’t really care that much; it doesn’t seem like a totally interesting book.
In the rye
I catch dreams
I watch them flow through my digits
Catcher and capturer of your soul
You puddle in ribbons around my galoshes
I am ebony white and soulful black
You have caught me
Disruptive murmurs, darting eyes seeing more than what’s offered in this dreary world. Soon, all too soon, childhood will be lost and we will be free. No longer children or even adolescents, not really. But not adults either. Something new, something terrifying, something exciting. The prospect that we are going to be on our own at last, fending for ourselves has finally hit us in these last few numbered months. Automatic maturity and presumed responsibility at last.
The Catcher in the Rye. What an excellent book.
It’s funny, there are some books that just are revolutionary, so memorable that every time you see a word pertaining to it or its title, you remember it. There aren’t so many books like that, especially these days. Quite sad, actually.
This catcher is elated! Nothing is better than that ball in my mitt. It’s a scary, little thing flying at your face. Once caught, there’s no better feeling.
I’d give anything the catch her in my arms and never let her go. I’d love to stare into those blue eyes after a long day on the beach and make her feel warm, safe, and in love. I just don’t know how to tell her.
“Catcher?” He perked a brow. “Catcher like, what, that book with the-”
“I don’t want to talk about that book, Clyde.” She stared at him with sorrowful eyes. “Why can’t you ever listen to me when I’m talking? It’s not like I’m just doing this to hear the sound of my voice, never mind how lovely it is!”
He snorted. “Of course. Your precious voice. how could I ever forget?”
“Stop it, Clyde!” She backed away from him, a hand at her mouth. “Just…just stop it!” She began to cry. “You’re supposed to be my catcher. You’re supposed to be there for me!”
“Funny.” He said, darkly. “No one ever thought to mention it.”
Sherlock handed John his case to take up to the room as he checked in with the Bed and Breakfast’s keeper, handing him a cheque for the deposit for the two nights. He was just about to turn heel and fetch John, when the sprightly little man chirped up as he filed the cheque into the till. “Say, ol’ boy, if you don’t mind my askin’…” He leaned in over the counter with a knowing look, “You and the shorter fellow up there, you two a-uh… A sure thing?”
Sherlock squinted slightly, giving the man another visual run-down. “No, we’re not sure of anything just yet, of course. That’s why we’re here, gathering evidence.” He could tell his answer was unsatisfactory, but didn’t have the patience to sort out the nuances of this unrelated conversation. The man only shrugged him off and let him be. Sherlock ran back to the room to fetch John, and soon the two were off to interview suspects at the country club.
Upon their return, Sherlock stormed back to the room to process the new information in silence. John stayed to order a pint from the keeper, who added it to his tab for the stay. He handed John the cold beverage and tried again, leaning over the bar with a little squint. Not like there was anything better to do at the moment. If subtle hadn’t worked on the taller one, maybe he’d have to be a bit more blunt. “So… John was it?” John nodded, nose buried in the glass. “If ye don’t mind me askin’,” He glanced between John and the general direction of the room Sherlock was occupying, implying a connection, “Which one o’ you’s the catcher?” He winked cheekily at John, who had to fight the foam from spouting out his nose.
John hacked and coughed for a moment, and the old keeper reached over the bar to gently slap him on the back. John sat back on the lone barstool as he recovered his breath, face bright red. He raised his eyebrows at the kindly old man, who seemed friendly enough and genuinely invested in the lives and happiness of his customers. And it wasn’t like they’d ever meet again, John figured, so what was the harm in having a bit of fun? He grinned and rushed in with brutal honesty, mildly wondering just how much the old man could take with a straight face.
“Usually HE is,” John informed him, with a nod back towards the room. “But sometimes it’s me. You know, those sorts of nights where you just NEED it inside you, yeah?” He winked back at the old bloke, who nodded grimly with a gulp and a blush.
John finished his pint and headed back to join Sherlock, just barely catching the inkeeper’s advice about not ruining the sheets.
dear pitcher
send me in whatever way you please
i’ll be a note on the collar of some wild animal
i’ll be tapped out in morse code
i’ll be a message in a bottle destined for some shipwrecked-island
i’ll be a text message, or even a phone call
i’ll be a love letter, once hidden,
but brought to the surface by loudly dancing hands and bodies
i’ll be spit from lips and emotions with souls
but never taken for granted
i’ll be a wound up curve ball, just write ily on me first
dear pitcher
aim for the glove of the catcher
smart at general knowledge.
Maisie had a dream catcher above her bed, it was the therapist’s idea. For six years old her dreams were fairly complex, sophisticated even, but always with an evil finale that far outstretched the most sinister horror films.
The ball flew past me as I raised my mitt.
Coach yelled at me from the sidelines, “Get your head in the damn game, boy!”
I missed my dad, again. Baseball just wasn’t the same without him.
. . . of flies
The baseball catcher reads the catcher in the rye. Dream catcher holds his dreams.
The girl was watching from the outfield as the fly ball careened into the space of that boy. The ball dragged up, up, herding a part of the autumn sky and sun, and then down into that leather pond.
This word immediately reminds me of “Catcher in the Rye.” Ironically, I’ve never read this book.
I used to play baseball, never was I catcher, because I thought that position tedious and boring. I think I was first basemen. I didn’t enjoy baseball.
someone who is always there to receive something when thrown or given.
there’s always a designated catcher in someones life. mine is usually my mother. she is always there for me to catch me when I fall.
she never fails to catch falling socks from my laundry stack as I walk up the stairs.
dreams. catcher of dreams. net of ideas. catch. clutch. hold. embrace. embody. envelop. entrap. entrance.
the catcher in the rye, i fucking hate that book, she sneered at me over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. my heart sank to the bottom of my squeaky converse and i shelved the book gloomily. last time i’ll ever fall for a librarian.
The Catcher in Rye.
I stared at the book blankly as my English teacher handed out old. battered copies of the novel to my class mates and I. Little did I know that this book would cause a chain reaction of events that turned my world upsidedown.
Holden Caufield thinks you’re a phony.
The boy perched down waiting for the pitch was a catcher, he grew up on a street called thatcher, in front he cut down a tree with a hatchet, and he and his friends got drunk, hell yeah they got ratchet!!
I like to think I’m a person with an open mind. Ready to catch and absorb falling particles of knowledge here and there. Sometimes I have to run to get the little sparkling bits and other times I find myself sitting silently, my welcoming palms outstretched.
in the rye was a beautiful book, its no wonder why it has been deemed a literary classic. the writing was beautiful and the story touched on so many more issues than just racism in the deep south of america
He was once called ‘The Catcher’. He could pursue any woman he wanted and always score. It wasn’t until She came along, ‘The Releaser’. Just as He would drop women like flies, She would drop men. She done onto him what He does onto others. To him, She was worth keeping because they played the same game.
Catcher in the rye really is one of my favorite books. Call me pretentious as much as you want, in all honesty it makes no difference. You see, the thing is, you will never catch me; not my soul nor my dreams. A catcher? I am a catcher. Of my soul, my destiny.
“I’ll read Catcher in the Rye, and watch me jack-off..”
“What are you singing?”
“‘Emo Kid’. Remember in, like, year 8 or 9? Used to sing it to emos. Ha. Emos.”
“Oh. Stereotypes are still so fucking annoying. No one can escape them.”
“Eh. Get over it.”
kidnappers, everywhere and you are not aware of these dangers around you every thing is so blue
My favorite cathcher in the mlb in yadiar molina, he is very good he can actually hit the ball good unlike other catchers. ‘He has been a part of the cardinals for 7 years and has 3 brothers he is beast
CATCH HER!!
She fell through the air, her body limp within the rushing air, her golden hair a halo about her head. He reached out her arms to grasp her, hold her, save her…
In the eye!
Catching teardrops, in the eye.
Stealing someone else’s sadness.
Just know what the emotion feels like.
Sharing their laughter.
Taking up their battle.
Like a friend.
Through the glass lens, down the antennae, across the broadcast,
throw your feelings this way.
Let me share your life.
I get bored.
There’s not enough of my own.
The Catcher in the Rye is meant to be a good book, I haven’t read it yet, but will one day. I used to play the position of catcher on our high school softball team. I’m running out of ‘catch phrases’-Lol
Falling stars can’t choose where to land
People try to chase them as they crash towards the ground
But maybe I’m too naive to understand
That when things like these happen
The only place you’re headed [for] is down.
If there were only a way to surrender my dreams, to string them as little beads in a star-strewn galaxy… if I could spend my life as a feather, catching in my palms saltwater tears and grains of sand, hung in a window in moonshine, I would only bathe myself in nightmares for the rest of my life.
She watched as the man who called himself the Child Catcher slithered, like a snake, across the dirty ground. He writhed on the gravel, in immense pain.
“Mr. Catcher?” the child asked quietly. “Mr. Catcher are you alright?”
Despite the man’s frightful appearance, the girl felt no fear. She had always been a compassionate child. Though this man had been chasing her just a moment before, he was now in pain. She knew he was no threat to her now.
we read, not out of the sheer pleasure of it, but because our marks depended on it. what an excuse to read, to thumb the pages with a mild interest. it is a way to read, but not the best way to read. the best way is with thrill, anticipation, turning the pages a mile a minute, enthralled by the knowledge and thoughts contained in the small object you hold in your hand.
Spring training. I’d waited all year to throw the ball for her. The chop was still floating atop the waves as I launched the ball. Splash! The catcher took her dive into the water and swam toward the falling sphere.
The baseball flies swiftly through the air, destined to land into the catcher’s mitt. This ball was not meant to be cracked high into the air by a bat, it could only fall.
Dreamcatcher…catch all my nightmares, let good dreams seep through. How can I swallow my sleep in one night when dreams float around my bead, filtered by you until dawn’s rays catch the window and make them fade?
The Catcher in the Rye is a terrible book. Or so I’ve heard. What the title means, or what the book’s even about, is beyond me. Personally, I don’t really care that much; it doesn’t seem like a totally interesting book.
In the rye
I catch dreams
I watch them flow through my digits
Catcher and capturer of your soul
You puddle in ribbons around my galoshes
I am ebony white and soulful black
You have caught me
It’s been catching.
Disruptive murmurs, darting eyes seeing more than what’s offered in this dreary world. Soon, all too soon, childhood will be lost and we will be free. No longer children or even adolescents, not really. But not adults either. Something new, something terrifying, something exciting. The prospect that we are going to be on our own at last, fending for ourselves has finally hit us in these last few numbered months. Automatic maturity and presumed responsibility at last.
And then what?
The Catcher in the Rye. What an excellent book.
It’s funny, there are some books that just are revolutionary, so memorable that every time you see a word pertaining to it or its title, you remember it. There aren’t so many books like that, especially these days. Quite sad, actually.
do be the one who catches the children in the rye. the catcher in the rye. good book, written by j.d. Salinger. considered an American classic. :)
This catcher is elated! Nothing is better than that ball in my mitt. It’s a scary, little thing flying at your face. Once caught, there’s no better feeling.
I’d give anything the catch her in my arms and never let her go. I’d love to stare into those blue eyes after a long day on the beach and make her feel warm, safe, and in love. I just don’t know how to tell her.
“Catcher?” He perked a brow. “Catcher like, what, that book with the-”
“I don’t want to talk about that book, Clyde.” She stared at him with sorrowful eyes. “Why can’t you ever listen to me when I’m talking? It’s not like I’m just doing this to hear the sound of my voice, never mind how lovely it is!”
He snorted. “Of course. Your precious voice. how could I ever forget?”
“Stop it, Clyde!” She backed away from him, a hand at her mouth. “Just…just stop it!” She began to cry. “You’re supposed to be my catcher. You’re supposed to be there for me!”
“Funny.” He said, darkly. “No one ever thought to mention it.”
this catcher receives
a new force
off-course and discoursed alignments
have tried to force
this catcher to move
removed from distraction
all abstraction
collapse
and subtract
to this moment
a monument in time
Sherlock handed John his case to take up to the room as he checked in with the Bed and Breakfast’s keeper, handing him a cheque for the deposit for the two nights. He was just about to turn heel and fetch John, when the sprightly little man chirped up as he filed the cheque into the till. “Say, ol’ boy, if you don’t mind my askin’…” He leaned in over the counter with a knowing look, “You and the shorter fellow up there, you two a-uh… A sure thing?”
Sherlock squinted slightly, giving the man another visual run-down. “No, we’re not sure of anything just yet, of course. That’s why we’re here, gathering evidence.” He could tell his answer was unsatisfactory, but didn’t have the patience to sort out the nuances of this unrelated conversation. The man only shrugged him off and let him be. Sherlock ran back to the room to fetch John, and soon the two were off to interview suspects at the country club.
Upon their return, Sherlock stormed back to the room to process the new information in silence. John stayed to order a pint from the keeper, who added it to his tab for the stay. He handed John the cold beverage and tried again, leaning over the bar with a little squint. Not like there was anything better to do at the moment. If subtle hadn’t worked on the taller one, maybe he’d have to be a bit more blunt. “So… John was it?” John nodded, nose buried in the glass. “If ye don’t mind me askin’,” He glanced between John and the general direction of the room Sherlock was occupying, implying a connection, “Which one o’ you’s the catcher?” He winked cheekily at John, who had to fight the foam from spouting out his nose.
John hacked and coughed for a moment, and the old keeper reached over the bar to gently slap him on the back. John sat back on the lone barstool as he recovered his breath, face bright red. He raised his eyebrows at the kindly old man, who seemed friendly enough and genuinely invested in the lives and happiness of his customers. And it wasn’t like they’d ever meet again, John figured, so what was the harm in having a bit of fun? He grinned and rushed in with brutal honesty, mildly wondering just how much the old man could take with a straight face.
“Usually HE is,” John informed him, with a nod back towards the room. “But sometimes it’s me. You know, those sorts of nights where you just NEED it inside you, yeah?” He winked back at the old bloke, who nodded grimly with a gulp and a blush.
John finished his pint and headed back to join Sherlock, just barely catching the inkeeper’s advice about not ruining the sheets.