“Back when I was a child, we didn’t have these types of machines,” Uncle Ben puffed on his pipe as he made himself comfortable in the den. “What do they do anyway? “Well, they record and play movies,” Sara laughed gaily. “Hmph, new fangled. Back when I was a child…” “Yeah yeah, I know, you walked to school uphill both ways.”
Den is for animals or people to hide, the deeper the safer, but is not always true. Den is also something dangerous. You may loos the way if you just keep going deeper and deeper.
In the den of my own disquiet,
I a feasted upon daily,
unlike Daniel,
my namesake,
Lions by scourge,
as represented by my Black Dog,
all I long for,
is a day,
of repose,
for this troubled mind,
Please!
I’ve always wanted one. A shadowy, musty room with shaggy green carpet and a pool table. Sporting a couch that may or may not have been reupholstered with Grandmother’s old curtains. Too many videos on a tower, too-fluffy cats hiding behind the legs of the pool table. meow.
Den is short for Denise which is one of my least fav names. If I was called Denise, I ‘d open a cafe, Den’s Den. Or run a chicken farm …..Den’s Hens, or start selling old fashioned things to write with..Den’s Pens, obviously, or a dating agency… Den’s Men? Or change my name, in fact.
A den is where most monsters lie and sleep. A den is also a place where rats go to when they are being chased by cats and stuff like that. But anyways, a den is a place for relaxation, kind of like your own mini sofa with a TV on it and a bed. Make your TV a plasma TV with a Sony Playstation 3 and Xbox 360 rolled into one. A den will always be a place to stay. It’s very cool It feels warm in here. Kind of like your home. Right? Whatever.
We had a den in our house when I was growing up. I never understood why it was called a den, but it was my favorite room. It had a wondow seat and bookshelves.
the mother bear takes her cubs into the den to keep them out of the cold, out of the rain. They huddle together for warmth, protecting each other from the elements outside, from the harsh reality of wind and rain, comforting each other, a family.
if only I were young again, me and him, we’d sneak out of my gran’s house while she was making dinner, we’d run through the garden into the dense undergrowth where we found our secret sanctuary, our den. We had made it ours, decorating, or at least what kids thought decorating should be, kitting it out with whatever gadgets we could find. If only I were young again.
In the den, Martin was relaxing. Just sitting quietly, listening to Beethoven, and relaxing. Little did he know, his relaxation was about to be interrupted.
All kinds of dirty deeds went down in the den. There were always pants lying around. Who’s where they? No one ever knew. It was all about fun. Always about getting what you wanted right then and there. Who knew it would come back to haunt us in the end?
Cameron. That boy. He kissed her, in front of me. That boy took my girl’s face and kissed it. And there was nothing I could do about it. I hate that boy. He doesn’t know what he did, he doesn’t know the way I could have hurt him in that moment, he only knows that she pushed him away. She pushed him away. I love that girl.
There was a cold icy chill about the den. It smelt of blood and old broken bones, marrow sniffed out and consumed, creatures ravaged and ripped. A soft whistle approached from the distance, and he knew it was all over.
He sighed with relief as he backed up through his door and into the den. Time to relax. He kicked the door shut with one foot only to be met with chaos. “No!” His breath came strangled and he dropped his armful of books with such a loud and sudden ruckus that it made him jump to attention. “No…” Awake, he lept over the books in a stumbling rush across the mess to a potted plant, praying they didn’t find it.
I wish I could find a use for the room in my home formally known as the den. It’s been a sitting room, a dining room, a nothing room, and currently houses my little-used elliptical machine. It’s so frustrating that we have yet to figure out what to use it for… nine years later!
My first day at work, walking into the proverbial lions den. Terrifying, exciting. Anything could happen today. Today could be the first day of the rest of my life. Maybe, or today could be just another day in the series of mediocre sitcom bits that my life has always been. I guess it all depends on whether i let them break me or not, whether i get “eaten alive,” to stay true to form with my previous analogy. If i make it through today, everything could change. And if i do what i usually do, and what usually happens, happens – my pathetic little fraction of a life will continue… just as it always has. Suppose i should just hope for the best. Lets begin.
I was sitting in a room, quite like on I’d had at home. The flat panel television looked like the one my brother used for video games and there was a faint musk; the smell of him. I remember specifically the feeling of the couch under us as we huddled close together.
Three wolf pups looked out from their den as the males of the pack went off to hunt for squirrels, or perhaps an elk. Their mother laid by with her swollen, exhausted teats dripping milk as she read a literally dog-eared issue of Good Housekeeping.
i went to the den and hid the mask. there it was, the last time that i would pretend. i couldn’t go on living a lie but i also knew that i would be back.
i had done this before, around the same time each year. this was no different than the last, because i always left the chest unlocked.
I wish for a day when we could walk through the front doors of our house together. Where we can eat dinner by candlelight. Where we can work in the den. A place that brings us comfort and joy. A place where we can crawl into our bed together after the day has torn us down and wore us out.
” ‘Only a dream, I know, thinking you’d never go’…” she sang from the den, quieting down for a moment or two. “Dude, you’re not getting the next lyric from me,” I replied, typing away. “I know your game, and I’m not going to play.”
The lion’s head hung up in the den
a symbol of strength, dedication, and devotion,
warning all visitors to stay away,
because the homeowner had a gun.
However, it said nothing about the cubs who were left to fend for themselves and died just as brutally as their mother.
It was hard to approach the great beast, but the queen had to be reasoned with. She couldn’t attack the village– it could not be allowed. No matter that she was looking out for her own. They could no longer be allowed to live.
Some of my favorite childhood memories are from my grandparents’ den. My brother and I would watch cable TV in there, because we didn’t have it at home. It was a novelty. We’d eat oreos and ice cream; pasta and carrots. I love the smell of that den. I could just fall asleep there.
An outburst from the den.
High on the dispatch, the siren caterwaul.
Heralding approach, the scarlet rays slash across faces.
Who made the fatal call and let these demons loose?
My head hurt more than it ever had. I stumbled out of the den and down the hallway, trying to navigate the narrow space without knocking the cutesy pictures of Mrs. Benning’s children off the walls. I didn’t realize she had also managed to stagger to her feet and was a mere two feet behind me with the crystal cigar tray I had picked out for her husband only a few weeks ago clenched tightly in her hand.
I do it for me. There was a time in my life where I did it for multiple things; fame, other people… fame. But those things don’t last very long in terms of ambition. Eventually, every time my pen hit the paper and the words began to flow it was like I was electric, buzzing with anticipation. Where would this story take me next? I would write each page, egotistically on the edge of my own seat as I wrote on. Long story short, it became a joy.
So yes, I suppose I could say that writing has made me many things; literate being a major one of those things. But really, it’s not as simple as that, it hasn’t become a part of me, no; I’ve become part of it. It’s a separate entity that I become every time I sit in my den, laptop or crumby notebook on my lap, fingers tingling. I’m not myself. I’m not just Shannon, who writes. I am someone with power, with vision, with passion. An artist.
…I’m sorry, I went over a minute. Kind of got swept up there.
lo mejor..!!
Is a secret room where i can share feelings with my iner world.
“Back when I was a child, we didn’t have these types of machines,” Uncle Ben puffed on his pipe as he made himself comfortable in the den. “What do they do anyway? “Well, they record and play movies,” Sara laughed gaily. “Hmph, new fangled. Back when I was a child…” “Yeah yeah, I know, you walked to school uphill both ways.”
Den is for animals or people to hide, the deeper the safer, but is not always true. Den is also something dangerous. You may loos the way if you just keep going deeper and deeper.
In the den of my own disquiet,
I a feasted upon daily,
unlike Daniel,
my namesake,
Lions by scourge,
as represented by my Black Dog,
all I long for,
is a day,
of repose,
for this troubled mind,
Please!
I’ve always wanted one. A shadowy, musty room with shaggy green carpet and a pool table. Sporting a couch that may or may not have been reupholstered with Grandmother’s old curtains. Too many videos on a tower, too-fluffy cats hiding behind the legs of the pool table. meow.
hide animal dark hole warm safe
Den is short for Denise which is one of my least fav names. If I was called Denise, I ‘d open a cafe, Den’s Den. Or run a chicken farm …..Den’s Hens, or start selling old fashioned things to write with..Den’s Pens, obviously, or a dating agency… Den’s Men? Or change my name, in fact.
A den is where most monsters lie and sleep. A den is also a place where rats go to when they are being chased by cats and stuff like that. But anyways, a den is a place for relaxation, kind of like your own mini sofa with a TV on it and a bed. Make your TV a plasma TV with a Sony Playstation 3 and Xbox 360 rolled into one. A den will always be a place to stay. It’s very cool It feels warm in here. Kind of like your home. Right? Whatever.
We had a den in our house when I was growing up. I never understood why it was called a den, but it was my favorite room. It had a wondow seat and bookshelves.
i know foxes have dens, and rabbits have burrows, right? what about wild cats? where do they live?
sorry, 4 hours sleep so not very inspired today!
The den held all the attractions of home within a three foot reach: dorm-sized refrigerator housing the beer, 50 foot HD TV and recliner.
home living areas for animals and humans, a collective, an organisation, a den of pirates/gambling den, a community
They curled up in their den as the first chill of autumn slowly cradled the earth.
the mother bear takes her cubs into the den to keep them out of the cold, out of the rain. They huddle together for warmth, protecting each other from the elements outside, from the harsh reality of wind and rain, comforting each other, a family.
if only I were young again, me and him, we’d sneak out of my gran’s house while she was making dinner, we’d run through the garden into the dense undergrowth where we found our secret sanctuary, our den. We had made it ours, decorating, or at least what kids thought decorating should be, kitting it out with whatever gadgets we could find. If only I were young again.
hiding out in a field with my friends. in the hedges. our little den made us safe.
In the den, Martin was relaxing. Just sitting quietly, listening to Beethoven, and relaxing. Little did he know, his relaxation was about to be interrupted.
i think this word is very interesting because you k
All kinds of dirty deeds went down in the den. There were always pants lying around. Who’s where they? No one ever knew. It was all about fun. Always about getting what you wanted right then and there. Who knew it would come back to haunt us in the end?
Cameron. That boy. He kissed her, in front of me. That boy took my girl’s face and kissed it. And there was nothing I could do about it. I hate that boy. He doesn’t know what he did, he doesn’t know the way I could have hurt him in that moment, he only knows that she pushed him away. She pushed him away. I love that girl.
There was a cold icy chill about the den. It smelt of blood and old broken bones, marrow sniffed out and consumed, creatures ravaged and ripped. A soft whistle approached from the distance, and he knew it was all over.
He sighed with relief as he backed up through his door and into the den. Time to relax. He kicked the door shut with one foot only to be met with chaos. “No!” His breath came strangled and he dropped his armful of books with such a loud and sudden ruckus that it made him jump to attention. “No…” Awake, he lept over the books in a stumbling rush across the mess to a potted plant, praying they didn’t find it.
I wish I could find a use for the room in my home formally known as the den. It’s been a sitting room, a dining room, a nothing room, and currently houses my little-used elliptical machine. It’s so frustrating that we have yet to figure out what to use it for… nine years later!
My first day at work, walking into the proverbial lions den. Terrifying, exciting. Anything could happen today. Today could be the first day of the rest of my life. Maybe, or today could be just another day in the series of mediocre sitcom bits that my life has always been. I guess it all depends on whether i let them break me or not, whether i get “eaten alive,” to stay true to form with my previous analogy. If i make it through today, everything could change. And if i do what i usually do, and what usually happens, happens – my pathetic little fraction of a life will continue… just as it always has. Suppose i should just hope for the best. Lets begin.
den, pen, jen, men, ben, again, hen, ken, rent. so sad. and unoriginal.
I was sitting in a room, quite like on I’d had at home. The flat panel television looked like the one my brother used for video games and there was a faint musk; the smell of him. I remember specifically the feeling of the couch under us as we huddled close together.
Three wolf pups looked out from their den as the males of the pack went off to hunt for squirrels, or perhaps an elk. Their mother laid by with her swollen, exhausted teats dripping milk as she read a literally dog-eared issue of Good Housekeeping.
i went to the den and hid the mask. there it was, the last time that i would pretend. i couldn’t go on living a lie but i also knew that i would be back.
i had done this before, around the same time each year. this was no different than the last, because i always left the chest unlocked.
I see the smoke coming off my torch, this place has the feel of death and rot, like slimy things in the dark.
Welcome to the den of evil. I ready my revolver and I know things skitter and lurk in the darkness.
A place I called home, filled with beasts lurking in the still blackness, teeth barred and gleaming, what a wonderful place to be.
I wish for a day when we could walk through the front doors of our house together. Where we can eat dinner by candlelight. Where we can work in the den. A place that brings us comfort and joy. A place where we can crawl into our bed together after the day has torn us down and wore us out.
It is warm in here.
There is a fireplace of fur
Snuggled against stone
Breathing, moving, living
The pulse is low
The mind is calm
” ‘Only a dream, I know, thinking you’d never go’…” she sang from the den, quieting down for a moment or two. “Dude, you’re not getting the next lyric from me,” I replied, typing away. “I know your game, and I’m not going to play.”
The lion’s head hung up in the den
a symbol of strength, dedication, and devotion,
warning all visitors to stay away,
because the homeowner had a gun.
However, it said nothing about the cubs who were left to fend for themselves and died just as brutally as their mother.
It was hard to approach the great beast, but the queen had to be reasoned with. She couldn’t attack the village– it could not be allowed. No matter that she was looking out for her own. They could no longer be allowed to live.
Some of my favorite childhood memories are from my grandparents’ den. My brother and I would watch cable TV in there, because we didn’t have it at home. It was a novelty. We’d eat oreos and ice cream; pasta and carrots. I love the smell of that den. I could just fall asleep there.
An outburst from the den.
High on the dispatch, the siren caterwaul.
Heralding approach, the scarlet rays slash across faces.
Who made the fatal call and let these demons loose?
My head hurt more than it ever had. I stumbled out of the den and down the hallway, trying to navigate the narrow space without knocking the cutesy pictures of Mrs. Benning’s children off the walls. I didn’t realize she had also managed to stagger to her feet and was a mere two feet behind me with the crystal cigar tray I had picked out for her husband only a few weeks ago clenched tightly in her hand.
I do it for me. There was a time in my life where I did it for multiple things; fame, other people… fame. But those things don’t last very long in terms of ambition. Eventually, every time my pen hit the paper and the words began to flow it was like I was electric, buzzing with anticipation. Where would this story take me next? I would write each page, egotistically on the edge of my own seat as I wrote on. Long story short, it became a joy.
So yes, I suppose I could say that writing has made me many things; literate being a major one of those things. But really, it’s not as simple as that, it hasn’t become a part of me, no; I’ve become part of it. It’s a separate entity that I become every time I sit in my den, laptop or crumby notebook on my lap, fingers tingling. I’m not myself. I’m not just Shannon, who writes. I am someone with power, with vision, with passion. An artist.
…I’m sorry, I went over a minute. Kind of got swept up there.