Not this word again? I just got this. I need a new word. I thought it said figment and not fragment so I likened it to my imagination which was incorrect but funny none the least. I love this exercise, it really helps me with my writing.
a place.
time.
fear.
steps forward.
in deep.
can’t escape.
can’t breathe.
feeling restless.
can’t concentrate.
correct itself, please.
i don’t know what you are.
a piece of something. a piece of my heart. it doesn’t belong to me anymore. it’s in your pocket, and it’s yours to keep, whether i like it or not. go ahead. keep it. it’s not like you were planning on giving it back anyways.
The pieces of the amphitheater crumbled as time wore ever on. The ambient air was like a caustic acid, consuming the rock with a voracious hunger that would never cease so long as the Earth existed. And the building crumbled.
I am a fragment. I have little in me that is whole. The sense that I am whole frightens me, actually. In pieces I lay, in pieces I fall. I shatter, shatter like the mirror in which I see my reflection. The reflection is a piece of me, not the whole, but it is beautiful. It is me.
You didn’t even leave a fragment of yourself behind that I could make amends with.
Just a dusty layer of memories on the dining room table.
And a shell casing with the blood of your son falling to the floor.
The fragment that remained of the great colossus fell to the ground. A once proud civilization had fallen, and all that remained was a battered, worn monument to vanity. No king rules forever.
The knight picked up a fragment of the shattered armor. The sword that had destroyed it discarded to the side, he stood and began to continue onward. A broken sword was no use. The game was only just beginning.
He continued onward and prepared to challenge the king…
fragments are what’s left of us. i wonder if it can be made whole again. i’ve been holding us together. maybe you could be that person, just this once.
The fragment of my tiny bird lay at my feet. Broken, twisted and beyond repair. I wondered why I’d thrown it so hard? Dashed it against the wall in anger. Was it my mother’s voice haunting me from the grave? Look
Fragments of peices in the cake of life. Never giving up on choking you to death. Fragments of cake in your throat alive. Never giving up on poking you to death. BE AWARE! Cake is deadly!
The first thing I happened to see was Oneword: fragment. One word-fragment, my mind repeated. What the hell is a word fragment? Of course then I remembered the exercise, I remember the point of it, I remember missing the point of the exercise as soon as it began. Because writing self-conscious bullshit is not the same thing as to freewrite. I think. Don’t you think?
a fragment is part of a sentence. i’m not really sure what constitutes a fragment. you would need to consult and english teacher for that information. or a fragment can be a part of something, maybe a fragment of glass? who knows. i think a lot of people write incorrectly and have fragments. I mean, look at me, i’m not even capitalizing half of my sentences.
the memory flitted through my mind. just a single fragment, but enough to excite a fluttering in my heart and a slight twitching of my left leg. he was here – i could feel his presence, and it was enough to cause my lips to form a slight smile.
fragments are small pieces. parts of a puzzle that eventually fall into place. they complete to form something that actually makes sense, something that could never form without all the pieces
pieces. Some are really big and some are a lot smaller like when you smash a glass in the kitchen and it gets right through the cracks of the kitchen tiles. My heart is like that, you left and I was ripped apart and I don’t know if the parts left even love you.
A fragment bothers me. I mark them wrong all the time on my students’ essays, but for some reason, they just don’t seem to get it. Every sentence needs a subject, right? It’s sort of like everyone needs food or water to survive. Take them away and the sentence begins to starve; looks a little peaked on one side.
a piece a strand a hair a broken pottery. my finger decapitated. your heart longing. listening for something not there. unwhole but true, true yet unsatisfied. searching. looking. knocking. seeking. there’s a moment, but no timeline. my eyes are closed, but they are there.
i’m broken and cant be fixed except i can brokeness is next to beautifulness and thats not even a word i don’t think. i was told not to think tho so maybe i’m doing this all wrong. fraaaagment shmagment my time is uppp
There was a small fragment at the bottom of the cage. It was her fragmented mind. Was it? That’s what she wanted it to be. That’s what she truly believed it to be, but the lions thought it was dinner. They gnawed graciously, thinking she was their grace.
Fragments of glass lay scattered on the floor. Someone had broken the mirror. Now how would she know who was the fairest of all? She had to know.
She gathered them quickly, ignoring the stings as they cut her hands. She had to know. She had to know. But all she saw was her own decrepit face.
Sentence fragments really pissed her off. Just because he was a famous columnist, he thought he could get away with them. She would show him.
The chief copy editor had his back turned. It was the perfect moment. She highlighted the entire column and pressed the delete key. Gone, in an instant, to be replaced by a mundane wire story about pig research. She laughed manically. He’d be sorry tomorrow.
Looking back on my life, what seemed so important at the time, desperately important, is now just a fragment, a little slice, sliver, leftover that doesn’t really say much about who I am now.
I was sure, at the time, that God would understand my motives, know what was in my heart, and that all would be forgiven because of the time and place and circumstances.
Now I know that God isn’t involved at all. That these fragments are just that, not really important in the long run. It’s me who has to look back, and cringe sometimes, but more often have the “revelation” that I wasn’t all the different than anyone else, no smarter, no better, no worse. The person who passes judgment on my past is me and the older I get the more forgiving I am.
Pieces of my heart lie still on the floor. They beat once, some of them twice. Then Lifeless. Never would I imagine I could pull my own heart out. Never did I think it would be so easy.
Mirrors crack into fragments when you drop them. And when they’re lying shattered on the floor, if you bend over, you can see little slivers of your face. Little fragments of skin and eye and bitten lip. It’s a funny word. A funny, broken word. And broken is much less pretty than people think.
the fragment was all that was left of the body. no one was quite sure what the body was. it came from outer space. was it the astronauts that died allegedly.
Parts of me. Parts of everything else. Left around this big old world. A fragment. It lies on the floor. Please be put back together. I have no idea how. Just, be one with something again. You look so lonely. Parts of me. Parts of everything else.
There was a fragment of a memory etched in her mind. It was vague, too vague, to place into context. Her understanding of the memory was shifty. One moment she thought she’d figured it out, but it faded into nothingness.
fragments break apart from the glass window pane that covered the ceiling of the seven story apartment. she falls, feeling as if she has been here before, glancing at the pastel blue lamp shade and all in one Japanese cutlery set as her face slams into the seven foot span of Italian marble.
I am a fragment of my family, it is a large entity and a am a small piece apart from it. I would not be me with out the whole and the whole would not be the same without me.
My life is fragmented. Society is fragmented. Too much going on. Work is never done. Priorities don’t get prioritized. Life is a buch of photographs. Fragments of time strung together moment by moment with spaces missing in between. Fragmented families. Fragmented smiles. Broken promises. Light is fragmented. My thoughts r definitely fragmented. Jumping from place to place. Barely able to complete a thought.
Not this word again? I just got this. I need a new word. I thought it said figment and not fragment so I likened it to my imagination which was incorrect but funny none the least. I love this exercise, it really helps me with my writing.
a place.
time.
fear.
steps forward.
in deep.
can’t escape.
can’t breathe.
feeling restless.
can’t concentrate.
correct itself, please.
i don’t know what you are.
fragment
a piece of something. a piece of my heart. it doesn’t belong to me anymore. it’s in your pocket, and it’s yours to keep, whether i like it or not. go ahead. keep it. it’s not like you were planning on giving it back anyways.
This is merely a part of what I want to say. These words the shrapnel of an explosive concept.
The pieces of the amphitheater crumbled as time wore ever on. The ambient air was like a caustic acid, consuming the rock with a voracious hunger that would never cease so long as the Earth existed. And the building crumbled.
I am a fragment. I have little in me that is whole. The sense that I am whole frightens me, actually. In pieces I lay, in pieces I fall. I shatter, shatter like the mirror in which I see my reflection. The reflection is a piece of me, not the whole, but it is beautiful. It is me.
things of a whole cannot stay. parts must always crumble into the cracks. then the cracks become the whole universe.
i think of mirrors
crystal, frosted, gleaming
i think of broken chandeliers
i do not think of souls or hearts- that is ridiculous
glass, shattered, reflecting the sun and our lives
You didn’t even leave a fragment of yourself behind that I could make amends with.
Just a dusty layer of memories on the dining room table.
And a shell casing with the blood of your son falling to the floor.
The fragment that remained of the great colossus fell to the ground. A once proud civilization had fallen, and all that remained was a battered, worn monument to vanity. No king rules forever.
The knight picked up a fragment of the shattered armor. The sword that had destroyed it discarded to the side, he stood and began to continue onward. A broken sword was no use. The game was only just beginning.
He continued onward and prepared to challenge the king…
fragments are what’s left of us. i wonder if it can be made whole again. i’ve been holding us together. maybe you could be that person, just this once.
The fragment of my tiny bird lay at my feet. Broken, twisted and beyond repair. I wondered why I’d thrown it so hard? Dashed it against the wall in anger. Was it my mother’s voice haunting me from the grave? Look
Fragments of peices in the cake of life. Never giving up on choking you to death. Fragments of cake in your throat alive. Never giving up on poking you to death. BE AWARE! Cake is deadly!
The first thing I happened to see was Oneword: fragment. One word-fragment, my mind repeated. What the hell is a word fragment? Of course then I remembered the exercise, I remember the point of it, I remember missing the point of the exercise as soon as it began. Because writing self-conscious bullshit is not the same thing as to freewrite. I think. Don’t you think?
a fragment is part of a sentence. i’m not really sure what constitutes a fragment. you would need to consult and english teacher for that information. or a fragment can be a part of something, maybe a fragment of glass? who knows. i think a lot of people write incorrectly and have fragments. I mean, look at me, i’m not even capitalizing half of my sentences.
The fragment of her shattered tea cup was stuck under the leg of the chair causing the wooden floor to scratch.
the memory flitted through my mind. just a single fragment, but enough to excite a fluttering in my heart and a slight twitching of my left leg. he was here – i could feel his presence, and it was enough to cause my lips to form a slight smile.
fragments are small pieces. parts of a puzzle that eventually fall into place. they complete to form something that actually makes sense, something that could never form without all the pieces
pieces. Some are really big and some are a lot smaller like when you smash a glass in the kitchen and it gets right through the cracks of the kitchen tiles. My heart is like that, you left and I was ripped apart and I don’t know if the parts left even love you.
A fragment bothers me. I mark them wrong all the time on my students’ essays, but for some reason, they just don’t seem to get it. Every sentence needs a subject, right? It’s sort of like everyone needs food or water to survive. Take them away and the sentence begins to starve; looks a little peaked on one side.
fragment is a piece, a bit; not the whole.A portion, a section.
a piece a strand a hair a broken pottery. my finger decapitated. your heart longing. listening for something not there. unwhole but true, true yet unsatisfied. searching. looking. knocking. seeking. there’s a moment, but no timeline. my eyes are closed, but they are there.
i’m broken and cant be fixed except i can brokeness is next to beautifulness and thats not even a word i don’t think. i was told not to think tho so maybe i’m doing this all wrong. fraaaagment shmagment my time is uppp
There was a small fragment at the bottom of the cage. It was her fragmented mind. Was it? That’s what she wanted it to be. That’s what she truly believed it to be, but the lions thought it was dinner. They gnawed graciously, thinking she was their grace.
Fragments of glass lay scattered on the floor. Someone had broken the mirror. Now how would she know who was the fairest of all? She had to know.
She gathered them quickly, ignoring the stings as they cut her hands. She had to know. She had to know. But all she saw was her own decrepit face.
today was a brilliant day, different from many in the last month because it was a brilliant day. I laughed, i loved and i lived
Sentence fragments really pissed her off. Just because he was a famous columnist, he thought he could get away with them. She would show him.
The chief copy editor had his back turned. It was the perfect moment. She highlighted the entire column and pressed the delete key. Gone, in an instant, to be replaced by a mundane wire story about pig research. She laughed manically. He’d be sorry tomorrow.
Looking back on my life, what seemed so important at the time, desperately important, is now just a fragment, a little slice, sliver, leftover that doesn’t really say much about who I am now.
I was sure, at the time, that God would understand my motives, know what was in my heart, and that all would be forgiven because of the time and place and circumstances.
Now I know that God isn’t involved at all. That these fragments are just that, not really important in the long run. It’s me who has to look back, and cringe sometimes, but more often have the “revelation” that I wasn’t all the different than anyone else, no smarter, no better, no worse. The person who passes judgment on my past is me and the older I get the more forgiving I am.
Pieces of my heart lie still on the floor. They beat once, some of them twice. Then Lifeless. Never would I imagine I could pull my own heart out. Never did I think it would be so easy.
Over the rainbow.
Under the weather.
Beside myself.
fragment
Mirrors crack into fragments when you drop them. And when they’re lying shattered on the floor, if you bend over, you can see little slivers of your face. Little fragments of skin and eye and bitten lip. It’s a funny word. A funny, broken word. And broken is much less pretty than people think.
the fragment was all that was left of the body. no one was quite sure what the body was. it came from outer space. was it the astronauts that died allegedly.
One fragment…
Its all I need.
One fragment of hope…
One fragment of love…
One fragment of my sanity.
All I need…
To survive yet another day.
Parts of me. Parts of everything else. Left around this big old world. A fragment. It lies on the floor. Please be put back together. I have no idea how. Just, be one with something again. You look so lonely. Parts of me. Parts of everything else.
There was a fragment of a memory etched in her mind. It was vague, too vague, to place into context. Her understanding of the memory was shifty. One moment she thought she’d figured it out, but it faded into nothingness.
fragments break apart from the glass window pane that covered the ceiling of the seven story apartment. she falls, feeling as if she has been here before, glancing at the pastel blue lamp shade and all in one Japanese cutlery set as her face slams into the seven foot span of Italian marble.
I am a fragment of my family, it is a large entity and a am a small piece apart from it. I would not be me with out the whole and the whole would not be the same without me.
My life is fragmented. Society is fragmented. Too much going on. Work is never done. Priorities don’t get prioritized. Life is a buch of photographs. Fragments of time strung together moment by moment with spaces missing in between. Fragmented families. Fragmented smiles. Broken promises. Light is fragmented. My thoughts r definitely fragmented. Jumping from place to place. Barely able to complete a thought.