As he came upon the door, he could see one of the hinges was broken. Someone had been here, probably just a few minutes ago. He stepped into the broken doorway cautiously.
It all hinged on this. Years and years of planning and it came down to one apparently insignificant event; one that when I woke up in the morning I had not even considered would happen, let alone be important. Yet here it was.
I have one on my door not on the floor it makes squeaky sounds unless I put oil on it and I also think that it is metal most of the time unless one day they made it out of wood a long long time ago like in prehistoric ages when they wanted to open and close stuff.
The fate of the saints hinges on their ability to reach God via telephone: he’s not always home. Sometimes he is, but pretends he isn’t. Some saints, such as poor Rose, call again, nine times an hour. But in the end, it rings and rings. The line goes dead. And a cool, disembodied voice says, “This number is no longer in service.” Rose chose self-immolation. She repeated the number over and over as she knelt in the flames of her own being, hoping that this time, He’d answer.
The gate swung on its hinges. Funny, it was shut when I went to bed. Was that window ajar? I honestly couldn’t remember, but then my questions were answered. Answered with a huge swinging axe as the intruder advanced towards me.
wow look at how that attaches. It’s crazy. Those two are glued together. I don’t know how this can happen. I was in love with him, not 3 months ago. And now…well, let’s just say I’ve come a long way. He’s no good for her. That’s for su
It doesn’t matter what I write, or whether I write and whether anyone reads it. i guess what’s important is that I incorporate the word – today’s being hinge – into my 60 second story. lately I feel as though I really am like a door falling of it’s hinge and swaying gently in the breeze. My creativity has left the building and I’m helplessly attached to the derelict building as i watch my ideas float away, away out to sea.
Hinges make it possible for doors to close and open. Possible for board games, tables, and chairs to be folded. It allows my treasure chest full of stuff toys to be opened and closed. It also allows my heart to protect itself by allowing me to open it and close.
everything hinges on who i am, or i should say, who it is i want to be. it’s the determiner of the quality of life, i suppose. but how difficult it is to figure that out and how much time seems to have wasted because of the lack of the notion! but that should be all right.
the girl opened the door. the hinges stiff and tough. Rusty and old, the door creaked on the frame work.; She walked over the marble. Her bare feet numb with the coldness
the hinge on the door creaked as the man paced through the door. He was tall and dressed all in black. Behind him came another man, creating the same ear piercing noise to the hinges of the door
The door was on a weak hinge.Through the door came the mother to hear her children screaming.She then looked at them. they were not happy, they had cold looks on their faces.
The hinge on the door squeaked and groaned as she pushed it open, it seemed to ache with age and protested as she pushed it further open. The hinges squeaked as it now lay open, unable to close revealing the room hidden behind.
it all hinges on this.
whether or not the rain stops is irrelevant.
the book store — it’s too full for us.
but if you don’t say a word — all of this means nothing.
it’s up to you now. it doesn’t matter what happens next, as long as something does. and it’s your move.
come on. just one word isn’t that hard to say. three words would be better.
Hinged on the whim’s timid, quiver sliver hemidemisemiquaver-edged fringe is the indecisive in-deficient hinged binged cringed hemidemisemiquaver-severed sighing hinge ‘tage.
I have came unhinged, dwindling into this hole of depression. Every waking second of my existence has been shattered by the loss of you. You were my world, you were my everything. I loved you with every living fiber of my body, and now you’re gone. I’m left broken by the thought of you leaving me for someone else; a shell of my former self. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’ think. I can’t function. I can’t do anything without having a constant reminder of you. I look at that shabby old guitar that we bought together on our first real vacation away together just resting in the shadowed corner of my room, and I just remember you teaching me how to play while I was nestled in the security of your warm chest. I remember being so enamored by you in those moments that I wasn’t really aware of anything going on around me. I hate thinking of precious memories like these; they remind me of the emptiness that you’ve left me with. Moments of recollection like this make my eyes well up with hot, salty tears that sting when they overflow, and erratically course down my cheeks. A single tear turns into violent sobs that sometimes last for hours. My eyes are swollen and raw from the constant streams of tears.
I have came unhinged, dwindling into this hole of depression. Every waking second of my existence has been shattered by the loss of you. You were my world, you were my everything. I loved you with every living fiber of my body, and now you’re gone. I’m left broken by the thought of you leaving me for someone else; a shell of my former self. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’ think. I can’t function. I can’t do anything without having a constant reminder of you. I look at that shabby old guitar that we bought together on our first real vacation away together just resting in the shadowed corner of my room, and I just remember you teaching me how to play while I was nestled in the security of your warm chest. I remember being so enamored by you in those moments that I wasn’t really aware of anything going on around me. I hate thinking of precious memories like these; they remind me of the emptiness that you’ve left me with. Moments of recollection like this make my eyes well up with hot, salty tears that sting when they overflow, and erratically course down my cheeks. A single tear turns into violent sobs that sometimes last for hours. My eyes are swollen and raw from the constant streams of tears.
My decision to stay, help, will hinge on what? It is just that the poverty, sickness, crime and heaving masses, scare and overwhelm me here in Africa. However I am trapped, hedged in, I have to help, even one. There are so many starfish to pick up.
I’d like to be hinged, not unhinged. I’d like to be put together perfectly, not a ragged stitched up fuck all of a mess. I’d like to know what I believe and who I love. know what I’m going to do. and just make sense of things for a bit.
I hing on a point of change in my life. I am in between so many things, swinging back and forth from possibility to opportunity. The question is not what will I do next, but how do I choose how do I decide who I am to become? What is it I want? Each motion, each swing from here on out has such potential to affect who I become and the pressure is on.
Just want a little cry
before I die,
if everything I’ve done
wasn’t right.
If what I am
is not enough,
if my brain is not
large enough
to encompass the span of criticism
i have received,
to fix it.
To make my creations better,
my effort larger
than 100%.
My hinge is slowly
cracking,
rusting away,
wishing
I had never created
this hinge in the first place.
I shouldn’t care,
I shouldn’t try,
I just want to cry a little
before I die.
Isn’t that enough to ask?
The door opened quietly, breezing open on a well-oiled hinge. But a human didn’t enter the room. It was a wisp of smoke that curled cruelly around the door’s frame. The smoke infested the room at once and infiltrated the innocents’ lungs as they slept. But this wasn’t smoke that came from the burning blaze that might consume them alive. This was a more deadly, second hand smoke that would slowly corrode their bodies, inside out.
“My head has fallen off,” said H.E.R.M.A.N. the Robot.
“Well, you stupid bag of bolts,” said Fred Rubinstein, his friend and inventor, “you shouldn’t have placed your screwdriver in your vertrebral hinge,”
“But that’s what you programmed me for, you brain-impeded meat sack!”
creeeeak went the hinge in my knee. the doctors said i would never notice it, but there it was again. my grandkids thought it a funny noise, but it drove my dog to the ground in sheer madness. oh, to have my screw-less knees again.
The hinge on the door frame was rusted and covered in soot and the door hung limply from a single nail. She glanced into the filth covered room not only finding more rust and soot, but something much worse.
Her face contorted as she smelt the foulness and saw deep, red, liquid pooled around her brothers head, creating a halo of filth, grime, and blood.
Was she becoming completely unhinged? Day after day of serving identical looking food to identical looking people. Having the same conversations with her co-workers about low calorie foods and gym workouts, when they all called her fat behind her back anyway. She couldn’t even bring up books. She was a college graduate and these people got confused when she used a word that had more than two syllables.
the door hinge creaked everytime one would even push on the wall next to it. not even to mention on the door. no one was left in the house to oil it down. No one had been there for years. they left it alone and creaking. The wind would sometimes be the pressure you could hear. but sometimes there was no wind blowing. Sometimes you were just left wondering what was still there. But you could never know, only walk past.
I still don’t think
i can unhinge the hinge that holds the door to my restless soul
it won’t let anyone else in
no matter how much I argue with it
But there is no hinge holding together
myself and others
myself and the outside world
that which is hinged i wish to disband
while there are so much more
that needs hinging
The door Hinge was open just slightly, the deceticve noticed as he walked inside the house. The blood marks leading up to the front door were foreboding leading him to have his gun drawn in this moment. Tick Tock Tick Tock. The old Granfather clock
The gate’s hinges were rusty and squeaked noisily as the wind blew the gate open, and then abated enough to allow it to close, then swung it open over and over again. She stared out her window at it and wished fervently that the latch actually worked. She couldn’t sleep with it swinging back and forth making that horrendous noise.
As he came upon the door, he could see one of the hinges was broken. Someone had been here, probably just a few minutes ago. He stepped into the broken doorway cautiously.
I hate hinges, we all do, it always comes with a door, we all hate doors, especially closed ones, no body likes a closed door, Yep.
It all hinged on this. Years and years of planning and it came down to one apparently insignificant event; one that when I woke up in the morning I had not even considered would happen, let alone be important. Yet here it was.
I have one on my door not on the floor it makes squeaky sounds unless I put oil on it and I also think that it is metal most of the time unless one day they made it out of wood a long long time ago like in prehistoric ages when they wanted to open and close stuff.
The fate of the saints hinges on their ability to reach God via telephone: he’s not always home. Sometimes he is, but pretends he isn’t. Some saints, such as poor Rose, call again, nine times an hour. But in the end, it rings and rings. The line goes dead. And a cool, disembodied voice says, “This number is no longer in service.” Rose chose self-immolation. She repeated the number over and over as she knelt in the flames of her own being, hoping that this time, He’d answer.
Everything he had worked, studied, and lived for hinged on the theory he was about to present to the Board.
A door with a hinge is a door that opens. Therefore, A door with a hinge will get you somewhere.
The gate swung on its hinges. Funny, it was shut when I went to bed. Was that window ajar? I honestly couldn’t remember, but then my questions were answered. Answered with a huge swinging axe as the intruder advanced towards me.
wow look at how that attaches. It’s crazy. Those two are glued together. I don’t know how this can happen. I was in love with him, not 3 months ago. And now…well, let’s just say I’ve come a long way. He’s no good for her. That’s for su
It doesn’t matter what I write, or whether I write and whether anyone reads it. i guess what’s important is that I incorporate the word – today’s being hinge – into my 60 second story. lately I feel as though I really am like a door falling of it’s hinge and swaying gently in the breeze. My creativity has left the building and I’m helplessly attached to the derelict building as i watch my ideas float away, away out to sea.
Hinges make it possible for doors to close and open. Possible for board games, tables, and chairs to be folded. It allows my treasure chest full of stuff toys to be opened and closed. It also allows my heart to protect itself by allowing me to open it and close.
There was an old, rotten door with a creaky hinge.
everything hinges on who i am, or i should say, who it is i want to be. it’s the determiner of the quality of life, i suppose. but how difficult it is to figure that out and how much time seems to have wasted because of the lack of the notion! but that should be all right.
The door hinge creaked open and in came a camel. The boy was afraid, he did not like camels. AHHHHH!
the girl opened the door. the hinges stiff and tough. Rusty and old, the door creaked on the frame work.; She walked over the marble. Her bare feet numb with the coldness
The oaks rusty hinges creaked open. He took three steps until the hinges made the door begin to close again.
the hinge on the door creaked as the man paced through the door. He was tall and dressed all in black. Behind him came another man, creating the same ear piercing noise to the hinges of the door
The door was on a weak hinge.Through the door came the mother to hear her children screaming.She then looked at them. they were not happy, they had cold looks on their faces.
The hinge on the door squeaked and groaned as she pushed it open, it seemed to ache with age and protested as she pushed it further open. The hinges squeaked as it now lay open, unable to close revealing the room hidden behind.
it all hinges on this.
whether or not the rain stops is irrelevant.
the book store — it’s too full for us.
but if you don’t say a word — all of this means nothing.
it’s up to you now. it doesn’t matter what happens next, as long as something does. and it’s your move.
come on. just one word isn’t that hard to say. three words would be better.
joint, movement, open en close stuck, need some oil stop the sqieking
His fist slammed into the door which broke off its hinges. Splinters now littered his room.
“I…I’m sorry,” she stammered, thinking it was unwise for one to anger a demigod.
Hinged on the whim’s timid, quiver sliver hemidemisemiquaver-edged fringe is the indecisive in-deficient hinged binged cringed hemidemisemiquaver-severed sighing hinge ‘tage.
I have came unhinged, dwindling into this hole of depression. Every waking second of my existence has been shattered by the loss of you. You were my world, you were my everything. I loved you with every living fiber of my body, and now you’re gone. I’m left broken by the thought of you leaving me for someone else; a shell of my former self. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’ think. I can’t function. I can’t do anything without having a constant reminder of you. I look at that shabby old guitar that we bought together on our first real vacation away together just resting in the shadowed corner of my room, and I just remember you teaching me how to play while I was nestled in the security of your warm chest. I remember being so enamored by you in those moments that I wasn’t really aware of anything going on around me. I hate thinking of precious memories like these; they remind me of the emptiness that you’ve left me with. Moments of recollection like this make my eyes well up with hot, salty tears that sting when they overflow, and erratically course down my cheeks. A single tear turns into violent sobs that sometimes last for hours. My eyes are swollen and raw from the constant streams of tears.
I have came unhinged, dwindling into this hole of depression. Every waking second of my existence has been shattered by the loss of you. You were my world, you were my everything. I loved you with every living fiber of my body, and now you’re gone. I’m left broken by the thought of you leaving me for someone else; a shell of my former self. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’ think. I can’t function. I can’t do anything without having a constant reminder of you. I look at that shabby old guitar that we bought together on our first real vacation away together just resting in the shadowed corner of my room, and I just remember you teaching me how to play while I was nestled in the security of your warm chest. I remember being so enamored by you in those moments that I wasn’t really aware of anything going on around me. I hate thinking of precious memories like these; they remind me of the emptiness that you’ve left me with. Moments of recollection like this make my eyes well up with hot, salty tears that sting when they overflow, and erratically course down my cheeks. A single tear turns into violent sobs that sometimes last for hours. My eyes are swollen and raw from the constant streams of tears.
My decision to stay, help, will hinge on what? It is just that the poverty, sickness, crime and heaving masses, scare and overwhelm me here in Africa. However I am trapped, hedged in, I have to help, even one. There are so many starfish to pick up.
They’re survival hinged on the abilities of a single man.
No second chances.
Just a sure fate that with those ten digits he could pull of the very meaning of the word miracle.
Skill.
Something a man can’t fabricate. You’re just born with it.
I’d like to be hinged, not unhinged. I’d like to be put together perfectly, not a ragged stitched up fuck all of a mess. I’d like to know what I believe and who I love. know what I’m going to do. and just make sense of things for a bit.
I hing on a point of change in my life. I am in between so many things, swinging back and forth from possibility to opportunity. The question is not what will I do next, but how do I choose how do I decide who I am to become? What is it I want? Each motion, each swing from here on out has such potential to affect who I become and the pressure is on.
Just want a little cry
before I die,
if everything I’ve done
wasn’t right.
If what I am
is not enough,
if my brain is not
large enough
to encompass the span of criticism
i have received,
to fix it.
To make my creations better,
my effort larger
than 100%.
My hinge is slowly
cracking,
rusting away,
wishing
I had never created
this hinge in the first place.
I shouldn’t care,
I shouldn’t try,
I just want to cry a little
before I die.
Isn’t that enough to ask?
The door opened quietly, breezing open on a well-oiled hinge. But a human didn’t enter the room. It was a wisp of smoke that curled cruelly around the door’s frame. The smoke infested the room at once and infiltrated the innocents’ lungs as they slept. But this wasn’t smoke that came from the burning blaze that might consume them alive. This was a more deadly, second hand smoke that would slowly corrode their bodies, inside out.
“My head has fallen off,” said H.E.R.M.A.N. the Robot.
“Well, you stupid bag of bolts,” said Fred Rubinstein, his friend and inventor, “you shouldn’t have placed your screwdriver in your vertrebral hinge,”
“But that’s what you programmed me for, you brain-impeded meat sack!”
creeeeak went the hinge in my knee. the doctors said i would never notice it, but there it was again. my grandkids thought it a funny noise, but it drove my dog to the ground in sheer madness. oh, to have my screw-less knees again.
The hinge on the door frame was rusted and covered in soot and the door hung limply from a single nail. She glanced into the filth covered room not only finding more rust and soot, but something much worse.
Her face contorted as she smelt the foulness and saw deep, red, liquid pooled around her brothers head, creating a halo of filth, grime, and blood.
Was she becoming completely unhinged? Day after day of serving identical looking food to identical looking people. Having the same conversations with her co-workers about low calorie foods and gym workouts, when they all called her fat behind her back anyway. She couldn’t even bring up books. She was a college graduate and these people got confused when she used a word that had more than two syllables.
the door hinge creaked everytime one would even push on the wall next to it. not even to mention on the door. no one was left in the house to oil it down. No one had been there for years. they left it alone and creaking. The wind would sometimes be the pressure you could hear. but sometimes there was no wind blowing. Sometimes you were just left wondering what was still there. But you could never know, only walk past.
I still don’t think
i can unhinge the hinge that holds the door to my restless soul
it won’t let anyone else in
no matter how much I argue with it
But there is no hinge holding together
myself and others
myself and the outside world
that which is hinged i wish to disband
while there are so much more
that needs hinging
The door Hinge was open just slightly, the deceticve noticed as he walked inside the house. The blood marks leading up to the front door were foreboding leading him to have his gun drawn in this moment. Tick Tock Tick Tock. The old Granfather clock
door knob elbow grease brass window side corner entrance screw open close edge
The gate’s hinges were rusty and squeaked noisily as the wind blew the gate open, and then abated enough to allow it to close, then swung it open over and over again. She stared out her window at it and wished fervently that the latch actually worked. She couldn’t sleep with it swinging back and forth making that horrendous noise.