The hut was entered by a mysterious man, but that was probably not the most interesting thing about it. It stood five feet off the ground, it’s roof peaking just underneath the setting sun. Made of chocolate, your mums dreams, and monsters from the past, it amazed the mind.
The sun calls my name in ways the moon never will, even if I’m a night owl. It’s warm, inviting, and even when all I want to do is stand under the shade in my hut, I can’t. I’m tempted and I’ve never been one to fight temptation. I’m not good at it and odds are I never will be.
an intersting place to live. whether it is made of dirt, swigs, or large tree trunks, they’re pretty sweet. honestly i know nothing about them. but oogla! i wish i lived in one!
I ran into the hut and saw the most painful scene. The dying baby in the arms of a mother. What a scene it was. I was dying inside too at that moment.
Never given a chance to experience the love of a mother – the baby.
Never given a chance to love the baby – the mother.
It’s always freaking hut!!!! Why is that? there are so many word in the flipping English language, and every stinking time, we get hut. What does that say about America? Really? Come on people? HUT!?
It was a small hut, with nothing much in it but it had a kind of magic about it. A strange magic, one known only to the whispers of the elm trees around it. it had a thatch roof and pine walls…
so as the little boy sat down in front of the hut he asked himself a big question. where am i from, where am i now, and where am I going? the little boy stood up and walked a little til he hit the equator and then stopped. he had reached the edge of the world, and then he fell off.
she sat painting the hut, her head spinning and wandering. if only she could live there, in a world of disbelief. where things were so simple as to never need a permanent roof over her head. she wondered about the love and the loss that she felt in her heart, perhaps it was because she was a wanderer and that this was not her home. the hut was her home, the only place that was for her.
Huts are outdated. They have practically disappeared from our sight. We use to rely on them but now we see them as primitive. Nomads use huts quite frequently, it is a shame that we’ve left something once so essential so far behind.
And rly? Huts? An awfully hard word. Btw went over time limit and changed my story…it just bothered me. A poem poped in my head when I heart hut.
I live in a hut,
Stool stuck in my butt,
World of hurt in my nut,
but what?
I just had a baby.
Don’t blame me.
what is with the stupid hut? can we please have a new word? I’m just not interested in little mud and stick houses, no matter how many tragic stories play out within them. so the baby died in a hut. I’M INTERESTED IN THE BABY, NOT THE HUT.
sometimes i wish that i lived in a hut because they would be away from everyone else and they would not be all expensive and shit like that. so this one girl named becky would probably be all like “omg your
hat
maggie
griffin
cat
jackie
shorts
tiki
island
happiness
grass
coconut
pinapple
hula
misspellings
whores
hores in a hut
spelled with h
rhymes with slut
a hut that indians lived in pizza hut… there’s a pizza hut on the corner of main street in lewistown Pennsylvania. I used to eat there every sunday after church. We’d meet up with my pastor and either me or my brother would then visit with their son and daughter. We’d always get the tatoos in the quarter machines and make collect phone calls from the pay phone outside
A place of living, where people, live. I left there a long time ago, into my education, into where I was thrust like it was the right place. And so far it has been, but I always wonder what if my schooling had been differrent. What if I was raised as much by cattle as by men?
I want to live in a little hut by the beach. I would take my fair self out for walks on the sand, scouring for shells and avoiding seaweed. Walking for a fisherman, I would wade
pizza hut i live in a hut in tahiti i can build a hut with sticks and other things from nature that the native americans will show me how to use and build….hut hut hike….set hut!
I lived in a grass hut on an island. I built it out of long blades of grass. It looked a lot like a pizza hut restaurant. Or maybe it just seemed that way because I was hungry. Any way, so I filled my hut with coconuts and went on my merry way. What do you think of that? I’m pretty proud of the way I handled myself on that island that month. Now that I’m back home, I hate mowing because I feel as though I am killing my island hut. How can that be? It was only a shelter and yet some how it became more than that to me. It became my home. My love. My heart. I miss my hut terribly. I think I’ll get in my kayak and try to find that island again so I can return to my hut to find my heart and home. It will be a long journey but very much worth the effort. I will travel through storms and cross deserts to get back to that hut. I just hope the monkeys didn’t shit in it. I’ll be pretty mad if that’s the case. I hate it when my hut stinks of monkey shit. Where did they put the broom anyway? How do they expect to keep the hut clean and liveable without a broom let alone a mop. But I’ll deal with those dirty monkeys when I get there. I just have to keep walking. Keep rowing. Keep crawling. Keep running. I see it there, on the horizon! It’s my hut in all of it’s glory! I approach carefully not knowing what I will find inside. I peek in expecting to smell monkey shit and see them all laughing, sitting around, throwing it at each other. They see me now. And the anger in their eyes is apparent. No, they don’t
the hut is what made him special he dance beneath the stars at night and played with the creatures of the sea by day, no one controlled him and no one supressed him his hut was his home and his home is what made him free. he was is own and he was free.
the mongols first lived in huts and then in first grade, when i went to a meusuem about indians we saw replicas of huts they used to live in but they were made out of straw, however i remember them being cool!
a small house. a small dark house. a bamboo mat and barbarians and tears and unfortunate families. no food. too much disease. war-stricken. hurt. i can’t feel that hurt where i am. i could in the hut.
this is where i need to go sometimes. to my own little hut where i can be by myself. or with those i chose to invite. it would be in a little village on a little island. and i would be happy…
there was a hut in the village, inside lived these weird little purple people, with green hats. Everyday they would go into the village and taunt people, and everyone would get very scared, and they never had the guts to say anything, and then everyone died. the end.
i had a hut in the mountains,
i loved the fountains,
of venice,
of which i pay Dennis,
tto remove the penneys
from the water
which many a drunk loafer
has left his deposit
of late night revelry
Dennis says hrs royaly
but we all know hum as athief
I saw her hair blowing back and her voice before I saw here. Shr was out of the balcony, with these little hut things in front of her. It looked like she was trying to do something with them. Aunt Amelia was watching her curiously. Sasha was trying to help.
hut.. like a bugalo made of straw..
like a bird’s nest..
housing its young..
hut hut hut
hut.. like a canopy made of mud..
like a little child getting dirty..
hut hut hut
I don’t know how long I was in there for. It felt like hours but it was probably a matter of minutes. I didn’t expect the door to COMPLETELY wedge shut. It was dark. the kind of dark where you even lose your other senses as well as sight. The noise seemed muted; my own breathing was muted.
We live in houses in America. That’s more than a lot of people in the world can say. The excess in America is fucking sick. G-d bless the world and those who inhabit it. Goddamn America and all it’s wealth and excess.
The tiny man stumbled out of his hut and shaded his eyes from the sun with his hand. He look around at what used to be his village. No one was around except for a small doll that once belonged to his daughter. He picked it up and stroked the soft hair of it. A tear that would be followed by many more slowly moved its way down his leathery skin.
Hut. What is hut. Is hut a verb, noun, adj or something else. Is it a hut that you live in? A small hut would be nice.
The hut was entered by a mysterious man, but that was probably not the most interesting thing about it. It stood five feet off the ground, it’s roof peaking just underneath the setting sun. Made of chocolate, your mums dreams, and monsters from the past, it amazed the mind.
I wish I lived in a hut in the baja – right NOW!
The sun calls my name in ways the moon never will, even if I’m a night owl. It’s warm, inviting, and even when all I want to do is stand under the shade in my hut, I can’t. I’m tempted and I’ve never been one to fight temptation. I’m not good at it and odds are I never will be.
an intersting place to live. whether it is made of dirt, swigs, or large tree trunks, they’re pretty sweet. honestly i know nothing about them. but oogla! i wish i lived in one!
beach hut maybe, pizza hut? when i was younger we used to build huts, me and my brothers……i would love to go back to the simplicity of youth.
I ran into the hut and saw the most painful scene. The dying baby in the arms of a mother. What a scene it was. I was dying inside too at that moment.
Never given a chance to experience the love of a mother – the baby.
Never given a chance to love the baby – the mother.
It’s always freaking hut!!!! Why is that? there are so many word in the flipping English language, and every stinking time, we get hut. What does that say about America? Really? Come on people? HUT!?
It was a small hut, with nothing much in it but it had a kind of magic about it. A strange magic, one known only to the whispers of the elm trees around it. it had a thatch roof and pine walls…
so as the little boy sat down in front of the hut he asked himself a big question. where am i from, where am i now, and where am I going? the little boy stood up and walked a little til he hit the equator and then stopped. he had reached the edge of the world, and then he fell off.
she sat painting the hut, her head spinning and wandering. if only she could live there, in a world of disbelief. where things were so simple as to never need a permanent roof over her head. she wondered about the love and the loss that she felt in her heart, perhaps it was because she was a wanderer and that this was not her home. the hut was her home, the only place that was for her.
Huts are outdated. They have practically disappeared from our sight. We use to rely on them but now we see them as primitive. Nomads use huts quite frequently, it is a shame that we’ve left something once so essential so far behind.
And rly? Huts? An awfully hard word. Btw went over time limit and changed my story…it just bothered me. A poem poped in my head when I heart hut.
I live in a hut,
Stool stuck in my butt,
World of hurt in my nut,
but what?
I just had a baby.
Don’t blame me.
i love huts, huts with butts that eat donuts and nuts. huts yay i love huts. hut two three for, i declare war on your hut
what is with the stupid hut? can we please have a new word? I’m just not interested in little mud and stick houses, no matter how many tragic stories play out within them. so the baby died in a hut. I’M INTERESTED IN THE BABY, NOT THE HUT.
sometimes i wish that i lived in a hut because they would be away from everyone else and they would not be all expensive and shit like that. so this one girl named becky would probably be all like “omg your
hat
maggie
griffin
cat
jackie
shorts
tiki
island
happiness
grass
coconut
pinapple
hula
misspellings
whores
hores in a hut
spelled with h
rhymes with slut
a hut that indians lived in pizza hut… there’s a pizza hut on the corner of main street in lewistown Pennsylvania. I used to eat there every sunday after church. We’d meet up with my pastor and either me or my brother would then visit with their son and daughter. We’d always get the tatoos in the quarter machines and make collect phone calls from the pay phone outside
a scream
a call
a midnight howl
a light
a lunge
a gripping foul
a choke
a cough
a tight lipped breath
a fight
a war
an unseen end
A place of living, where people, live. I left there a long time ago, into my education, into where I was thrust like it was the right place. And so far it has been, but I always wonder what if my schooling had been differrent. What if I was raised as much by cattle as by men?
The hut.
Java the hut.
I live in a hut.
It is a grass hut.
one,
two,
three,
hut, hut, hut!
little house
I want to live in a little hut by the beach. I would take my fair self out for walks on the sand, scouring for shells and avoiding seaweed. Walking for a fisherman, I would wade
pizza hut i live in a hut in tahiti i can build a hut with sticks and other things from nature that the native americans will show me how to use and build….hut hut hike….set hut!
hut, out in the open. nothing but the field and the hut. a prision for her. her scantuary all in one. comfort and a death sentence.
I lived in a grass hut on an island. I built it out of long blades of grass. It looked a lot like a pizza hut restaurant. Or maybe it just seemed that way because I was hungry. Any way, so I filled my hut with coconuts and went on my merry way. What do you think of that? I’m pretty proud of the way I handled myself on that island that month. Now that I’m back home, I hate mowing because I feel as though I am killing my island hut. How can that be? It was only a shelter and yet some how it became more than that to me. It became my home. My love. My heart. I miss my hut terribly. I think I’ll get in my kayak and try to find that island again so I can return to my hut to find my heart and home. It will be a long journey but very much worth the effort. I will travel through storms and cross deserts to get back to that hut. I just hope the monkeys didn’t shit in it. I’ll be pretty mad if that’s the case. I hate it when my hut stinks of monkey shit. Where did they put the broom anyway? How do they expect to keep the hut clean and liveable without a broom let alone a mop. But I’ll deal with those dirty monkeys when I get there. I just have to keep walking. Keep rowing. Keep crawling. Keep running. I see it there, on the horizon! It’s my hut in all of it’s glory! I approach carefully not knowing what I will find inside. I peek in expecting to smell monkey shit and see them all laughing, sitting around, throwing it at each other. They see me now. And the anger in their eyes is apparent. No, they don’t
the hut is what made him special he dance beneath the stars at night and played with the creatures of the sea by day, no one controlled him and no one supressed him his hut was his home and his home is what made him free. he was is own and he was free.
i live in a hut by the beach and i like to eat bananas that smell like feet. i have a monkey named joe and he likes to scratch my back.
the mongols first lived in huts and then in first grade, when i went to a meusuem about indians we saw replicas of huts they used to live in but they were made out of straw, however i remember them being cool!
a humble house made of simple material like thatched roof, mud etc.
im the quarterback you are nothing
mile high bitch
pound jack
sword skanks
win games
get money
get hammered
peace 0ut
a small house. a small dark house. a bamboo mat and barbarians and tears and unfortunate families. no food. too much disease. war-stricken. hurt. i can’t feel that hurt where i am. i could in the hut.
by the sea, by the sea, I see a hut.
I need to wash the beach sand from my butt!
this is where i need to go sometimes. to my own little hut where i can be by myself. or with those i chose to invite. it would be in a little village on a little island. and i would be happy…
there was a hut in the village, inside lived these weird little purple people, with green hats. Everyday they would go into the village and taunt people, and everyone would get very scared, and they never had the guts to say anything, and then everyone died. the end.
i had a hut in the mountains,
i loved the fountains,
of venice,
of which i pay Dennis,
tto remove the penneys
from the water
which many a drunk loafer
has left his deposit
of late night revelry
Dennis says hrs royaly
but we all know hum as athief
man………sorry
to much late nught revelry myself
I saw her hair blowing back and her voice before I saw here. Shr was out of the balcony, with these little hut things in front of her. It looked like she was trying to do something with them. Aunt Amelia was watching her curiously. Sasha was trying to help.
hut.. like a bugalo made of straw..
like a bird’s nest..
housing its young..
hut hut hut
hut.. like a canopy made of mud..
like a little child getting dirty..
hut hut hut
I don’t know how long I was in there for. It felt like hours but it was probably a matter of minutes. I didn’t expect the door to COMPLETELY wedge shut. It was dark. the kind of dark where you even lose your other senses as well as sight. The noise seemed muted; my own breathing was muted.
We live in houses in America. That’s more than a lot of people in the world can say. The excess in America is fucking sick. G-d bless the world and those who inhabit it. Goddamn America and all it’s wealth and excess.
The tiny man stumbled out of his hut and shaded his eyes from the sun with his hand. He look around at what used to be his village. No one was around except for a small doll that once belonged to his daughter. He picked it up and stroked the soft hair of it. A tear that would be followed by many more slowly moved its way down his leathery skin.