I realized my dream of us in a motel room isn’t what I thought it was. It isn’t an erotic desire, or a desire to break the rules, or a desire to wet my dry spell. It’s a desire for you to show me what you’ve never shown anyone: your secrets, your work, in ink.
Why did I agree to do this? It makes no sense. The motel I’m staying at is a filthy thing, and I’m halfway across the world from home. But my friends insist it’s “an adventure”, and that I need to “lighten up, holy mother of God, you do absolutely nothing outside of work”. So here I am.
Located within the foggy hills of the Midwest lay a crumpled old building. Its ruins, bright shards of white and black amongst the dreary wasteland, and a broken sign amongst the chicken wire:
The world had moved off it axis of time. The water began to pour in to the heavens. I looked over at my girl friend, the #motel’s soft neon lights melting around the curves of her body. If this is the end, this isn’t a bad. @oznolem #oneword
The only lights around for miles were dim and surrounded by moths, but somehow you could still see the pink cotton candy clouds in the sky. I climbed the two flights of creaky stairs, nervous not to wake any residents or startle any passerby. I exhaled deeply as I opened the door to my room in the San Antonio Motel. Jared had set me up with a room for the next two weeks before I left town again. At first, he asked me to stay with him, but I knew it was just a kind gesture. Nobody would actually want to take that much of a risk. You see, I’m a liability, known to mess up lives then skip town the next day. Jared already knew that, but he was determined to give me a place to stay, thus the motel. I recommended he just stay away from me, but he refused and handed me a key to room 256.
The motel was tired and worn as the people who visited it. The drab, peeling paint of the eaves had faded to a non-descript muddy yellow, and the walls had numerous patches.
A motel is a tiny, last-resort (hahahahaha) hotel at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. These roadside palaces are characterized by leaky faucets, dirty sheets, ancient, unfiltered pools, and a vending machine.
I don’t stay away from home very often. I sit home, when I can sit, and I mope and I cry a little. Or a lot, if we’re being completely honest.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. My heart isn’t in it, and neither is my brain. Chronic pain. I have a heart but my body only beats along in painful ways.
Honey, it has been a long time since I wrote you that fantasy, us in a seedy, neon motel somewhere up where there’s only ice and mountains and pines. You’re still in the same place. I’m not. I’m not, and I discovered that before I wrote that fantasy to you, I wrote it somewhere else.
your father leaves you to fend for yourself in this place you’ve never been will not stay long and will never see again. the vending machine is out of order and there are no other children around to play. the adults scare you, completely unlike in the suburbs where they fawn over your rosy cheeks and your angelic hair
the sunlight rips in through unshielded parts of your window, the curtains barely doing their job. your eyes crack open, though you can only see through the one not pressed against your pillow. barely. its still giving you a headache, which serves to distract you from your sore back. cheap motel mattresses will do that to a man
the motel’s lack of room service is what disenchants you most about life on the run. subsisting on convenience store food. and never the same one too many times. you’re running out of convenience stores
I wish there were motels in life. Sometimes you’re so engrossed in what you’re doing everyday that you can’t take a moment to smell the roses. If I stumbled across a motel once in a while on my life journey, I would definitely stop by.
Maybe there are plenty of motels out there. We’re just not booking in early enough.
They are in the desert, the mountains, and at the beach. They’ve lit plastic signs that beckon brightly to all who flow past on the river of highway. They offer shelter and a place to sleep to millions nightly. Life takes place there, gritty and sweet.
a broken break backed moment
stuck in time a sigh echoed in sheets
covered over our heads
you came so late in the night
moist, full of fancy free
i an anxious man never saw it coming
you so flowing and unencumbered
we did the things you think
you can’t talk about
even though we did
in that dusty yellow motel
i wish i was there tonight
an echo of a time when i felt right
A motel is a cheap alternative to a hotel. Some motels are usually three stars and I don’t like to use them. Some motels can be very old and run down. There is a motel in the movie “psycho” where a man kills a girl. You should be carefuly when you use a motel.
Motels are pretty cool. I had one bad motel experience, though, which makes me think they are seedy. They are like hotels, but worse. The one time we stayed at a NH hotel, there were dead animals floating in the pool. My mom fished them out and made me swim, which terrified me. I guess I had health anxiety even back then. I was like 6 or 7, by the way.
I expected it to be musty and stained—with a flickering yellow light and peeling gaudy wallpaper. But it was new, bright with cheap LEDs, cheap Ikea nightstands, and a blank-slate emptiness. Sterile. With a single suitcase in the corner, I would have preferred a room of cramped history.
one black crawling infinity, motel my mind where i can’t find the light switch. someone left something on my pillow, but there isn’t any soap. no shampoo, no windows
The motel was absolutely ruined, but it was better than nowhere. Sarah trudges through the wreckage until she reached one of the door. With one swift kick the door violently swings open. The room looked to have been untouched since the disaster.
This small word means for me a great experience; the last year i was in France for my first time i was in the north of this country.
In the vacation I planned to go to Paris; after a long researching for the hotel and the booking of the transportation, finally the day arrived i was so exiting for the traveling and especially for the adventure that i would do: “my first time go to Paris alone!!”; i remembered that it was sunny but very cold you can imagine just woow ; i took my bus i like it yeah it takes time but it’s cool; after we had a rest in the road i bought a soda after that around one hour we arrived to Paris and i spent about 2 hours just looking for the hotel when i found it finally i really like it and i was so proud of myself; but it wasn’t a hotel it was a motel !!
(i said: all this and at the end i found only a motel !! )
but i really did like it it was good and cheap for me as student hhhh
“How would I have to do,” you asked, “to get a make-out sessions with you at the Sixty Shades Motel near my house?”
“Find a better hotel,” I grinned.
You laughed at that, pouring me another glass of cheap red wine. All things considered, it tasted better than the fancier stuff I had tasted with my parents the day before. We were eating sirloin steak – good sirloin. With barbecue sauce.
A frog named SAM and his sister froglike .There were BFF but one day they wanted to do play a game named jump but SAM did not want to at all.So they fighting and fighting all day long and they missed out on a lot a fun.Then were sad but they now known that fighting is bad.
Everything about the motel felt green. There was a certain shimmering viridescence, an eerily beautiful glow, all about the whitewashed walls and the crunchy dollar store sheets and the hard slick linoleum. None of it was green but it felt green. Something of nature lingered, a smell of wet earth, of fallen leaves, of mold that made a home long ago.
islands of thought. adrift motel sky beacons across the long drive where thought returns to the toils and pangs of the listlessness. the seemingly endless plateaus that mark points of static progress and the wearing imprints of being no further than when the sky turned a most hideous churned coal.
Rain fills the empty swimming pool,
blinking neon lights
reflecting off the surface,
the buzzing harmonizing
with the whirr of mosquitos.
Here on the ledge of a pool
and the edge of the road,
we find the stars blinking
back at us. We exchanged stories,
legends and gossips settling
in the space between the sky.
A low priced local place. Met a guy there. Well, on various occasions, met a few guys there. Loved those experiences. Miss that time in my life. Maybe I should book it again.
A grand, 55-room palace with hot scented oil baths, servants to wait on you, steaming meals upon golden platters, silken, gardens with fountains and fruit trees, feathered beds, marble tiles, golden pillars- wait, that’s Buckingham Palace. If you’re looking for a motel, please don’t count on the above description. I’m sure you were asking about a Holiday Inn, not the royal residence. Probably.
Broken glass and old cigarettes littered its gravel drive. I could see a dark figure in the corner of my eye. It dropped the key for room 13. The door was littered with blood stains and yet, i couldn’t stop myself from walking in. There he was again, mystic and shadowy. Staring at me, through me. I blinked and he was gone. I felt his eyes on me, I turned around and there he was, in the doorway, whispering, murmuring under his breath. He told me to watch my back. He led me into the bathroom, and told me to get into the bathtub. It smelled of old blood. he pulled back the shower curtain and showed dried blood stains on the pristine white porcelain tub. He closed the door, leaving only one bloody hand print.
She splashed water on her face and stared into the mirror. She looked older. Tired. She couldn’t reduce the puffiness in her face like this. She would have to sleep. Exhaustion seeped into her skin.
I found myself hiding in the motel.
Something that does not stand out.
But it is convenient and for a short while it will do.
Hiding, why am I hiding.
For what reason do I need to hide.
Yvonne Roux was curled up in between stained motel sheets, awaiting the hour she would die. She had spent so long running from her hunters, and now she had grown tired, far too tired to go on. She was ready now. She was ready to sacrifice herself to their all-too-eager hands.
I realized my dream of us in a motel room isn’t what I thought it was. It isn’t an erotic desire, or a desire to break the rules, or a desire to wet my dry spell. It’s a desire for you to show me what you’ve never shown anyone: your secrets, your work, in ink.
Why did I agree to do this? It makes no sense. The motel I’m staying at is a filthy thing, and I’m halfway across the world from home. But my friends insist it’s “an adventure”, and that I need to “lighten up, holy mother of God, you do absolutely nothing outside of work”. So here I am.
I wish I was home.
Located within the foggy hills of the Midwest lay a crumpled old building. Its ruins, bright shards of white and black amongst the dreary wasteland, and a broken sign amongst the chicken wire:
The world had moved off it axis of time. The water began to pour in to the heavens. I looked over at my girl friend, the #motel’s soft neon lights melting around the curves of her body. If this is the end, this isn’t a bad. @oznolem #oneword
The only lights around for miles were dim and surrounded by moths, but somehow you could still see the pink cotton candy clouds in the sky. I climbed the two flights of creaky stairs, nervous not to wake any residents or startle any passerby. I exhaled deeply as I opened the door to my room in the San Antonio Motel. Jared had set me up with a room for the next two weeks before I left town again. At first, he asked me to stay with him, but I knew it was just a kind gesture. Nobody would actually want to take that much of a risk. You see, I’m a liability, known to mess up lives then skip town the next day. Jared already knew that, but he was determined to give me a place to stay, thus the motel. I recommended he just stay away from me, but he refused and handed me a key to room 256.
The motel was tired and worn as the people who visited it. The drab, peeling paint of the eaves had faded to a non-descript muddy yellow, and the walls had numerous patches.
A motel is a tiny, last-resort (hahahahaha) hotel at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. These roadside palaces are characterized by leaky faucets, dirty sheets, ancient, unfiltered pools, and a vending machine.
I don’t stay away from home very often. I sit home, when I can sit, and I mope and I cry a little. Or a lot, if we’re being completely honest.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. My heart isn’t in it, and neither is my brain. Chronic pain. I have a heart but my body only beats along in painful ways.
Honey, it has been a long time since I wrote you that fantasy, us in a seedy, neon motel somewhere up where there’s only ice and mountains and pines. You’re still in the same place. I’m not. I’m not, and I discovered that before I wrote that fantasy to you, I wrote it somewhere else.
different rooms inside different hallways. different stories in different dormitories.
your father leaves you to fend for yourself in this place you’ve never been will not stay long and will never see again. the vending machine is out of order and there are no other children around to play. the adults scare you, completely unlike in the suburbs where they fawn over your rosy cheeks and your angelic hair
the sunlight rips in through unshielded parts of your window, the curtains barely doing their job. your eyes crack open, though you can only see through the one not pressed against your pillow. barely. its still giving you a headache, which serves to distract you from your sore back. cheap motel mattresses will do that to a man
the motel’s lack of room service is what disenchants you most about life on the run. subsisting on convenience store food. and never the same one too many times. you’re running out of convenience stores
I wish there were motels in life. Sometimes you’re so engrossed in what you’re doing everyday that you can’t take a moment to smell the roses. If I stumbled across a motel once in a while on my life journey, I would definitely stop by.
Maybe there are plenty of motels out there. We’re just not booking in early enough.
They are in the desert, the mountains, and at the beach. They’ve lit plastic signs that beckon brightly to all who flow past on the river of highway. They offer shelter and a place to sleep to millions nightly. Life takes place there, gritty and sweet.
I have once lived in a motel. It was quite an interesting experience. Motels usually have no service, they offer only a room and little more.
a broken break backed moment
stuck in time a sigh echoed in sheets
covered over our heads
you came so late in the night
moist, full of fancy free
i an anxious man never saw it coming
you so flowing and unencumbered
we did the things you think
you can’t talk about
even though we did
in that dusty yellow motel
i wish i was there tonight
an echo of a time when i felt right
A motel is a cheap alternative to a hotel. Some motels are usually three stars and I don’t like to use them. Some motels can be very old and run down. There is a motel in the movie “psycho” where a man kills a girl. You should be carefuly when you use a motel.
Motels are pretty cool. I had one bad motel experience, though, which makes me think they are seedy. They are like hotels, but worse. The one time we stayed at a NH hotel, there were dead animals floating in the pool. My mom fished them out and made me swim, which terrified me. I guess I had health anxiety even back then. I was like 6 or 7, by the way.
Hello!
Hello!
I expected it to be musty and stained—with a flickering yellow light and peeling gaudy wallpaper. But it was new, bright with cheap LEDs, cheap Ikea nightstands, and a blank-slate emptiness. Sterile. With a single suitcase in the corner, I would have preferred a room of cramped history.
one black crawling infinity, motel my mind where i can’t find the light switch. someone left something on my pillow, but there isn’t any soap. no shampoo, no windows
no checkout time.
my god, i want to go home.
The motel was absolutely ruined, but it was better than nowhere. Sarah trudges through the wreckage until she reached one of the door. With one swift kick the door violently swings open. The room looked to have been untouched since the disaster.
This small word means for me a great experience; the last year i was in France for my first time i was in the north of this country.
In the vacation I planned to go to Paris; after a long researching for the hotel and the booking of the transportation, finally the day arrived i was so exiting for the traveling and especially for the adventure that i would do: “my first time go to Paris alone!!”; i remembered that it was sunny but very cold you can imagine just woow ; i took my bus i like it yeah it takes time but it’s cool; after we had a rest in the road i bought a soda after that around one hour we arrived to Paris and i spent about 2 hours just looking for the hotel when i found it finally i really like it and i was so proud of myself; but it wasn’t a hotel it was a motel !!
(i said: all this and at the end i found only a motel !! )
but i really did like it it was good and cheap for me as student hhhh
“How would I have to do,” you asked, “to get a make-out sessions with you at the Sixty Shades Motel near my house?”
“Find a better hotel,” I grinned.
You laughed at that, pouring me another glass of cheap red wine. All things considered, it tasted better than the fancier stuff I had tasted with my parents the day before. We were eating sirloin steak – good sirloin. With barbecue sauce.
A frog named SAM and his sister froglike .There were BFF but one day they wanted to do play a game named jump but SAM did not want to at all.So they fighting and fighting all day long and they missed out on a lot a fun.Then were sad but they now known that fighting is bad.
The frog was named SAM. SAM the frog loves to jump it is his favorite thing he dues it all the time. He also has a sister named Smelly.
Everything about the motel felt green. There was a certain shimmering viridescence, an eerily beautiful glow, all about the whitewashed walls and the crunchy dollar store sheets and the hard slick linoleum. None of it was green but it felt green. Something of nature lingered, a smell of wet earth, of fallen leaves, of mold that made a home long ago.
islands of thought. adrift motel sky beacons across the long drive where thought returns to the toils and pangs of the listlessness. the seemingly endless plateaus that mark points of static progress and the wearing imprints of being no further than when the sky turned a most hideous churned coal.
Rain fills the empty swimming pool,
blinking neon lights
reflecting off the surface,
the buzzing harmonizing
with the whirr of mosquitos.
Here on the ledge of a pool
and the edge of the road,
we find the stars blinking
back at us. We exchanged stories,
legends and gossips settling
in the space between the sky.
it’s a cheaper hotel
that you can stay in for a longer period of time
mentioned alot in movies
A low priced local place. Met a guy there. Well, on various occasions, met a few guys there. Loved those experiences. Miss that time in my life. Maybe I should book it again.
A grand, 55-room palace with hot scented oil baths, servants to wait on you, steaming meals upon golden platters, silken, gardens with fountains and fruit trees, feathered beds, marble tiles, golden pillars- wait, that’s Buckingham Palace. If you’re looking for a motel, please don’t count on the above description. I’m sure you were asking about a Holiday Inn, not the royal residence. Probably.
Broken glass and old cigarettes littered its gravel drive. I could see a dark figure in the corner of my eye. It dropped the key for room 13. The door was littered with blood stains and yet, i couldn’t stop myself from walking in. There he was again, mystic and shadowy. Staring at me, through me. I blinked and he was gone. I felt his eyes on me, I turned around and there he was, in the doorway, whispering, murmuring under his breath. He told me to watch my back. He led me into the bathroom, and told me to get into the bathtub. It smelled of old blood. he pulled back the shower curtain and showed dried blood stains on the pristine white porcelain tub. He closed the door, leaving only one bloody hand print.
A motel is a hotel where you stay when your away, When they say come home you will say no way not today.
She splashed water on her face and stared into the mirror. She looked older. Tired. She couldn’t reduce the puffiness in her face like this. She would have to sleep. Exhaustion seeped into her skin.
I found myself hiding in the motel.
Something that does not stand out.
But it is convenient and for a short while it will do.
Hiding, why am I hiding.
For what reason do I need to hide.
Yvonne Roux was curled up in between stained motel sheets, awaiting the hour she would die. She had spent so long running from her hunters, and now she had grown tired, far too tired to go on. She was ready now. She was ready to sacrifice herself to their all-too-eager hands.
´ It was the engines and the aeroplanes outside the window that awoke me suddenly in the motel this morning´, said the guest.
´Do not let me disturb you´´, replied the cleaner, ´I,m just doing my job´.