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“You’re off your rocker!” I exclaimed. And he truly was. He looked at me with poisonous daggers–the look of a man betrayed. As we stood there in front of the committee, I knew those daggers had simply been returned to me–from the ones I had just planted deep in his back.
By Elise P. URL on 04.10.2015
im a rocker forever rebel i will exist from the garden of dead poets till the next sunset and the last guitar chord, music will set us free, mind, body & soul
By jaxi on 04.10.2015
swing sway swung
waxing and waning
quells the tide
By katiekieran URL on 04.10.2015
He was off his rocket, I told him. It was completely asinine, this idea of his. Grandfather seemed to think that he could save the world, all on his own. He probably could, but that was besides the point. The point was that people simply couldn’t just think that they could save the world. Otherwise, who knows what kind of glorious world we would be living in. It certainly wouldn’t be one where old grandfathers would be having their motives checked for thinking something that not many others did.
I’m completely gone, he thought to himself. What kind of old crocker could save the world. Even if the world needed saving to begin with. He chastised himself for thinking something so ridiculous, as he turned his head back to his newspaper. He heard his wife calling from outside, something about grabbing the seedlings.
By Joseph on 04.10.2015
Looking back, I never could picture Nana anywhere but that old chair. I swear, it seemed to transport itself as if by magic from the porch to the living room and back when I wasn’t looking. I think back and now it’s as much a part of her as her bones or her skin. The rocker was more my grandmother than a person.
By Ben on 04.10.2015
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.