She put the vase on the table, stared at it for a while. The flowers were a gift, something she’d never really had before. She smiled, quiet. Maybe things really were looking up.
It held the flowers he got me as an apology. And now as they wilted, I thought of how they were the only reminder of his presence in my life. One by one the petals floated down; one by one, each memory vanished.
The vase in her house was pretty and fragile. It fell to the ground, shattering into a million shiny pieces. She looked at it and laughed. There was no place for fragility in her world.
On her way out of the house, she cut her feet.
The flowers fit perfectly into the vase on the table. She looked at it and sighed. What wouldn’t she give to get that day back? It had been so perfect. But nothing was meant to last forever…
She stared at the iron vase resting on top of the shiny wooden end table. Coldly, it stared back at her, empty. As if it reflected the innermost parts of her. Her distorted reflection in its silver face looked twisted, abnormal, alienated. She remembered when he gave her the flowers, right before he left. She remembered when the flowers died, long after.
The vase spread in glittering particles about my bare feet. I noticed a tickle as they struck my skin, and a few flecks of scarlet blood oozed out to form shining domes on the pale flesh.
There wasn’t any time to hesitate. She had just broken the porcelain ornament over his head and was panicking. What would she do now? his life had ended taking hers as well.
My father named my sister Ashley after the aunt that I hated, so I broke the vase in the living room. That’s why he hit me, and that’s why I started to hate him, and, 10 years later, that’s why I left.
omg. i love looking at vases. especially antique kinds. but i never have anything to put in them. and when i do the vase is either the wrong size or out of sight. but none the less i still love looking at them.
flower in a pot. sits there, gets sun, grows: beauty. It can or cannot be colorful and has the power to wilt, and die. In yet, and can still be considered beautiful in it’s death. Bizarre, little flower bud. transforms.
It sat as a reminder of who she once was, yet how could such a meaningless vase, filled to overflowing with lilies, ever come close to the memory of her short and fleeting life?
He pushed it over and watched it fall. “Oops,” he said carelessly as the vase hit the floor and smashed apart. “Was that my fault?”
“No, not at all,” she said, kicking a piece under the cabinet.
meh. just because something has a pretty cover does not mean its pretty. down in the water of the vase can be thorns and bacteria. look at the whole picture.
They hitched the donkey up to the cart after they’d carefully packed each vase carefully inside. They were off. It felt like the journey to a new life. They didn’t have much, but what they did have felt like a fortune in the making.
Vases adorned the long, marble hallway. One of them contained the antidote I sorely needed to continue breathing and moving like a regular human being. I didn’t end up picking the right one, it kind of sucked.
Her crystal vase was rarely used. But this morning she decided to rinse it out, and add roses from the overgrown bushes in her backyard. Today was already different.
I set the flowers in the vase and turned around. It didn’t really help the cluttered dorm room much and, although they were very lovely flowers, just added to the chaos around us. I sighed and moved them to another table. That didn’t help much either.
A vase can hold many things. Flowers. Beads. Marbles. Vases are fragile, usually. And need good taking care of. So I guess its also safe to say that vases are a lot like hearts, eh? Fragile, can hold many things, and need to be cared for gently.
there are flowers in the vase. what the vase am i supposed to be typing here? this is the third vasing time i’m doing this because i don’t know what i’m supposed to be doing, due to lack of instructions.
The vase from my mom sits at the table and I stare at it wondering where she is at this moment. Does she have new kids? Does she love them more than she loved me?
I never knew how to spell this word. Vause? that was what i usually spelled it like, It’s interesting to see how simple it actually is spelled. Vase. Plain as that. I bought my girlfriend Roses not too long ago, she put em in a Vase. I myself don’t own on. I hope I”m talking about the right thing, VASE could be something totally different, who knows for sure?
i dont know what that is that might just be like a base or a rase what does vase mean anyways this is not cool when i have no idea what the word mean grrr. ok i think i am done know can i stop ? hello is this
there are small vases around the kitchen sink. Sitting there from weeks before. they held the flowers given out of sympathy for my aunts passing, but now the flowers are dead, just like her
it was shattered into pieces against the corner wall and the painting that had once adorned it of several little ducks all in a row was rippled across the ground, the ducklings chasing after one another and the mother duck in pieces all around.
is vase the only word on this flipping website?! i’d like a little versitility here! I don’t understand! I can’t write about freaking flowers in pots all day long! GIVE ME SOMETHING HERE
Tragic, the vase that had adorned the windowsill for so long had finally come to an end. No one saw it coming but everyone knew it would someday have to happen. The vase was beautiful, no one had seen its equal, then or since.
Empty or flowers. Colors blooming. It’s the space that counts, not the object. Nothing is more in some cases. Cases rhymes with vases. Sitting on my coffee table. Fresh from the garden, a flower. Bloom.
Da es diese Wort auch in Deutsch gibt, werde ich auch diese Sprache verwenden, da sie mir gerade bei der begrenzten Zeit leichter fällt. Ein Vase kann wunderschön sein, aber meiner Meinung nach tendieren viele Vasen zu einer abgrundtiefen Hässlichkeit. Wahrscheinlich ist mein Geschmack einfach noch nicht ausgereift genug, um Schönheit zu erkennen, oder ich bin einfach geschmacklos, wer weiß das schon.
Durch ein kleines Missgeschick, ist es mir nun sogar vergönnt weitere 60 Sekunden zu schreiben, war mir noch niemals schwer gefallen ist. Vielleicht sollte ich doch noch etwas in englsich sagen: A vase could be beautiful, but for others the same vase is ugly, this is the same nearly with everything in world.
Sitting at the potter’s wheel, I mould the clay with the smooth guide of my sponge. I press down on the pedal, the wheel spins faster and faster. I lean into the grey mound on the wooden bat, centering it until it no longer struggles against my pressure. I lock my elbows into the sides of my legs, lowering my thumbs into the center of the clay. I pull out before i reach the bottom, filling the hole with two fingers of each hand. Curling, my fingers widen the base until it is wide enough for my fist. I remove my right hand, guiding my left from the outside as I raise the walls. Standing as tall as my wrist to my elbow, my cylinder lacks indentity, but oozes with confidence. I press against the wall, bowing it out without thinning it. Wrapping my hands around the rim, I curl in the lip to complete my work. I reach for my wire, curling it around my fingers to stabalize it as i slice my vase from the bat. Lifting it tenderly, i bring it into the Damp Room to dry. I tenderly blanket it with newspaper, more gentle than plastic, and leave it on a shelf with hundreds of others- no one alike. Reaching into the soft clay, I return to my wheel and spin once more.
The flowers disappointed me. How dare they wilt in such a short amount of time, with plenty of water to live on in that vase. But really, was I so different?
With so much to live off of, I am still lonely. With no nurturing I wilt. Is that selfish? Is that wrong? Perhaps. But I know that flowers are delicate, as am I. I need hel
he handed me a box. It smelled of memories and mildew, the smell of my grandmother’s kitchen, and my father’s tool shed. i couldn’t help but look at it’s contents, drapes, a old antique vase……all memories. all dusty and sun-soaked.
She put the vase on the table, stared at it for a while. The flowers were a gift, something she’d never really had before. She smiled, quiet. Maybe things really were looking up.
holds flowers. glass. break. please fill it up with water and pick lots of different flowers and make a beautiful arrangement for the guests.
It held the flowers he got me as an apology. And now as they wilted, I thought of how they were the only reminder of his presence in my life. One by one the petals floated down; one by one, each memory vanished.
The vase in her house was pretty and fragile. It fell to the ground, shattering into a million shiny pieces. She looked at it and laughed. There was no place for fragility in her world.
On her way out of the house, she cut her feet.
i need a vase in my freshly painted room. maybe for flowers, or something else. i love my room. its so calm. it just needs some extra beauty. (:
The flowers fit perfectly into the vase on the table. She looked at it and sighed. What wouldn’t she give to get that day back? It had been so perfect. But nothing was meant to last forever…
She stared at the iron vase resting on top of the shiny wooden end table. Coldly, it stared back at her, empty. As if it reflected the innermost parts of her. Her distorted reflection in its silver face looked twisted, abnormal, alienated. She remembered when he gave her the flowers, right before he left. She remembered when the flowers died, long after.
The vase spread in glittering particles about my bare feet. I noticed a tickle as they struck my skin, and a few flecks of scarlet blood oozed out to form shining domes on the pale flesh.
There wasn’t any time to hesitate. She had just broken the porcelain ornament over his head and was panicking. What would she do now? his life had ended taking hers as well.
My father named my sister Ashley after the aunt that I hated, so I broke the vase in the living room. That’s why he hit me, and that’s why I started to hate him, and, 10 years later, that’s why I left.
vase, or vase? pronunciation of an expensive flower pot. who knows. call it what it is. exploitation. too much money.
the vase and the rose were the most romantic gift that I’ve ever gotten
omg. i love looking at vases. especially antique kinds. but i never have anything to put in them. and when i do the vase is either the wrong size or out of sight. but none the less i still love looking at them.
flower in a pot. sits there, gets sun, grows: beauty. It can or cannot be colorful and has the power to wilt, and die. In yet, and can still be considered beautiful in it’s death. Bizarre, little flower bud. transforms.
It sat as a reminder of who she once was, yet how could such a meaningless vase, filled to overflowing with lilies, ever come close to the memory of her short and fleeting life?
He pushed it over and watched it fall. “Oops,” he said carelessly as the vase hit the floor and smashed apart. “Was that my fault?”
“No, not at all,” she said, kicking a piece under the cabinet.
meh. just because something has a pretty cover does not mean its pretty. down in the water of the vase can be thorns and bacteria. look at the whole picture.
They hitched the donkey up to the cart after they’d carefully packed each vase carefully inside. They were off. It felt like the journey to a new life. They didn’t have much, but what they did have felt like a fortune in the making.
Vases adorned the long, marble hallway. One of them contained the antidote I sorely needed to continue breathing and moving like a regular human being. I didn’t end up picking the right one, it kind of sucked.
Her crystal vase was rarely used. But this morning she decided to rinse it out, and add roses from the overgrown bushes in her backyard. Today was already different.
I set the flowers in the vase and turned around. It didn’t really help the cluttered dorm room much and, although they were very lovely flowers, just added to the chaos around us. I sighed and moved them to another table. That didn’t help much either.
A vase can hold many things. Flowers. Beads. Marbles. Vases are fragile, usually. And need good taking care of. So I guess its also safe to say that vases are a lot like hearts, eh? Fragile, can hold many things, and need to be cared for gently.
“Don’t you dare touch that vase,” she reminded him bitterly, over her shoulder, as she walked out of the house.
Grinning wickedly, he dropped the snake inside it. “Well I’m not TOUCHING it, really…”
there are flowers in the vase. what the vase am i supposed to be typing here? this is the third vasing time i’m doing this because i don’t know what i’m supposed to be doing, due to lack of instructions.
flowers .lotz of em..orchids and liliiies..and boyfrends and anniversaries..to choclates and happy memories bla blabla
The vase from my mom sits at the table and I stare at it wondering where she is at this moment. Does she have new kids? Does she love them more than she loved me?
It held all of his hopes and dreams. His memories, his past, and his future. What in the world would compel her to use it for storing her tampons?
A vase. Is pointless.
I never knew how to spell this word. Vause? that was what i usually spelled it like, It’s interesting to see how simple it actually is spelled. Vase. Plain as that. I bought my girlfriend Roses not too long ago, she put em in a Vase. I myself don’t own on. I hope I”m talking about the right thing, VASE could be something totally different, who knows for sure?
i dont know what that is that might just be like a base or a rase what does vase mean anyways this is not cool when i have no idea what the word mean grrr. ok i think i am done know can i stop ? hello is this
flowers
they are arranged perfectly
except for one errant stem of baby’s breath.
bothersome to many
but for others,
perfection.
there are small vases around the kitchen sink. Sitting there from weeks before. they held the flowers given out of sympathy for my aunts passing, but now the flowers are dead, just like her
it was shattered into pieces against the corner wall and the painting that had once adorned it of several little ducks all in a row was rippled across the ground, the ducklings chasing after one another and the mother duck in pieces all around.
is vase the only word on this flipping website?! i’d like a little versitility here! I don’t understand! I can’t write about freaking flowers in pots all day long! GIVE ME SOMETHING HERE
Tragic, the vase that had adorned the windowsill for so long had finally come to an end. No one saw it coming but everyone knew it would someday have to happen. The vase was beautiful, no one had seen its equal, then or since.
Empty or flowers. Colors blooming. It’s the space that counts, not the object. Nothing is more in some cases. Cases rhymes with vases. Sitting on my coffee table. Fresh from the garden, a flower. Bloom.
Da es diese Wort auch in Deutsch gibt, werde ich auch diese Sprache verwenden, da sie mir gerade bei der begrenzten Zeit leichter fällt. Ein Vase kann wunderschön sein, aber meiner Meinung nach tendieren viele Vasen zu einer abgrundtiefen Hässlichkeit. Wahrscheinlich ist mein Geschmack einfach noch nicht ausgereift genug, um Schönheit zu erkennen, oder ich bin einfach geschmacklos, wer weiß das schon.
Durch ein kleines Missgeschick, ist es mir nun sogar vergönnt weitere 60 Sekunden zu schreiben, war mir noch niemals schwer gefallen ist. Vielleicht sollte ich doch noch etwas in englsich sagen: A vase could be beautiful, but for others the same vase is ugly, this is the same nearly with everything in world.
Sitting at the potter’s wheel, I mould the clay with the smooth guide of my sponge. I press down on the pedal, the wheel spins faster and faster. I lean into the grey mound on the wooden bat, centering it until it no longer struggles against my pressure. I lock my elbows into the sides of my legs, lowering my thumbs into the center of the clay. I pull out before i reach the bottom, filling the hole with two fingers of each hand. Curling, my fingers widen the base until it is wide enough for my fist. I remove my right hand, guiding my left from the outside as I raise the walls. Standing as tall as my wrist to my elbow, my cylinder lacks indentity, but oozes with confidence. I press against the wall, bowing it out without thinning it. Wrapping my hands around the rim, I curl in the lip to complete my work. I reach for my wire, curling it around my fingers to stabalize it as i slice my vase from the bat. Lifting it tenderly, i bring it into the Damp Room to dry. I tenderly blanket it with newspaper, more gentle than plastic, and leave it on a shelf with hundreds of others- no one alike. Reaching into the soft clay, I return to my wheel and spin once more.
The flowers disappointed me. How dare they wilt in such a short amount of time, with plenty of water to live on in that vase. But really, was I so different?
With so much to live off of, I am still lonely. With no nurturing I wilt. Is that selfish? Is that wrong? Perhaps. But I know that flowers are delicate, as am I. I need hel
he handed me a box. It smelled of memories and mildew, the smell of my grandmother’s kitchen, and my father’s tool shed. i couldn’t help but look at it’s contents, drapes, a old antique vase……all memories. all dusty and sun-soaked.