She slathered more grease on the actuating arms and a few of the more rusted teeth of the gears. “I’m not sure this is going to help. This piece of junk has sat far too long without any care.”
She closed the cover of the mammoth war machine and stepped back. “Punch it Louis!”
He turned his cap backward and pumped diesel through the veins of this metal creature. When Louis pressed the ignition switch the gears and plates trembled before breaking their bond of rust and years of dirt. The armored suit took one step then another.
She let out a yell and raised her grease smeared arms in victory. If they can revive a few more of these beasts, the allies may yet have a chance.
They keep turning and we keep watching. Every morning, those gears on top of those doors. Every morning they turn and the door opens and we mill in, faces gray and eyes bloodshot. We don’t talk much and when we do, it’s barely a whisper.
The gears on the bicycle had jammed and I found myself careening down the pebble covered driveway. In the skidding, I knew I had cut open a few gashes along my leg. What made me decide to take the bike out knowing I hadn’t been on a bike in years?
Gears. Gears turning. Black. A chain wrapped around the gears. Gears turning in my head. I’m thinking about gears. I’m thinking about learning to ride my bike and hitting a fence. I came down the hill and turned up into my driveway where there was a wood fence. I couldn’t stop. I drove right into the fence and flew over the top of it.
something that is in a car to help you control the car it also in other things like on bikes there are different gears or on planes i’m guessing there are some gears on that also that’s all i can think of right now
the gears turning and grinding on each other as they came to a screeching halt. The workers duck for cover as the blades that were being moved and turned came crashing down injuring a few of them. “Ah! My arm the damn machine cut off my arm.” cried one man. “Someone help me I can’t feel my leg.” screamed another. “What the hell happened up their?” “What are you guys doing down their?!” yelled the foreman.” As the men were running around treating the wounded. A man that no one noticed made his way across the cat-walk out of the roof. “Those fools need to stop using those cheap tools and labor.” “If they’d worry less about the gears running their helicopters and more about the gears that make those dusty old brains work then maybe it wouldn’t have had to come to this.”
ticks of machinery whirling in my head. memories rusted on the very pipes that hold my dreams. fears indented in the metal of my heart. chains stuck, keeping me locked in your sight. under your piercing gaze. you’re just as rusted. just as damaged. just as stuck.
Gears, like the ones in clocktowers? The turning, metal structures that keep the hands turning–it must take experienced builders to do create something like that.
I’ve never been good at building, myself. In artistic group projects, I label my partner as the engineer and resign myself to coloring–I’m decent enough at staying within the lines to do that.
My father was never home. He didn’t care about me or mom. He was more worried about drinking and racing. I still have two pictures of him and his stupid car. He didn’t even smile nor did he want to be around me. Gears, it reminds me of the father I didn’t know. I’m almost 16 and still don’t know my dad and why he was that way. He still doesn’t want to be home even today. I barely see him, not that I would want to at this point.
Old red truck. The one with the bucket seats. Stick shift. I didn’t know how to work those gears. You taught me. You teach me lots of things that I forget.
This reminds me of an awful game. I was hard to judge it, but I turned the game into a game itself. I destroyed the disc in a very satisfying and relieving way, and it even got a few likes. Overall this word has a pretty nice connotation for me, all things considered.
She slathered more grease on the actuating arms and a few of the more rusted teeth of the gears. “I’m not sure this is going to help. This piece of junk has sat far too long without any care.”
She closed the cover of the mammoth war machine and stepped back. “Punch it Louis!”
He turned his cap backward and pumped diesel through the veins of this metal creature. When Louis pressed the ignition switch the gears and plates trembled before breaking their bond of rust and years of dirt. The armored suit took one step then another.
She let out a yell and raised her grease smeared arms in victory. If they can revive a few more of these beasts, the allies may yet have a chance.
They keep turning and we keep watching. Every morning, those gears on top of those doors. Every morning they turn and the door opens and we mill in, faces gray and eyes bloodshot. We don’t talk much and when we do, it’s barely a whisper.
The gears on the bicycle had jammed and I found myself careening down the pebble covered driveway. In the skidding, I knew I had cut open a few gashes along my leg. What made me decide to take the bike out knowing I hadn’t been on a bike in years?
First time on this site. I love it!! I’ll be back!
Gears. Gears turning. Black. A chain wrapped around the gears. Gears turning in my head. I’m thinking about gears. I’m thinking about learning to ride my bike and hitting a fence. I came down the hill and turned up into my driveway where there was a wood fence. I couldn’t stop. I drove right into the fence and flew over the top of it.
something that is in a car to help you control the car it also in other things like on bikes there are different gears or on planes i’m guessing there are some gears on that also that’s all i can think of right now
the gears turning and grinding on each other as they came to a screeching halt. The workers duck for cover as the blades that were being moved and turned came crashing down injuring a few of them. “Ah! My arm the damn machine cut off my arm.” cried one man. “Someone help me I can’t feel my leg.” screamed another. “What the hell happened up their?” “What are you guys doing down their?!” yelled the foreman.” As the men were running around treating the wounded. A man that no one noticed made his way across the cat-walk out of the roof. “Those fools need to stop using those cheap tools and labor.” “If they’d worry less about the gears running their helicopters and more about the gears that make those dusty old brains work then maybe it wouldn’t have had to come to this.”
ticks of machinery whirling in my head. memories rusted on the very pipes that hold my dreams. fears indented in the metal of my heart. chains stuck, keeping me locked in your sight. under your piercing gaze. you’re just as rusted. just as damaged. just as stuck.
are gears are the same.
Gears, like the ones in clocktowers? The turning, metal structures that keep the hands turning–it must take experienced builders to do create something like that.
I’ve never been good at building, myself. In artistic group projects, I label my partner as the engineer and resign myself to coloring–I’m decent enough at staying within the lines to do that.
My father was never home. He didn’t care about me or mom. He was more worried about drinking and racing. I still have two pictures of him and his stupid car. He didn’t even smile nor did he want to be around me. Gears, it reminds me of the father I didn’t know. I’m almost 16 and still don’t know my dad and why he was that way. He still doesn’t want to be home even today. I barely see him, not that I would want to at this point.
You know what really grinds my gears? Donald Trump.
Old red truck. The one with the bucket seats. Stick shift. I didn’t know how to work those gears. You taught me. You teach me lots of things that I forget.
This reminds me of an awful game. I was hard to judge it, but I turned the game into a game itself. I destroyed the disc in a very satisfying and relieving way, and it even got a few likes. Overall this word has a pretty nice connotation for me, all things considered.
Things that turn. It makes your mind go. It’s the thing that is esstential for objects to work.