She froze, stood in the middle of the street like a statue on a Wednesday afternoon, not moving a single inch. The cars were honking and people were yelling. Passersby were looking at her weirdly, what is she doing, they thought, she is going to get killed.
She stared at the scene in front of her, trying to take it in. The town is huge and yet she saw them, right here and right now on Martin Street. Her boyfriend of 2 years was kissing some other girl.
the statue saw everything, as people walked past he saw their faces. And how the walked. He new all their secrets, and if only his mouth could move he would tell the world. He was over whelmed with all the power he had, and could do nothing with it. He longed to be alive again, more than anything in the world he would love to walk again
the statue saw everything, as people walked past he saw their faces. And how the walked. He new all their secrets, and if only his mouth could move he would tell the world. He was over whelmed with all the power he had, and could do nothing with it.
the statue missed being alive, so when ever no one was looking it would try to run away. but, the statue only had a few seconds to get away before someone would look at him. Then he would have to stop moving. so after a while he just decided to stay where he was. Because there was no hope
The statue sat in the center of courtyard; cold, glaring out over the walkway. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember; erected in a time where permanence was important. It was put up to honor someone that had died at sometime, but now it was nothing more than a pigeon perch. It’s importance had dwindled as the seconds passed and at this point everyone was just used to it.
It was a tough job to stay awake in heat and rains. Yet I did it. I was too ashamed to keep standing in front of all the girls and boys. They kept kissing and never were aware of my existence.
She looked at the statue with out most disgust. She hated it when people made replicas of other people who were already dead. What use was it any way? It’s not like they’d magically come to life or something. Sure it was for remembrance but in this world and age, who actually stopped to remember who that person was?
Doyle peeled the plastic cover off the box and examined his new toy. At a glance, it looked like an expensive pen, and the lower half even functioned as one to maintain the illusion, but its real purpose was in the upper portion; the insignia in the clip served as camouflage for a minute camera, with electronics behind it to store up to thirty minutes of video. He had no idea who the body floating in that pool had been, and even if it was really the Puppeteer or not but it was clear that whoever had been using him now had no further use for him, and was shutting him out. At least the fact that they seemed to be trying to make him the scapegoat for all or part of it meant that they were not aiming to kill him; not yet, anyway. The only thing he knew was that he needed to know a lot more, and when it came time to do “show and tell”, concrete proof of someone else’s guilt would be central to evincing his own innocence. Another device he had bought had been a prepaid cellphone, one that could not be followed, or traced to him. His first call was to an old friend, who really HAD been in the Secret Service, but who now did favours” for people like Doyle. “Matt! It’s Cousin Vinnie! Meet me at the statue of your mother at two o’ clock!” – he smiled at their shared joke; there aren’t many statues of women in D.C., so when the subject of one of them shares your mother’s name, people are going to remember it!
For what traveling was worth, there was nothing more I had in mind rather than to remain sullen, insulant, completely competent towards something that would not speak; something that could not communicate with what was breathing, living, ALIVE. As I turned and looked to the skies, looked to the statue, I pondered, if but only for a moment, what lied beyond the memories of what once graced the marble that carved the wings of what was supposed to be an angel. I never thought that the fragility of my own demise would be pioneered upon something that was only bound to break and shatter.
At first I thought of the statue of liberty, but now all I’m thinking about are the statues in Princeton and how you’re supposed to go to the art museum for your summer project. I hate it because I know that we were supposed to do that together. I hate that you’ve moved on so quickly and I’m by myself and I hate how sweet you were when we were together and now you’re over me and it’s been less than a month.
La statue de la liberté est un monument contemporain puritain, qui accueille chaque année plusieurs millions de pigeons. Ces pigeons, venant parfois d’extrêmement loin, y trouvent repos, calme et superbe vue sur la grande pomme.
statue is astill i thought he was looking at me He cwas wearing an armoir suit . i think he wasa statue of a brave ruler he was a statue to admire He had shin ing eyes WHEN I TOUCH HIM I thoughjt he had screamed
I’m not the best when it comes to love especially; while other people seem to fall in love and get their hearts broken time and time again, I feel like an unmoving statue.
Nothing I do seems to really change. I’m stuck in a tedious cycle where I’m going through the motions of flirting and falling for somebody and while, for them, the feeling is real, I’m on the other side desperately waiting for something to happen. For my heart to be moved with passion. But I’ve got the same amount of passion as a rock.
The statue was cold to the touch. Until last week, it was stored in the very dark corner of the storeroom. No one dared to approach it, no one dared to disturb it in its deep slumber. This morning, for some reason, it appeared in the entrance of the school, as if to guard an important object stored in the depths of the school.
‘Maybe it was a prank,’ I thought, but who would have gone though the trouble and dragged the cumbersome statue out of its station and place it in front of the school. And one top of which, there were no traces no metal found on the floor. The plate supporting the statue was also missing.
There’s no way it would move on its own.
As if ghosts actually exist in this world, moreover, a statue. I look out the window to observe the statue from the second floor. The intense heat seems to be melting it down into a metal green liquid.
I stood as still as a statue as I observed the blood trickling down the stairs. His head hanged in mid air, eyes wide open as if staring at something distance. He was as still as a doll, breathless, motionless.
There is a hole on my bedroom wall, just above the mattress.
It is jagged, as if someone took a knife to it before I came to live here, but still it fits my thumb near-perfectly.
Imagine for a moment that I wasn’t sitting in my bedroom typing this up; then maybe I’d find the inspiration to talk about more than a thumb-shaped metaphor.
Or is the right word analogy? Allusion?
Too plain to be imagery, to vague to be narrative or refrain.
Then maybe I should go with too pretentious to be anything but an elegy.
The statue stood, ominous and beautiful. Her nose had long since been chipped away — by winds or daring vandals, it wasn’t clear. She held a club in her outstretched fist and fire in her eyes. She was a figure of revolution, a call for justice at any costs. And she terrified the men who walked by her.
maybe, he thinks blearily, maybe she should be a statue.
and he’s not trying to be selfish, or maybe he is, but it’s true. for everyone’s pleasure, of course – to touch, to look at. she should be carved out of marble, from the curve of her lips to the dip of her waist and to the curl of her toes. maybe he should paint her, delicately and deliberately, with the deepest blues and the sharpest reds and the brightest yellows and hide her behind one of those big DO NOT TOUCH signs, for himself.
big
stuff
Greek
roman
culture
lots
impressive
marble
copper
liberty
again
ok
well
there
was
this
one
time
i
took
this
test
then
they
made
me
do
it
again
fuck
i
messed
up
again
and
have
to
wait
i guess
but
She flipped her hair as she walked through the famous parks of New York, admiring the beauty of the such carefully structured statues, admiring the intricate detail, smiling to herself, feeling blessed to have such a memorable experience.
the statue is all I have left of her. It’s cold, and lonely, and overall unimpressive as statues can go. It doesn’t even look like her. It doesn’t have her warmth, or her smile, or the gentle caress of her fingers through my hair during a particularly bad nightmare. god knows whoever chose it was off his rocker that day because that statue, without a doubt, bears no resemblance to the woman my mother used to be.
The statue stood at the corner of the small courtyard. It was a reminder — a reminder of the war of the past. The plaque spoke of things such as “glory” and “honor.” But anyone who knew the truth about what had happened in that war knew that those words had nothing to do with that war.
Her statue was long ale an. She had the perfect body. She stood there at the entrance of the bay tall lean and beautiful. Everyone was taking pictures of her.
Audrey, who was not overly enamoured of anyone but her self, was particularly not fond of Esme, ever since the incident two summers ago when, baffled by the disappearance of her prized lawn statue, a 4 foot replica of Venus On The Half Shell which she had proudly wrought from scrap tin, sea glass and a tin cast of her own face during of a 6 month course in Recycling Art, she then found in its stead a peeling plaster effigy of Betty Boop,naked in a blonde wig, its roots painted grey, rubber snakes woven through its synthetic locks glued onto a small worn blue shag rug with a sign marked Medusa on The Bathmat: a seeming dig at her obsessive need for bi daily showers.
the grey statue started to move. and as it did it gained colour and life. it became yellow, green, red, white. it started shining and beeing bright. It felt good to be alive! Because colours are cool!
They stood as still as statues, letting the rain sink into their skulls. Their bodies were pierced to high heaven, and water filled up all their holes. They gurgled and they choked on Mother Nature’s weepy deluge. By the time the storm finally broke, they were submerged in Atlantis’s blue. And there, they were really statues, all bone and fossilized, awaiting a scuba diver’s gaze or a scientist’s curious eyes.
The statue was sitting there looking forlornly at the sky through the window. The face was still, and the trees were being whipped around by the wind, knocking on the windowpane. The last rays of sunlight hid behind the mountain, and the statue blinked his eyes, opened his mouth and screamed.
She froze, stood in the middle of the street like a statue on a Wednesday afternoon, not moving a single inch. The cars were honking and people were yelling. Passersby were looking at her weirdly, what is she doing, they thought, she is going to get killed.
She stared at the scene in front of her, trying to take it in. The town is huge and yet she saw them, right here and right now on Martin Street. Her boyfriend of 2 years was kissing some other girl.
<3
the statue saw everything, as people walked past he saw their faces. And how the walked. He new all their secrets, and if only his mouth could move he would tell the world. He was over whelmed with all the power he had, and could do nothing with it. He longed to be alive again, more than anything in the world he would love to walk again
the statue saw everything, as people walked past he saw their faces. And how the walked. He new all their secrets, and if only his mouth could move he would tell the world. He was over whelmed with all the power he had, and could do nothing with it.
the statue missed being alive, so when ever no one was looking it would try to run away. but, the statue only had a few seconds to get away before someone would look at him. Then he would have to stop moving. so after a while he just decided to stay where he was. Because there was no hope
The staue stood atop the building watching the people below go about their daily lives. He had been up on the roof for 200 years.
The statue sat in the center of courtyard; cold, glaring out over the walkway. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember; erected in a time where permanence was important. It was put up to honor someone that had died at sometime, but now it was nothing more than a pigeon perch. It’s importance had dwindled as the seconds passed and at this point everyone was just used to it.
Suddenly I was a statue, unable to move myself to write.
It was a tough job to stay awake in heat and rains. Yet I did it. I was too ashamed to keep standing in front of all the girls and boys. They kept kissing and never were aware of my existence.
She looked at the statue with out most disgust. She hated it when people made replicas of other people who were already dead. What use was it any way? It’s not like they’d magically come to life or something. Sure it was for remembrance but in this world and age, who actually stopped to remember who that person was?
Doyle peeled the plastic cover off the box and examined his new toy. At a glance, it looked like an expensive pen, and the lower half even functioned as one to maintain the illusion, but its real purpose was in the upper portion; the insignia in the clip served as camouflage for a minute camera, with electronics behind it to store up to thirty minutes of video. He had no idea who the body floating in that pool had been, and even if it was really the Puppeteer or not but it was clear that whoever had been using him now had no further use for him, and was shutting him out. At least the fact that they seemed to be trying to make him the scapegoat for all or part of it meant that they were not aiming to kill him; not yet, anyway. The only thing he knew was that he needed to know a lot more, and when it came time to do “show and tell”, concrete proof of someone else’s guilt would be central to evincing his own innocence. Another device he had bought had been a prepaid cellphone, one that could not be followed, or traced to him. His first call was to an old friend, who really HAD been in the Secret Service, but who now did favours” for people like Doyle. “Matt! It’s Cousin Vinnie! Meet me at the statue of your mother at two o’ clock!” – he smiled at their shared joke; there aren’t many statues of women in D.C., so when the subject of one of them shares your mother’s name, people are going to remember it!
For what traveling was worth, there was nothing more I had in mind rather than to remain sullen, insulant, completely competent towards something that would not speak; something that could not communicate with what was breathing, living, ALIVE. As I turned and looked to the skies, looked to the statue, I pondered, if but only for a moment, what lied beyond the memories of what once graced the marble that carved the wings of what was supposed to be an angel. I never thought that the fragility of my own demise would be pioneered upon something that was only bound to break and shatter.
At first I thought of the statue of liberty, but now all I’m thinking about are the statues in Princeton and how you’re supposed to go to the art museum for your summer project. I hate it because I know that we were supposed to do that together. I hate that you’ve moved on so quickly and I’m by myself and I hate how sweet you were when we were together and now you’re over me and it’s been less than a month.
La statue de la liberté est un monument contemporain puritain, qui accueille chaque année plusieurs millions de pigeons. Ces pigeons, venant parfois d’extrêmement loin, y trouvent repos, calme et superbe vue sur la grande pomme.
It was a brilliantly shining statue with an erect posture and an overwhelming presence. It had although rusted since its establishment in 1960.
statue is astill i thought he was looking at me He cwas wearing an armoir suit . i think he wasa statue of a brave ruler he was a statue to admire He had shin ing eyes WHEN I TOUCH HIM I thoughjt he had screamed
a statue is aperson standing still tit is usually placed at a public place .PEOPLE admire the statue
I’m not the best.
I’m not the best when it comes to love especially; while other people seem to fall in love and get their hearts broken time and time again, I feel like an unmoving statue.
Nothing I do seems to really change. I’m stuck in a tedious cycle where I’m going through the motions of flirting and falling for somebody and while, for them, the feeling is real, I’m on the other side desperately waiting for something to happen. For my heart to be moved with passion. But I’ve got the same amount of passion as a rock.
The statue was cold to the touch. Until last week, it was stored in the very dark corner of the storeroom. No one dared to approach it, no one dared to disturb it in its deep slumber. This morning, for some reason, it appeared in the entrance of the school, as if to guard an important object stored in the depths of the school.
‘Maybe it was a prank,’ I thought, but who would have gone though the trouble and dragged the cumbersome statue out of its station and place it in front of the school. And one top of which, there were no traces no metal found on the floor. The plate supporting the statue was also missing.
There’s no way it would move on its own.
As if ghosts actually exist in this world, moreover, a statue. I look out the window to observe the statue from the second floor. The intense heat seems to be melting it down into a metal green liquid.
A pair of eyes are staring at me.
My eyes widen.
It’s staring at me.
I stood as still as a statue as I observed the blood trickling down the stairs. His head hanged in mid air, eyes wide open as if staring at something distance. He was as still as a doll, breathless, motionless.
There is a hole on my bedroom wall, just above the mattress.
It is jagged, as if someone took a knife to it before I came to live here, but still it fits my thumb near-perfectly.
Imagine for a moment that I wasn’t sitting in my bedroom typing this up; then maybe I’d find the inspiration to talk about more than a thumb-shaped metaphor.
Or is the right word analogy? Allusion?
Too plain to be imagery, to vague to be narrative or refrain.
Then maybe I should go with too pretentious to be anything but an elegy.
The statue stood, ominous and beautiful. Her nose had long since been chipped away — by winds or daring vandals, it wasn’t clear. She held a club in her outstretched fist and fire in her eyes. She was a figure of revolution, a call for justice at any costs. And she terrified the men who walked by her.
maybe, he thinks blearily, maybe she should be a statue.
and he’s not trying to be selfish, or maybe he is, but it’s true. for everyone’s pleasure, of course – to touch, to look at. she should be carved out of marble, from the curve of her lips to the dip of her waist and to the curl of her toes. maybe he should paint her, delicately and deliberately, with the deepest blues and the sharpest reds and the brightest yellows and hide her behind one of those big DO NOT TOUCH signs, for himself.
maybe he is quite selfish.
big
stuff
Greek
roman
culture
lots
impressive
marble
copper
liberty
again
ok
well
there
was
this
one
time
i
took
this
test
then
they
made
me
do
it
again
fuck
i
messed
up
again
and
have
to
wait
i guess
but
She flipped her hair as she walked through the famous parks of New York, admiring the beauty of the such carefully structured statues, admiring the intricate detail, smiling to herself, feeling blessed to have such a memorable experience.
different thunder
the statue is all I have left of her. It’s cold, and lonely, and overall unimpressive as statues can go. It doesn’t even look like her. It doesn’t have her warmth, or her smile, or the gentle caress of her fingers through my hair during a particularly bad nightmare. god knows whoever chose it was off his rocker that day because that statue, without a doubt, bears no resemblance to the woman my mother used to be.
The statue stood at the corner of the small courtyard. It was a reminder — a reminder of the war of the past. The plaque spoke of things such as “glory” and “honor.” But anyone who knew the truth about what had happened in that war knew that those words had nothing to do with that war.
why did the light?
Her statue was long ale an. She had the perfect body. She stood there at the entrance of the bay tall lean and beautiful. Everyone was taking pictures of her.
ideas?
Audrey, who was not overly enamoured of anyone but her self, was particularly not fond of Esme, ever since the incident two summers ago when, baffled by the disappearance of her prized lawn statue, a 4 foot replica of Venus On The Half Shell which she had proudly wrought from scrap tin, sea glass and a tin cast of her own face during of a 6 month course in Recycling Art, she then found in its stead a peeling plaster effigy of Betty Boop,naked in a blonde wig, its roots painted grey, rubber snakes woven through its synthetic locks glued onto a small worn blue shag rug with a sign marked Medusa on The Bathmat: a seeming dig at her obsessive need for bi daily showers.
1statue = serving the attributions to ubicquify enclosive
Statues and History walk together. They can register our moments and preserv them to future generations.
It remembers me something or someone umoved, soulless, but also something artistic, such as a monument.
The statue was magnificent in the rising sun. Mist floating about it, with the sun kissing its marble crown. Take a breath and contemplate.
metallic cascading relating
mystery of majesty
gliding sky billowing
clouds pondering
statue state display
torch lit memories
of another day.
the grey statue started to move. and as it did it gained colour and life. it became yellow, green, red, white. it started shining and beeing bright. It felt good to be alive! Because colours are cool!
They stood as still as statues, letting the rain sink into their skulls. Their bodies were pierced to high heaven, and water filled up all their holes. They gurgled and they choked on Mother Nature’s weepy deluge. By the time the storm finally broke, they were submerged in Atlantis’s blue. And there, they were really statues, all bone and fossilized, awaiting a scuba diver’s gaze or a scientist’s curious eyes.
The statue was sitting there looking forlornly at the sky through the window. The face was still, and the trees were being whipped around by the wind, knocking on the windowpane. The last rays of sunlight hid behind the mountain, and the statue blinked his eyes, opened his mouth and screamed.