will be 9 different rooms in my dream house all of which are created for enjoyment. One of the rooms will be a movie room as big as the actual movie theater. It will have speakers to the side of the television rows of red chairs in front of the screen and an armrest between ever chair. There will even be a little 3D glasses booth in the back of the room. Another example of a large room will be the game room. It’s going to be so big it would contain dozens of games, a Play station, Wii, and a X box all
announcements, the students read, “Today is March 24, 2016 and the season is spring,” in unison. There is a TV sitting on a shelf. They use this TV for the morning announcements and to display a clock during the day. In this corner there is a library and rocking chairs for the students to sit in. Then there are three tall shelves where there are several blocks and worksheets for children to work on their math. In front of this, there are two small size tables with plastic letters in a container set up on these
stroller on the porch. Karson, my sixteen month old, was pulling on the gate, Gage and Austin both there, were sitting on the top of a container and were pretending to cook me some lunch. Brayden, the other three year old was sitting in one of the rocking chairs. As I looked down at my paper and then looked up again it was as if the whole scene was changed in an instant. Karson had ventured off to the rails on the porch and had managed to stick his head through them, turn his head to the side...
sleep at night. The other half has a prescription. "I want to change," you cry halfway through what had been a restful night. You've decided to kick the theme-writing habit. "How do I do it?" you ask the faithful rocking chair that you sat in as a child. Incidentally, if the chair answers, you're problems will be addressed in another paper. However, getting back to the task at hand, you can probably deduce that this theme writing vice will be hard to conquer. You get by for a quarter, or semester
up to the door and knocked anyway. The door creaked open to reveal an old man sitting in a rocking chair by a fireplace. Above the fire was a black cauldron. He didn't seem to notice that Jack had entered. The old man just sat there rocking back and forth. Jack cleared his throat to sort of announce his presence. The old man turned around and told Jack to come in and sit down. He went over and sat in a chair also near the fire. They both sat in silence for a while. Then the old man took a bright blue
Someone else was watching. Ida Thuga stood in one spot while rocking back and forth on her heels. Thumbs were tucked behind her belt, she pushed down to revealed a stretch of bare stomach that neither shirt covered. Ms Thuga continued to make the rounds, appearing finally at the table of the risk taker. Her fingers closed on the back of an empty chair. “You're working up to something,” she said. “I haven’t the nerve, really,” he responded, “but when I need the stuff I have to stretch a little … have
woman, Mrs.Mallard has lost her husband in a railroad disaster. Due to her sick heart it was difficult for her sister, Josephine who has given her the news. After crying in her sister's arms Mrs. Mellard went to her room sitting comfortably in her arm chair exhausted with an open window. The scenery was nice with blowing winds,blue clouds peaking from a storm and song birds singing. While being alone she said over and over that she was free. She never said from what but her heart beating faster and she
fill one corner of the building’s long hallway. Often, students sit on the chairs that line the walls while waiting for a class to start, but for now the hallway is nearly empty and waiting for the ambush of students. Outside the classroom, a number plaque reading one-hundred and seventy is sitting on the wall framed in blue. Another door nearby opens and the wind rustles the papers of the notebook that sits on a chair. Three people stroll casually out of the room and walk on the one foot by one
There comes a point in a marriage where you simply run out of things to say. “What’s the time, Maureen, love? ‘Am getting peckish.” Gordon MacLeish hated his wife. He really could not think of a more repulsive person than his own goddamned wife. Maureen was slouched on the beige, faux leather, sofa; her sausage like fingers, with nails encrusted with what Gordon could only think to be crumbs of the chocolate muffin she had eaten earlier, picking at the corner of the flaking cushion beneath her.
A week ago I almost gave up again. Saturday was spent on my in-law’s porch with a coffee and Baileys stewing over my frustration in losing my 14th scholarship contest. I sat out there, posing myself like an author; leaning on the arm of the chair with my chin rested on curled fingers, holding my pen like a cigarette, hoping to channel King or Orwell. I started this project, writing scholarship essays, at the beginning of the year honestly believing if I just wrote enough essays statistically I would