Hands Like Houses: A Short Story

I have come a very long way; the four years since I started have only progressed with intensity and involvement with music. I know the next years of my life will only be more intense and more involved with music, and I hope that it can become a career one day. Music has allowed me to express myself during my happy moments, my teenage angst, my depression, my heartbreaks, and it has always gotten stronger, and it carries me with it. I cannot wait to see what music I’m creating in five, ten, or fifteen years. One day, I’ll look back to the songs I have finished in my younger days, and I will be reminded of my high school years, and what I was going through during those times, because, to me, music is

Dwelling about my own feelings led the direction of frustration and anger as I grew older, feeling for anybody’s feelings or situations, almost non-existent; don’t miss-understand, I had marvelous times and a caring person to an extent. Growing slowly into a person whose true character lived in a cage, confined to prison and when released, it was madness, not intending to only injure, I wanted to see blood, tasting this flavor in my mouth before a confrontation. Choosing who I wanted to associate with and if others left me alone there was no problem, although, at the end of the sixth grade the nestling soul fell asleep. There was a boy in school that began tormenting me every day walking home; undesirable name calling. Eventually deciding to

As he was approaching Officer Hawkins, Mr. Pugh was on his stomach with Officer Hawkins behind him and an older male, now known to be Phillip Stoughton, standing behind them both trying to pull on Mr. Pugh's legs. At the moment he did not know if Mr. Stoughton was attempting to help Officer Hawkins or hinder the arrest of Mr. Pugh. Officer Francis watched Mr. Pugh push up onto his hands and knees with Officer Hawkins behind him trying to gain control of his arms. Mr. Stoughton had backed away from Officer Hawkins and Mr. Pugh as Officer Francis ran to aide Officer Hawkins. Officer Francis stated he yelled "stop resisting," twice and witnessed Mr. Pugh throwing his elbows toward Officer Hawkins' head in an attempt to strike him. To prevent an assault on Officer Hawkins, Officer Francis knew he had to quickly subdue Mr. Pugh. Officer Francis stated Officer Hawkins was holding on tightly to Mr. Pugh’s back, while Mr. Pugh thrashed his head back and forth throwing his elbows toward Officer Hawkins. Officer Francis thought the use of mace may miss Mr. Pugh’s

Jack nudged Tricker's arm. "You want her to do something? Well how about this?" Jack stood up and turned toward the blonde girl. She looked at him, her eyes kind of mean. "Hey slut, how'd you like to suck some fresh cock!" Jack yelled at her. The blonde looked shocked.

Under the Rug One night Alan Johnson was sitting in his bright yellow banana chair. He looked over and noticed a big lump in the carpet. Alan, in his tall and skinny body, stood up and stomped all over the rug. He thought to himself, “what could this be?” Every time Alan stepped on the object it would bounce his foot away.

Despite its messages in regard to religion, faith, and God which have touched many people, The Shack by William P. Young has been denounced by many conservative Christian critics and writers, some who have gone so far as to call the book “heresy” (Woodbridge 77). Thus, there is apparently a difference between how general readers read and interpret the content of this book and how conservative Christian readers look at it. The divergence of viewpoint on The Shack represents an interesting matter as such a conflict might be seen as negatively affecting the popularity of this book, but that has not been the case. Analysis of The Shack will focus on the the two different reactions to this book, positive by many personal readers but negative by conservative Christian readers.

George Hand sits on his couch struggling to load his only bullet into his revolver. He is frustrated and his body, wet with sweat. His hands were shaking making it difficult to guide the bullet into the chamber, but he finally succeeds. He closes and spins the barrel, and listens just like he'd seen on TV. He was ready now, for a solo game of Russian Roulette. He pressed the barrel against his temple, tipped his head forward and squeezed his eyes shut, his hands still shaking uncontrollably as tears race away from the well in his eyes. ‟Come on George, just do it,” he shouts to no one else in the room. He lowers the gun to his lap and takes a deep breath. He wipes away the tears with his forearm and says, ‟Relax...” He reaches for his bottle

My introversion during freshman year, one of the most turbulent tenures in my life, left me devoid of a sense of self. Fortunately, a fledgling interest in music filled this void. The first record found in my Spotify library, dating back to the beginning of freshman year, is an album by the Queens Of The Stone Age entitled “Songs For The Deaf.” However, analogous to the foundation of my identity, the foundation of my musical taste was not found there; it was instead found in the suite of styles I experimented with during this period.

I want to preface the following with the acknowledgment I still consider you my friend despite everything that has happened and I hope that we can reach some form of reconciliation once the issues at hand have been meaningfully addressed.

A miniature, developing hand, pristine in condition transforms into a full-grown, wrinkle filled hand; writing the story of our life as we continue to experience it. Every hand begins in a similar way, holding our mother and father tightly as we depend on them to support our weight in only their two arms or hip. Then soon, squeezing our guardian’s hand with all our might as we take our first steps across our home. My non-dominant hand tells a lifelong story with every wrinkle, freckle, dark spot, and scar. Each of our imperfections makes us who we are. People around the world under appreciate the miraculous uses our non-dominant hand has to offer, and do not realize the necessities and benefits it provides us in our everyday lives. In the past, I neglected the wondrous uses my non-dominant hand had to offer, but as I began to reflect on past experiences, I realized the amazing actions it had already done for me and what it will soon face in the future. My left hand represents my whole life and the entirety of events I have experienced. My hand will forever continue to tell a story.

POP! The sound of the baseball being thrown into my brand new shiny nice and stiff glove ( me and my dad were playing catch in the back yard). “Hey this time the ball stayed in the glove.”my dad panted. “Ya I guess but the glove is still impossible to close.” I replied. “It takes awhile to break in a glove.” my dad told me. “Well I don't want to take awhile I want it broken in now!” I whined. After that the scene of my backyard was rather quiet I don't know why but I think it was because I whined at my dad and I kind of felt bad. All of the sudden the silence was broken form a large POP!

[0:00] I just got inside from a walk through the dark streets of Philly. I'm sitting here, listening to music; the sort of music that bends your mind and intertwines your good and bad thoughts. Reality becomes a blur, nothing really makes sense. The past, present, and future coexist. I'm reminisicing on all the good times I had with my friends. Most noteably all the times when we would hang out on our hidden, almost private peninsula that overlooked the entire horizon. I wish I could go back to those times, when everything was less complicated. Back to the times when certain people were still in my life, back to the times before I fucked up. Simply put I'll never see some people again. Some of those who are in a better and more caring place

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. To his horror, he saw Knuckles. Knuckle was built on has a new type of space shuttle and it was ready for launch so he boarded the shuttle to fly over the city and before he could he zapped me with his laze gun. Throughout, this long journey there had been tons of problems to the calculations of launch all the way to the bathroom problem at large. Four days till the destruction on this giant city and the crew of the shuttle had begun a boarding shuttle to the ground.

It all started when we just bought our new house. “MOM! Where is my desk for my room” asked Rome. “Alice said she saw it in the kitchen” exclaimed Brook (Mom). When Rome went into the kitchen whining over to her desk, she grabbed it and started pulling…”what the heck” yelled Rome, her desked wasn't moving it was as if something wasn't letting it bugde. Rome was getting mad and impatient, so she yanked the desk, and it got throw across the room. “AHHHHH” screamed Rome, as she ran away to her mother. “MOM...MOM” said Rome, “what sweety” said brook, “Something is in this house with us!” said Rome. Brook with a very worried look on her face remembering the old owner saying “Beware the spirit, treat with harm it gives harm, treat with kind, it is kind.” Brook

I’m telling you, having a musical friend isn’t easy. It has its ups and downs, though, in my humble opinion, more of the latter than even notes in The Devil’s Trill Sonata. Trust me, Tartini might have dreamt the devil wanted his soul, but I feel I have met him in person. He didn’t seem that bad a guy, at first, when I met him the summer of 1994. I was listening to Nirvana on my walkman that day, as I jogged through the park, my daily routine to stay in shape (in a thinner shape than a circle, I hoped). I remember I had run for a long time, almost an hour without sprinting and my tank top was drenched with athletic perspiration that accumulated over the excruciating run. I was about to slow down to cool off when this guy, maybe a couple years older than me, was running right at me as he shouted over his shoulder at an invisible force behind him. His chin length hair flew behind him as he darted toward me, and I realized his shouts weren’t in English, but in another nameless language I might have known if I stayed in school longer than sophomore year in high school. I called out in warning, but by the time he looked up, it was too late. The last thing I saw were his widened dark eyes as he toppled over me, sending us both to the ground. He held his arms out to break our fall, but that didn’t work much for me; I fell on my shoulder to protect my head and neck, probably cutting it badly with the cement. The guy got up, a bewildered expression on his countenance, looked behind