There are nights of the soul when we humans can feel ourselves so lost, so lost and unsure, uncertain of anything, that only witnessing one of our fellow apes — for the one millionth time — do something absolutely stupid, only witnessing that is enough to reassure us somethings are certain in our world.
Marysa Storm, author of “The Four Stages of Poetry” is celebrating having reached 500 followers with a writing contest! THE PRIZES ARE AWESOME! Check them out!
Hello, hello, hello!
If you’ve just joined, welcome, and I hope you enjoy your stay. If you’ve been around, trust me, I recognize you with every like or comment, and I’m glad you’ve decided to stick around.
I’m happy to say, I’ve reached 500 of you (insanity)
Upon reaching such a goal I never saw myself reaching, I’ve decided to hold a writing contest. Submit your poem, prose, or short story to be featured on this blog, an author copy of my book, The Four Stages of Poetry and a chance to co-write with me, if you desire to do so.
In order to be eligible for this contest, you must like this post, and comment to let me know you have decided to participate (This allows me to check and make sure your submission is not lost in spam, etc). Everyone is welcome, and encouraged to participate.
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(About a 2 minute read)
How fast can small town gossip travel? Pick out which, if any, of these three stories is pure fiction.
(1) “Headed Our Way”
One sunny summer morning when I was nine or ten years old, I spent about an hour playing in my favorite creek. Around eleven o’clock, I decided to bike over to Mom’s office for some reason I’ve forgotten now. The trip took me about 20 minutes. As I walked in the door, Phyllis, Mom’s secretary, greeted me, “Oh hi, Paul! We’ve been expecting you. We heard you were headed our way. How was the creek today?”
(2) Cherry Pie
I called Mom on Thursday to let her know I’d be home from university for the weekend. Friday afternoon I got into town and headed straight for the bank to get a few dollars for the tavern later on in the evening. “Welcome back for the weekend!” The teller said. She was new, I only knew her by face from having seen her around town, and not by name. “Have you been home yet, Paul? Your mom has set out a cherry pie for you on the counter next to your kitchen sink. It’s all yours, but it would be sweet if you saved a slice for your mother, don’t you think?”
(3) Coasting Through a Stop Sign
My friend, Mark, was returning home at five in the morning from a party in the city. In a small town five miles down the road from ours, he decided to roll through a stop sign because he couldn’t see any traffic on the road.
The town’s only police officer on duty was bored as usual, so he decided to use the excuse of violating a stop sign to pull Mark over and ask him how he was doing in university. Mark got home about thirty minutes later and managed to sneak into bed without waking his parents.
Almost at eight sharp his mother shook him awake. “Mark! How dare you sneak in without waking me to say you’re home and safe! And what on earth possessed you to coast through a stop sign this morning? You could have easily run into some farmer on his way to breakfast at the Bobcat Diner!”
(All three stories are true.)
(About a 4 minute read)
I can still recall how surprised most of us were back in 1974 when someone pinned a semi-nude Polaroid photograph of Vicki on the high school announcements board in the hallway by the principal’s office.
Of course, it was only up for a few minutes before one of the teachers noticed it. Up just long enough for me to pass by, glance at it, and — this may surprise you — fail to realize it was a photo of a semi-nude girl!
Is there any way to determine the existence of a supernatural reality?
Is love teachable? Can we be taught to love? Or to love better and truer?
Given the sheer number of things in this universe to be interested in, how is it possible that we can ever be bored? What causes boredom?