What are stories? Stories are everything we are, have been, or ever hope to be. It’s what we tell our children, our friends, ourselves. They’re all our hopes, fears, ideas. Everything.
I’ve always been a big fan of stories, both writing and telling. I don’t want to become rich off of it really. I just want to be able to get all of my imagined places and characters on paper. I want to tell their stories, their fantasies, their dreams, wishes… and their horrors, their fears, their nightmares, their peeves… What they love and hate the most.
Stories require work. They also require detail. In stories, a lesson must be learned. An event unpacked and uncovered. Stories are important. They tie loose ends.
The stories he told were ones that had us awed, watching the flames dance across his face at night. They were stories of the world before the plague, stories were people were happy and were able to travel and see many beautiful things.
Oh, she had so many stories. She could fill up your whole afternoon with tale after tale about the adventures that she had with John. But I never listened. She deserved to be listened to.
Stories tell things that can be expressed in things like Dance, Song art and especially writing. Its something that explains or touches or even inspires people to be better than they are. They get things from this with just one ‘story’ Its amazing. Truly amazing.
There are a million stories in the world but only a few make it to a large audience. It is easy to write a story but not easy to make it something other wish to read. If your lucky someone may just love it.;
stories. pages. ink. that’s what they think of when you say stories. but you think columns of a throat. you think eyes that are always justthere. you think you. when they say stories.
Stories are like the memories that you have never known, it fills your hope’s and desire’s like no others have before, stories are the things you write when you are sad and lonley.
Flashbacks or abstract ideas pulled from the recesses of our minds.
The reflection of our thoughts and fantasies, a swirl of memories forming a coherent stream of words.
stories or tales are the way in which we teach children. We teach them how to live their lives, what to value and what not to do. Stories are beautiful and educational and should always be encouraged. In stories we see the majesty in the world that we strive for and should never give up on.
Stories last through out the ages. They travel through time and are told all across the world. Stories make us who we are. It was stories, that created the monster
I was never told stories growing up, I feel like that may be why I am such a bad story teller. Ghost stories, fairy tales, any kind-even retelling the event of the day, Ive never been able to do it. I feel like the more I try, the better i will get, but perhaps I should try a different approach and tell stories in my head, then relay them.
We all have stories. Long and short, dramatic and uneventful. My story? My story is one of risk, of adventure, of abuse, use, and destruction. I have been beaten in every way possible, attacked verbally and thrown down a flight of stairs. I have lived in the dump and in luxury. I have been high and low. I have been in love and out of it. I have hated people only to love them more than life itself. I have wished for my story to end and have planned out a long, long life. Half of my story isn’t even true to you. Just truths inside of my head, an imagination beyond repair or reproach.
There is one chapter of this story, the horrifically sad/happy tale that it is, that needs yet to be written. The chapter of new beginnings, of new starts. Of really getting out there and jumping over the mountains of my mind. The chapter of you and how you will change everything about this story.
Things that give people a chance to redeem themselves or avoid real-life cathartic situations. Also things that they recount for amusement. Really, stories are a way to communicate to other people life’s truths in the form of experiences. I love stories, and in a certain way, everyone is a story teller. Except mutes. But they do it differently. They use gesture/drawing based verbiage to communicate their lives, which is interesting because most people aren’t mutes. Also what does a mute think about the mute button on the microphone? It’s like a special button that refers to them…
Here’s the thing about war stories: they’re stories. There is no one truth to war. I can tell you about the little girl whose face lit up every time we walked by; she would bring us tea, and thank us in broken English for keeping her safe. I can tell you about the pregnant woman we shot with a .50 cal; she didn’t stop when we told her to, and we didn’t want to find out what would happen if she got too close.
Stories can mean anything. From the beginning of history of man, to this very moment. All of history, and thus the story of human beings can be explained. Stories transcend time.
There are hundreds, thousands, millions of stories, just in me. And in you, and in everyone. Imagine if everyone wrote. We wouldn’t be able to walk for books, books lining every wall. Wouldn’t it be grand?
there are many kinds of stories…the ones that make your life richer, the ones that can instantaneously make you sad and pleading for more. How can one be sad and plead for more? When that sadness is so pervasive that it makes you feel richer just for the feeling of it.
She had stories, and boy, was she good at telling them. Her voice rang with each word and the children at her feet absorbed and loved it. It had a honey like texture that gave you the same pleasureful feeling as a cat rubbing up against your leg. The kids would get lost in the story and they were no longer sitting on a blue carpet. They were in a place like no other.
Stories of wild and passionate whims –
of sweet and melodic musings,
profound dreams, omens and ghost stories.
Stories of travels, and moonlight, and the wooded mountains…
I have stories of lovers, of passionate kisses shared –
and the stories of my undoing would take a life time to write.
The stories I hold in my womb are holy, unspoken and wise.
Those of my girlhood are hidden, evocative and precious,
but the ones I have not yet lived are the ones I most long to tell.
Stories hold the key to our daily intent to be immoral and immortal. Stories carry us where we intended to go before we started working so seriously on it.
stories or tales are sweet combination of wrds and sentences that explores different emotions hidden in a soul.taking us to the mythical and adventurous rides of different ppl and lives.
Many many stories fill my head.
Sometimes, they’re about who I want to be.
sometimes, they’re about who i was.
other times they’re about who I’m becoming – or wish I could become.
Many of my stories have a girl. A pretty one.
she doesn’t have a name. That’s silly.
So many stories. What’s yours? What’s mine?
Better make it one worth listening to.
I want my story to be told; to grow old; so old it’s almost a fairy tale.
An adventure so great, the old and wise will share it with their children as they drift off to sleep.
People come and tell me stories. Or sometimes I tell them stories. The main thing is that I sit on one side of the table and they’ll sit on the other and for a few minutes you just tell a story. Sometimes it’s funny, sometime’s it’s sad. They’re usually true, but I suspect the lies tell you even more.
I’ve heard plenty of stories. Tales of old spun from spinster’s thread, the daily comings and goings spat out like the stale ale of cheap bars, stories of woe and lost love, cried out by those poor enough to have nothing else to lament….I’ve heard it all.
I didn’t know how to get the stories out of my head or how to get them back in so I made up my mind and they theirs to stop hiding from one another and drive along in silence or with the radio blaring and only stop for pie and ice cream.
there are many stories to be told and many ears to hear and the words the dribble drabble out the mouth might not become aware of their existance until they are bubbled up and gurgled out the brain of the listener the old young young old and the children of the children who forgot to remember the story.
“You seem frightened,”sh observed.
“Not frightened, really,” she said slowly, as though making the decision. “But…curious,”
“Oh?” she said, raising a single brow in surprise. “What about?”
“There are stories, your ladyship. About what happens in your empire, in your palace,”
She smiled, her lips curling back in a sinister fashion. “What EXACTLY do they say?”
she sat silently
as the words barely came
her naked body
flesh pressed undressed
as we smoked cigarettes
oh, the stories we could tell
our children;
those who will most likely never exist
they who are stories themselves
wrapped up in books
a fiction of a love affair
semi-autobiographical nonsense
with a confusing ending.
Every person comes with her own stories, even if she herself cannot see this.
All efforts at communication are an attempt to delve deeper into the stories of others
for by listening and understanding, we learn about ourselves.
Stories are important. They explain, they inform, they pass traditions, and more importantly, they allow us to learn. Stories are embedded in the past, therefore our mistakes become legend.
What are stories? Stories are everything we are, have been, or ever hope to be. It’s what we tell our children, our friends, ourselves. They’re all our hopes, fears, ideas. Everything.
I’ve always been a big fan of stories, both writing and telling. I don’t want to become rich off of it really. I just want to be able to get all of my imagined places and characters on paper. I want to tell their stories, their fantasies, their dreams, wishes… and their horrors, their fears, their nightmares, their peeves… What they love and hate the most.
Stories require work. They also require detail. In stories, a lesson must be learned. An event unpacked and uncovered. Stories are important. They tie loose ends.
The stories he told were ones that had us awed, watching the flames dance across his face at night. They were stories of the world before the plague, stories were people were happy and were able to travel and see many beautiful things.
Oh, she had so many stories. She could fill up your whole afternoon with tale after tale about the adventures that she had with John. But I never listened. She deserved to be listened to.
This girl she paints a lovely picture; you see. But this story has a twist. The paint brush a razor and the canvas is her wrist.
Stories tell things that can be expressed in things like Dance, Song art and especially writing. Its something that explains or touches or even inspires people to be better than they are. They get things from this with just one ‘story’ Its amazing. Truly amazing.
There are a million stories in the world but only a few make it to a large audience. It is easy to write a story but not easy to make it something other wish to read. If your lucky someone may just love it.;
stories. pages. ink. that’s what they think of when you say stories. but you think columns of a throat. you think eyes that are always justthere. you think you. when they say stories.
Stories. Good stories, sad stories, childhood stories… I want to know them. I want to know your story. Maybe we can even make a few of our own.
Stories are like the memories that you have never known, it fills your hope’s and desire’s like no others have before, stories are the things you write when you are sad and lonley.
Flashbacks or abstract ideas pulled from the recesses of our minds.
The reflection of our thoughts and fantasies, a swirl of memories forming a coherent stream of words.
stories or tales are the way in which we teach children. We teach them how to live their lives, what to value and what not to do. Stories are beautiful and educational and should always be encouraged. In stories we see the majesty in the world that we strive for and should never give up on.
Stories last through out the ages. They travel through time and are told all across the world. Stories make us who we are. It was stories, that created the monster
I was never told stories growing up, I feel like that may be why I am such a bad story teller. Ghost stories, fairy tales, any kind-even retelling the event of the day, Ive never been able to do it. I feel like the more I try, the better i will get, but perhaps I should try a different approach and tell stories in my head, then relay them.
We all have stories. Long and short, dramatic and uneventful. My story? My story is one of risk, of adventure, of abuse, use, and destruction. I have been beaten in every way possible, attacked verbally and thrown down a flight of stairs. I have lived in the dump and in luxury. I have been high and low. I have been in love and out of it. I have hated people only to love them more than life itself. I have wished for my story to end and have planned out a long, long life. Half of my story isn’t even true to you. Just truths inside of my head, an imagination beyond repair or reproach.
There is one chapter of this story, the horrifically sad/happy tale that it is, that needs yet to be written. The chapter of new beginnings, of new starts. Of really getting out there and jumping over the mountains of my mind. The chapter of you and how you will change everything about this story.
Things that give people a chance to redeem themselves or avoid real-life cathartic situations. Also things that they recount for amusement. Really, stories are a way to communicate to other people life’s truths in the form of experiences. I love stories, and in a certain way, everyone is a story teller. Except mutes. But they do it differently. They use gesture/drawing based verbiage to communicate their lives, which is interesting because most people aren’t mutes. Also what does a mute think about the mute button on the microphone? It’s like a special button that refers to them…
Here’s the thing about war stories: they’re stories. There is no one truth to war. I can tell you about the little girl whose face lit up every time we walked by; she would bring us tea, and thank us in broken English for keeping her safe. I can tell you about the pregnant woman we shot with a .50 cal; she didn’t stop when we told her to, and we didn’t want to find out what would happen if she got too close.
Stories can mean anything. From the beginning of history of man, to this very moment. All of history, and thus the story of human beings can be explained. Stories transcend time.
There are hundreds, thousands, millions of stories, just in me. And in you, and in everyone. Imagine if everyone wrote. We wouldn’t be able to walk for books, books lining every wall. Wouldn’t it be grand?
Everyone one of has has his own story that keeps in his mind.. This life is just the sum of all our stories all toget
there are many kinds of stories…the ones that make your life richer, the ones that can instantaneously make you sad and pleading for more. How can one be sad and plead for more? When that sadness is so pervasive that it makes you feel richer just for the feeling of it.
Life is composed of uplifting tales and depressing tragedies. You can’t choose the next chapter, but that’s life, and that’s how you have to live it.
She had stories, and boy, was she good at telling them. Her voice rang with each word and the children at her feet absorbed and loved it. It had a honey like texture that gave you the same pleasureful feeling as a cat rubbing up against your leg. The kids would get lost in the story and they were no longer sitting on a blue carpet. They were in a place like no other.
I have magickal stories yet untold…
Stories of wild and passionate whims –
of sweet and melodic musings,
profound dreams, omens and ghost stories.
Stories of travels, and moonlight, and the wooded mountains…
I have stories of lovers, of passionate kisses shared –
and the stories of my undoing would take a life time to write.
The stories I hold in my womb are holy, unspoken and wise.
Those of my girlhood are hidden, evocative and precious,
but the ones I have not yet lived are the ones I most long to tell.
Stories hold the key to our daily intent to be immoral and immortal. Stories carry us where we intended to go before we started working so seriously on it.
stories or tales are sweet combination of wrds and sentences that explores different emotions hidden in a soul.taking us to the mythical and adventurous rides of different ppl and lives.
Many many stories fill my head.
Sometimes, they’re about who I want to be.
sometimes, they’re about who i was.
other times they’re about who I’m becoming – or wish I could become.
Many of my stories have a girl. A pretty one.
she doesn’t have a name. That’s silly.
So many stories. What’s yours? What’s mine?
Better make it one worth listening to.
I want my story to be told; to grow old; so old it’s almost a fairy tale.
An adventure so great, the old and wise will share it with their children as they drift off to sleep.
People come and tell me stories. Or sometimes I tell them stories. The main thing is that I sit on one side of the table and they’ll sit on the other and for a few minutes you just tell a story. Sometimes it’s funny, sometime’s it’s sad. They’re usually true, but I suspect the lies tell you even more.
I’ve heard plenty of stories. Tales of old spun from spinster’s thread, the daily comings and goings spat out like the stale ale of cheap bars, stories of woe and lost love, cried out by those poor enough to have nothing else to lament….I’ve heard it all.
I didn’t know how to get the stories out of my head or how to get them back in so I made up my mind and they theirs to stop hiding from one another and drive along in silence or with the radio blaring and only stop for pie and ice cream.
there are many stories to be told and many ears to hear and the words the dribble drabble out the mouth might not become aware of their existance until they are bubbled up and gurgled out the brain of the listener the old young young old and the children of the children who forgot to remember the story.
“You seem frightened,”sh observed.
“Not frightened, really,” she said slowly, as though making the decision. “But…curious,”
“Oh?” she said, raising a single brow in surprise. “What about?”
“There are stories, your ladyship. About what happens in your empire, in your palace,”
She smiled, her lips curling back in a sinister fashion. “What EXACTLY do they say?”
Oh god. Is this a test? Stories are vehicles for remembering, which allow us to mature and communicate.
she sat silently
as the words barely came
her naked body
flesh pressed undressed
as we smoked cigarettes
oh, the stories we could tell
our children;
those who will most likely never exist
they who are stories themselves
wrapped up in books
a fiction of a love affair
semi-autobiographical nonsense
with a confusing ending.
Tall buildings. Camp fires. Children’s books. Fingers stained by newsprint. What kind of stories?
Tell me yours.
I’ll listen.
Every person comes with her own stories, even if she herself cannot see this.
All efforts at communication are an attempt to delve deeper into the stories of others
for by listening and understanding, we learn about ourselves.
Stories are important. They explain, they inform, they pass traditions, and more importantly, they allow us to learn. Stories are embedded in the past, therefore our mistakes become legend.