My grandmother and I took a road trip to visit my great aunt in Natchez and I was amazed at all the stories she could make up off the top of her head while we drove for that 3 and a half hour car ride. I thought she was a genius. She was so creative and I was in awe of her. I still am to some extent.
the stories are unbelievable. they won’t stop coming. the odd subjects, the funny lines, the old wrinkled smile that he gives as he tells all his grandkids. his wife is baking, remembering all the memories that had happened, never going to forget
Inside there are stories. They beat, thrum, sometimes scream. They quiver when close to release, and then burst through my fingers and my soul joyfully, sometimes painfully, empties onto the page.
Stories have many endings. Some are happy and some are sad. We all have stories to tell… about our life, friends, family. I know my story will go on because of the impact I make in life. I am glad to share
I love stories. I don’t love them because they’re fun, I love them because they allow me to imagine, or be told of whole new worlds. Worlds that do not, cannot, or should not exist.
I became an author because of that. if it hadn’t been for my love of stories, I wouldn’t be a story teller.
i remember my mom reading me stories when i was a younger girl. just me and her, tucked in the bed withthe dim light of our scented candle plugged into the wall. it was stories about princesses one night, zombies the next. horror, romance, action, drama. i’ve read it all.
I’ve heard stories of the trolls who live down in the basement with all the pipes. They hold court cases for the cockroaches that crawl around down there, shoot bows and arrows, break said bows and arrows and never, never show their faces in the upper world.
i tell stories, about my friends and this crazy summer i had where i got sick and then the doctors pumped me full of steroids and i went crazy and started writing all these stories about my friends and this crazy summer i had where i got sick and then the doctors pumped me full of steroids and i went crazy and started writing all these stories about my friends…
I have many stories I could tell you. I’ve seen the end of worlds and the beginning of life. I travel in a blue box throughout space and time. You could be apart of my future stories. DOCTOR WHO FOR THE WIN.
Stories were the best part about childhood. There is nothing better than sitting on your parents, aunt, uncles, or grandparents laps and reading a good book. My favorite childhood story is “And I Love You”. I got it from my sister when she went to college, it has so much meaning behind it. To this day I still love reading my childhood stories.
There are many stories out in the world. I prefer scary stories and ones that make you scared to go to sleep at night. I don’t know why but I find them fascinating and I love the thrill you get when you open the cover a story you have been dying to read.
When I was young my mom would read stories for me before I would go to bed. Now, since I’m older I’m the one who reads the stories. That’s their favorite thing to do after supper.
“Why do you leave these stories unfinished?” This was his question and it made me think of you. You liked to write and I remember struggling at the craft ever since I was young and realized that I can’t just come up with words like “delusional”, or “phenomenal”, unlike you.
Stories are what the old woman told. She had many, decades worth of gossip and drama. She opened he mouth and the room would fall silent. She never repeated herself, every story was something different.
Wonderful, fanciful tid bits of information. Usually interesting and sometimes a little boring. I like stories. Sometimes I like stories too much and get myself in trouble because I listen to stories I shouldn’t.
Stories are what define us. Is wahat we tell others and that makes us who we are to others. Is what we share to the family. Is ehat we take to the grave.
Firecircles. People sitting with drums, hitting away at a rhythm with their hands. Nearby, chatter and lively stories of peoples experiences fill the air, making it feel like home.
I’ve fainted three times, each time from heat exhaustion; on the cold, bread-scented floor of a bakery; the concrete of acridly disappointing summer parties at school; down the stairs with a bow in my hair. Oh summer, how I squint at thee.
“They’re just stories,” she scoffed, throwing the book down upon the table contemptuously, “they don’t mean anything.”
The corners were dogeared already, the leaves withered and yellowing from age, the letters faded. Countless thumbs had turned these pages, each owned by a narrator of their own secret story. The book could tell more stories than merely the words it contained.
Too many stories to tell, i think. Just to many stories to tell.So many squashed up together in my head. I cant get them out. I want to get them out, but the words won’t come. So they sit there, grumpy and superfluous, and I want to touch them but I don’t dare… So many words. So many stories. So many stories to share…. What do I do in order to keep up?
Stories make up your childhood. Stories of fantasies far far away, with princesses and castles and promises of this one day happening to you. So is it the stories that I blame for being upset about where I am today? Or just myself?
stories are imagination, they come and go. You never know when youare going to get a good idea. Sometimes you’ll like it and sometimes you won either or is okay, stories are about xperimenting
Tell them. Listen to them. Life a life devoted to creating them. Take them with you wherever you go, and share them with whomever will listen. Revel in the nostalgia of them, and take pleasure in the nostalgia of others as they tell. The only thing that lasts
So many stories I see are about people who fall in love without thinking about it or people who fall in love who think too much or love at first sight. I think it’s all bull. All of it. The love stuff, doesn’t happen like it does in stories. It’s real. It’s messy. It’s gross. But people still come back and write about it.
Fakery. You told some fibs. Those stories to avoid shame, regret, and the truth. You tell yourself to make yourself believe you are happy where you are.
“Shut the hell up!” in a swirl of smoke and curlers and a stained, dirty shirt. “Can’t you see that momma’s watching her stories?” And that was his childhood, in a nutshell, slinking back to a corner of the piss-stained carpet, playing with a toilet paper tube, trying to quiet the sniffles and tears that rolled down his face.
Stories. They are the things that the old share with the young to keep their memories alive well after they have left this world. They are the things that mothers and fathers read to their children before bed each night. They are the things that allow a reader to escape life, if only for a moment.
the stories held inside of that tiny body was enough to fill 3 giants. the stories were full, and deep, and detailed. the stories gave you the creeps and inspired you, held you, and threw you to the wind. these were the stories of a lifetime.
Out across the frozen bay lie Little Pine, heavy with trees, smoking houses, sixty-five stories heading towards their own conflagration. Packs were loaded, flecks of snow biting into beards and cheeks. It would take hours to reach the island. And underneath, something peered up through two feet of ice. Something waited in the dark water.
everone can make a story. Our life is a story.What we see, what we dream, what we feel, they form a story. Our story. The story is yous, write it while you can. Your story is yours to tell. Noone else can tell it better than you can. Stories can take us into a different world, or biring us back to cold, hard reality.
My grandmother and I took a road trip to visit my great aunt in Natchez and I was amazed at all the stories she could make up off the top of her head while we drove for that 3 and a half hour car ride. I thought she was a genius. She was so creative and I was in awe of her. I still am to some extent.
stories it is hard to talk about it yet the existence is massive story contains unimaginable amount of smaller stories .
the stories are unbelievable. they won’t stop coming. the odd subjects, the funny lines, the old wrinkled smile that he gives as he tells all his grandkids. his wife is baking, remembering all the memories that had happened, never going to forget
Inside there are stories. They beat, thrum, sometimes scream. They quiver when close to release, and then burst through my fingers and my soul joyfully, sometimes painfully, empties onto the page.
Stories have many endings. Some are happy and some are sad. We all have stories to tell… about our life, friends, family. I know my story will go on because of the impact I make in life. I am glad to share
would you maybe listen
to one or two of my songs?
to my tales of truth
that i wrote in the dead of the night
i have nothing else to share
but the words which
encircle the places
and people i met
they bubble up inside
please, do hear me out
they may not be shiny
what else can i yield
i can’t repay you
anyway else than
giving you these
words of mine.
I love stories. I don’t love them because they’re fun, I love them because they allow me to imagine, or be told of whole new worlds. Worlds that do not, cannot, or should not exist.
I became an author because of that. if it hadn’t been for my love of stories, I wouldn’t be a story teller.
a story
not a lot i have to say
for i am young
therefore having not seen as much
stories i have none
i remember my mom reading me stories when i was a younger girl. just me and her, tucked in the bed withthe dim light of our scented candle plugged into the wall. it was stories about princesses one night, zombies the next. horror, romance, action, drama. i’ve read it all.
I’ve heard stories of the trolls who live down in the basement with all the pipes. They hold court cases for the cockroaches that crawl around down there, shoot bows and arrows, break said bows and arrows and never, never show their faces in the upper world.
i tell stories, about my friends and this crazy summer i had where i got sick and then the doctors pumped me full of steroids and i went crazy and started writing all these stories about my friends and this crazy summer i had where i got sick and then the doctors pumped me full of steroids and i went crazy and started writing all these stories about my friends…
And the story tellers…. what makes out lives interesting… what makes our summer nights immortal.
I have many stories I could tell you. I’ve seen the end of worlds and the beginning of life. I travel in a blue box throughout space and time. You could be apart of my future stories. DOCTOR WHO FOR THE WIN.
Stories were the best part about childhood. There is nothing better than sitting on your parents, aunt, uncles, or grandparents laps and reading a good book. My favorite childhood story is “And I Love You”. I got it from my sister when she went to college, it has so much meaning behind it. To this day I still love reading my childhood stories.
Looking at photographs can bring back great memories. They can remind you of stories from long ago. Stories from your past.
There are many stories out in the world. I prefer scary stories and ones that make you scared to go to sleep at night. I don’t know why but I find them fascinating and I love the thrill you get when you open the cover a story you have been dying to read.
When I was young my mom would read stories for me before I would go to bed. Now, since I’m older I’m the one who reads the stories. That’s their favorite thing to do after supper.
tHEY CAN LAST A FEW DAYS, THEY CAN GO ON FOREVER, i HAVE A STORY. It can be better than yours if I choose. Make it up.
“Why do you leave these stories unfinished?” This was his question and it made me think of you. You liked to write and I remember struggling at the craft ever since I was young and realized that I can’t just come up with words like “delusional”, or “phenomenal”, unlike you.
Stories are what the old woman told. She had many, decades worth of gossip and drama. She opened he mouth and the room would fall silent. She never repeated herself, every story was something different.
Wonderful, fanciful tid bits of information. Usually interesting and sometimes a little boring. I like stories. Sometimes I like stories too much and get myself in trouble because I listen to stories I shouldn’t.
Stories when I was younger were better. Now I’m a bit more informed about the world and I can see through these stories. Time for books.
diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
Stories are what define us. Is wahat we tell others and that makes us who we are to others. Is what we share to the family. Is ehat we take to the grave.
Firecircles. People sitting with drums, hitting away at a rhythm with their hands. Nearby, chatter and lively stories of peoples experiences fill the air, making it feel like home.
I’ve fainted three times, each time from heat exhaustion; on the cold, bread-scented floor of a bakery; the concrete of acridly disappointing summer parties at school; down the stairs with a bow in my hair. Oh summer, how I squint at thee.
“They’re just stories,” she scoffed, throwing the book down upon the table contemptuously, “they don’t mean anything.”
The corners were dogeared already, the leaves withered and yellowing from age, the letters faded. Countless thumbs had turned these pages, each owned by a narrator of their own secret story. The book could tell more stories than merely the words it contained.
Too many stories to tell, i think. Just to many stories to tell.So many squashed up together in my head. I cant get them out. I want to get them out, but the words won’t come. So they sit there, grumpy and superfluous, and I want to touch them but I don’t dare… So many words. So many stories. So many stories to share…. What do I do in order to keep up?
Stories make up your childhood. Stories of fantasies far far away, with princesses and castles and promises of this one day happening to you. So is it the stories that I blame for being upset about where I am today? Or just myself?
stories are imagination, they come and go. You never know when youare going to get a good idea. Sometimes you’ll like it and sometimes you won either or is okay, stories are about xperimenting
The storied building was 73 stories high, and every story had stories to tell.
Tell them. Listen to them. Life a life devoted to creating them. Take them with you wherever you go, and share them with whomever will listen. Revel in the nostalgia of them, and take pleasure in the nostalgia of others as they tell. The only thing that lasts
So many stories I see are about people who fall in love without thinking about it or people who fall in love who think too much or love at first sight. I think it’s all bull. All of it. The love stuff, doesn’t happen like it does in stories. It’s real. It’s messy. It’s gross. But people still come back and write about it.
Fakery. You told some fibs. Those stories to avoid shame, regret, and the truth. You tell yourself to make yourself believe you are happy where you are.
“Shut the hell up!” in a swirl of smoke and curlers and a stained, dirty shirt. “Can’t you see that momma’s watching her stories?” And that was his childhood, in a nutshell, slinking back to a corner of the piss-stained carpet, playing with a toilet paper tube, trying to quiet the sniffles and tears that rolled down his face.
stories are told to those who listen
those who listen will hear
stories will fall down through generations
and be passed from ear to ear
stores are told to those who listen
Stories. They are the things that the old share with the young to keep their memories alive well after they have left this world. They are the things that mothers and fathers read to their children before bed each night. They are the things that allow a reader to escape life, if only for a moment.
the stories held inside of that tiny body was enough to fill 3 giants. the stories were full, and deep, and detailed. the stories gave you the creeps and inspired you, held you, and threw you to the wind. these were the stories of a lifetime.
Out across the frozen bay lie Little Pine, heavy with trees, smoking houses, sixty-five stories heading towards their own conflagration. Packs were loaded, flecks of snow biting into beards and cheeks. It would take hours to reach the island. And underneath, something peered up through two feet of ice. Something waited in the dark water.
everone can make a story. Our life is a story.What we see, what we dream, what we feel, they form a story. Our story. The story is yous, write it while you can. Your story is yours to tell. Noone else can tell it better than you can. Stories can take us into a different world, or biring us back to cold, hard reality.