you hear something from one person that they’ve heard from someone else. they come and go, but oh how very nice they are. to hear about a fantasy when all you are in is reality. but in the end we’re all just stories. thats all thats left of us
linda
As we stood in the audience, listening to the horrible speech, the screams of the people echoing through the rooms, I felt the stories dance around me. Murders, genocides, loss, pain, rebounding around. It jabbed at my skin, making my arms prickle, tears threatening to fall, pictures of mothers being ripped from their children and of fathers leaving their families behind, of children being tortured, of women being raped, of men being stabbed, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I left.
I think that older people have a lot to share. I want to sit and drink a cup of tea with a widow and hear her stories. I want her to remember them for me. Has she ever burned a dinner so badly that she never forgot it? What was her most memorable vacation? I think the best way to learn is by hearing someone else’s stories.
I had a vague idea when I started today that I was going to be accruing stories to be telling the rest of the world for years. That I was going to become the cave painter, and leave my ideas behind the same way Hansel and Gretel left behind their breadcrumbs, for someone else to follow, for someone else to be curious about. Or maybe just for some bird to come by and eat, and then go home with a sever stomach ache wondering why pumpernickel always seems to do that to you…
There are more stories to be told than I have time to tell them. A life so full, I almost don’t recall most of it. And yet so short, so fleeting, gone in a moment
tonykeyesjapan
I’ve gotten this more than once, but the saying stays the same. Stories are just places where we want to be. They are beyond our reach and often fiction instead of fact. They fill the night with words of childlike wonder.
adriana
I have told stories since I was a little girl. Mostly true, but not always, stories can transport all of us to places that we need to be when the time is right. Stories are something I now see my four-year-old son depending upon as a basic form of entertainment and imagination, and they spark something in him that is primal and strong.
Michelle Poppleton Chumsae
I’ve told hundreds of stories
With just one word,
And told countless of pointless ramblings
With many.
I’d like to write more,
And I know I have time,
But maybe some things should end early.
I once made up a story about a pretend boyfriend. It was only a story for me but then I started telling others about it until I actually thought I had a real boyfriend. Moral of the story, stories are powerful!
Wonderful, magical actions expressed through the art of word, everything makes sense.
mary
There are many stories in this world, too many to be told and too many to hear. There are stories of the past, the present, and the future. Stories of heroes and dragons, of love and lust, of monsters, daemons, and angels.
However, there is one story that has never been told.
Should it remain that way?
They say in each of us there is a story, perhaps several stories hat are bubbling under the surface waiting for the opportunity to be broadcast to the world. Penelope had many that were ready to tumble out, word after sordid word, but she played the waiting game and continued to watch and listen instead.
I tell stories about myself in my head. I want to be a new Ashley and I make stories about her to comfort myself. There are stories untold within me, and within the world about me. Stories that haven’t become themselves yet, but are waiting to become fairy tales? Watch out for the evil stepmother.
Ashley
My father is made of stories. His silver hair is woven with carefully chosen words and his fingerprints are laced with periods and semicolons and apostrophes. The tip of his nose is a perfect “once upon a time” and the nape of his neck is every “The End” in the whole world. My father is built from the ground up by story upon story and that is why he is still here with me. Every word I think or write or speak belongs to my father; is for my father: keeper of stories.
Stories can never die; neither can my father.
Ruby
I remember when I was younger, we would go camping as a family and my dad always told stories that summarized our day, except he would change the names so we never realized he was talking about us. These stories are what made camping what it was. Fun.
Gabriella Marrufo
There was a time when stories held emotion, a picture. They held an image of what was to come and what would never be. They took us on adventures to other places, but now all I see is darkness.
adriana
I had heard the stories before. All of the stories, actually. Geronimo never let up with them. I knew his life story almost better than he did. In fact, when he started retelling stories to passerby, I would sometimes correct him if he couldn’t remember a detail or botched a date. It was almost as if I was becoming the mental stenographer for him here.
So I bought a typewriter from an old friend. Geronimo appreciated the tick-tack sound as I recorded his tales.
Belinda Roddie
They’re how I live. I embellish and I hyperbolize. That’s how I fill in the holes of my life. As someone I admire would say, it’s not that I hate my life, it’s that I need to patch in all the empty spaces and ugly spots with a humorous filling.
All of them together weave a cliched quilt. It’s common, but it’s my life anyhow. I’ve got a racist grandpa and a crazy cousin. I’ve had a bad breakup and a love story worthy of a romance novel, just like the rest of you.
This is me, not thinking. Just writing stories. Stories about things that never happened. But might have happened. A long time ago. In a galaxy, you know, far, far away.
But I digress. Wait, is digression thinking? I’m just supposed to be writing. Writing what? Oh yeah, stories.
She often wrote stories. About herself, her new life with her dad. She still called it new even after a year, because it didn’t feel like her mom was really dead. It just couldn’t be true.
I love to tell stories I have a wild imagination sometimes .it take me to places that only exist in my mind. wont you come and join me . once upon a time is just one of the lines I like to begin with.
annette
Writing your imagination into a twisted tale of fairies and goblins, loved one, plot twists, and every little detail necessary. Turning your life into a fantasy land.
These stories I hide,
They stay inside,
The pain
Thesuffering
I keep it to myself
These stories
They hide
The abandonment
The rape
The cut
The kill
These Stories I hide
My destruction
My demise
I would never tire of his voice, of the words spilling from his lips in soft lilts and tales of past adventures. Maybe it wasn’t so much the stories I loved but the way he told them, or perhaps him himself. He just had this way of speaking that never failed to captivate me.
They carry the history of the people. They tell tales of bravery and tales of wisdom. They are the tales that help the next generation learn form the past’s mistakes. They are precious to us.
The story was her life. She had poured every ounce of her being into these 100 pages, now bundled up in a paper bag in her purse which she clutched tightly to her chest.
Maddie
Stories.
What are stories?
The collection of blood, sweat, tears, heartache, and headache from the years before us? The speculations of years ahead of us? The reality that lies before us?
Stories.
Precious things.
Dirty, dark, torrid little things.
They exist and they die, just like every legacy ever breathed upon this earth. But still, just as we continue to live and survive, they do the same.
“Tell me a story,” we say.
And someone will answer, “Once upon a time…”
Strangely enough, the best story of all time, began with the simplest of words and settings and places, saying “In the beginning…”
The stories he told were often untrue though so entertaining, everyone often got caught up in their grandeur and peculiarity. They seemed loosely based in reality though with heavy doses of exaggeration and conjecture.
Hello any sort of one have very same complication, I have the laser printer
HP keeping up my HP Compaq, it is a color laser printer, times its
printing black and white. Why, exactly what took place?
xerox phaser 8560 ram error
She told me stories, and I’d quietly listen as her fingers typed and the breeze chilled my skin. I would curl up with a book, and then find that she had messaged me or wanted to talk to me. Her stories were amazing. They made me feel as if I was in an entire different universe, and they took me away to another place. She told me stories, but they weren’t just stories. They were life lessons.
Stories are fun. You get to make things up and pretend you’re happy and have fun with it. I could write a story about a kid who has a wonderfully happy life and that would be tons of fun. imagining it… maybe believing it if i was crazy enough at the time. I want a story…
Stories are what we rely on, You and I
to take us to places lost somewhere nigh
amidst glued, sheltered minds
You and I
You and I are now
but we were You and I then
and we will be You and I again
until these moments become stories
stories You and I will only remember
and You and I will remember
We will remember
fairy tales, english teachers. some aren’t always true. horror, imaginary, scary, ghost, dark. books, fables, animals, Kindergarten, little kids, truth, lies, princesses, frogs, love romance, trust, school, chapters, long, short, true fake, real-life, life, sad, happy, joyful, musical, plural,
Charlotte
fariy tales, english teachers. some aren’t always true. horror, imaginary, scary, ghost, dark. books, fables, animals, Kindergarden, little kids, truth, lies, princesses, frogs, love romance, trust
Charlotte
stories are small particles of life hidden in our souls.you can set a whole new universe throught a story. it is a wonder how a a person can actually enclose feelings inside paper and letters.
you hear something from one person that they’ve heard from someone else. they come and go, but oh how very nice they are. to hear about a fantasy when all you are in is reality. but in the end we’re all just stories. thats all thats left of us
As we stood in the audience, listening to the horrible speech, the screams of the people echoing through the rooms, I felt the stories dance around me. Murders, genocides, loss, pain, rebounding around. It jabbed at my skin, making my arms prickle, tears threatening to fall, pictures of mothers being ripped from their children and of fathers leaving their families behind, of children being tortured, of women being raped, of men being stabbed, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I left.
campfire, fire, people, life, experiences, funny, sad, happy, wisdom, bedtime, mama, childhood, books, movies, gossip, drama, interesting, entertaining
I think that older people have a lot to share. I want to sit and drink a cup of tea with a widow and hear her stories. I want her to remember them for me. Has she ever burned a dinner so badly that she never forgot it? What was her most memorable vacation? I think the best way to learn is by hearing someone else’s stories.
I had a vague idea when I started today that I was going to be accruing stories to be telling the rest of the world for years. That I was going to become the cave painter, and leave my ideas behind the same way Hansel and Gretel left behind their breadcrumbs, for someone else to follow, for someone else to be curious about. Or maybe just for some bird to come by and eat, and then go home with a sever stomach ache wondering why pumpernickel always seems to do that to you…
I am always.and I mean,always,telling crappy stories
You used to tell me stories
‘Bout love and castles and royalty.
I don’t think I ever want to forget that,
Because those were your words.
There are more stories to be told than I have time to tell them. A life so full, I almost don’t recall most of it. And yet so short, so fleeting, gone in a moment
I’ve gotten this more than once, but the saying stays the same. Stories are just places where we want to be. They are beyond our reach and often fiction instead of fact. They fill the night with words of childlike wonder.
I have told stories since I was a little girl. Mostly true, but not always, stories can transport all of us to places that we need to be when the time is right. Stories are something I now see my four-year-old son depending upon as a basic form of entertainment and imagination, and they spark something in him that is primal and strong.
I’ve told hundreds of stories
With just one word,
And told countless of pointless ramblings
With many.
I’d like to write more,
And I know I have time,
But maybe some things should end early.
I once made up a story about a pretend boyfriend. It was only a story for me but then I started telling others about it until I actually thought I had a real boyfriend. Moral of the story, stories are powerful!
I love it when you tell me stories! And anything, really.
Wonderful, magical actions expressed through the art of word, everything makes sense.
There are many stories in this world, too many to be told and too many to hear. There are stories of the past, the present, and the future. Stories of heroes and dragons, of love and lust, of monsters, daemons, and angels.
However, there is one story that has never been told.
Should it remain that way?
They say in each of us there is a story, perhaps several stories hat are bubbling under the surface waiting for the opportunity to be broadcast to the world. Penelope had many that were ready to tumble out, word after sordid word, but she played the waiting game and continued to watch and listen instead.
I tell stories about myself in my head. I want to be a new Ashley and I make stories about her to comfort myself. There are stories untold within me, and within the world about me. Stories that haven’t become themselves yet, but are waiting to become fairy tales? Watch out for the evil stepmother.
My father is made of stories. His silver hair is woven with carefully chosen words and his fingerprints are laced with periods and semicolons and apostrophes. The tip of his nose is a perfect “once upon a time” and the nape of his neck is every “The End” in the whole world. My father is built from the ground up by story upon story and that is why he is still here with me. Every word I think or write or speak belongs to my father; is for my father: keeper of stories.
Stories can never die; neither can my father.
I remember when I was younger, we would go camping as a family and my dad always told stories that summarized our day, except he would change the names so we never realized he was talking about us. These stories are what made camping what it was. Fun.
There was a time when stories held emotion, a picture. They held an image of what was to come and what would never be. They took us on adventures to other places, but now all I see is darkness.
I had heard the stories before. All of the stories, actually. Geronimo never let up with them. I knew his life story almost better than he did. In fact, when he started retelling stories to passerby, I would sometimes correct him if he couldn’t remember a detail or botched a date. It was almost as if I was becoming the mental stenographer for him here.
So I bought a typewriter from an old friend. Geronimo appreciated the tick-tack sound as I recorded his tales.
They’re how I live. I embellish and I hyperbolize. That’s how I fill in the holes of my life. As someone I admire would say, it’s not that I hate my life, it’s that I need to patch in all the empty spaces and ugly spots with a humorous filling.
All of them together weave a cliched quilt. It’s common, but it’s my life anyhow. I’ve got a racist grandpa and a crazy cousin. I’ve had a bad breakup and a love story worthy of a romance novel, just like the rest of you.
This is me, not thinking. Just writing stories. Stories about things that never happened. But might have happened. A long time ago. In a galaxy, you know, far, far away.
But I digress. Wait, is digression thinking? I’m just supposed to be writing. Writing what? Oh yeah, stories.
She often wrote stories. About herself, her new life with her dad. She still called it new even after a year, because it didn’t feel like her mom was really dead. It just couldn’t be true.
I love to tell stories I have a wild imagination sometimes .it take me to places that only exist in my mind. wont you come and join me . once upon a time is just one of the lines I like to begin with.
Writing your imagination into a twisted tale of fairies and goblins, loved one, plot twists, and every little detail necessary. Turning your life into a fantasy land.
These stories I hide,
They stay inside,
The pain
Thesuffering
I keep it to myself
These stories
They hide
The abandonment
The rape
The cut
The kill
These Stories I hide
My destruction
My demise
I would never tire of his voice, of the words spilling from his lips in soft lilts and tales of past adventures. Maybe it wasn’t so much the stories I loved but the way he told them, or perhaps him himself. He just had this way of speaking that never failed to captivate me.
They carry the history of the people. They tell tales of bravery and tales of wisdom. They are the tales that help the next generation learn form the past’s mistakes. They are precious to us.
The story was her life. She had poured every ounce of her being into these 100 pages, now bundled up in a paper bag in her purse which she clutched tightly to her chest.
Stories.
What are stories?
The collection of blood, sweat, tears, heartache, and headache from the years before us? The speculations of years ahead of us? The reality that lies before us?
Stories.
Precious things.
Dirty, dark, torrid little things.
They exist and they die, just like every legacy ever breathed upon this earth. But still, just as we continue to live and survive, they do the same.
“Tell me a story,” we say.
And someone will answer, “Once upon a time…”
Strangely enough, the best story of all time, began with the simplest of words and settings and places, saying “In the beginning…”
The stories he told were often untrue though so entertaining, everyone often got caught up in their grandeur and peculiarity. They seemed loosely based in reality though with heavy doses of exaggeration and conjecture.
Hello any sort of one have very same complication, I have the laser printer
HP keeping up my HP Compaq, it is a color laser printer, times its
printing black and white. Why, exactly what took place?
She told me stories, and I’d quietly listen as her fingers typed and the breeze chilled my skin. I would curl up with a book, and then find that she had messaged me or wanted to talk to me. Her stories were amazing. They made me feel as if I was in an entire different universe, and they took me away to another place. She told me stories, but they weren’t just stories. They were life lessons.
Stories are fun. You get to make things up and pretend you’re happy and have fun with it. I could write a story about a kid who has a wonderfully happy life and that would be tons of fun. imagining it… maybe believing it if i was crazy enough at the time. I want a story…
Stories are what we rely on, You and I
to take us to places lost somewhere nigh
amidst glued, sheltered minds
You and I
You and I are now
but we were You and I then
and we will be You and I again
until these moments become stories
stories You and I will only remember
and You and I will remember
We will remember
fairy tales, english teachers. some aren’t always true. horror, imaginary, scary, ghost, dark. books, fables, animals, Kindergarten, little kids, truth, lies, princesses, frogs, love romance, trust, school, chapters, long, short, true fake, real-life, life, sad, happy, joyful, musical, plural,
fariy tales, english teachers. some aren’t always true. horror, imaginary, scary, ghost, dark. books, fables, animals, Kindergarden, little kids, truth, lies, princesses, frogs, love romance, trust
stories are small particles of life hidden in our souls.you can set a whole new universe throught a story. it is a wonder how a a person can actually enclose feelings inside paper and letters.