Today's prompt: Why are you proud to be an American?
Pope Jon wrote:
Honestly, I've come to realize that it's a bit ridiculous to be proud of the country were born into. I mean, I didn't declare independence or abolish slavery. Sure, my "forefathers" did, but why should I take credit for what they accomplished?
Shouldn't pride be based on what I accomplish as an individual, or at the very least what my country accomplishes of which I am proud?
Without getting specific and therefore political, there are things America does that I like, and there are things America does that I don't like.
The bottom line is this: I'm not proud to be an American, but I'm also not ashamed of it in any way. It's a part of who I am, and I like that. But I think taking pride is something that I did nothing to attain is a little silly.
Dana Lee wrote:
Admit it. America is one of the easily mocked countries in the world. We have a dirty history and we repeatedly make terrible decisions. Well, our leaders continually make terrible decisions. But you know what, I am proud to be an American. I am not ashamed to admit it. I love that our country is incredibly diverse. I love that there is freedom to practice the religion of your choosing. There are a lot of freedoms that we, as Americans, take for granted. America is by no means a perfect country. But what country is?
Melody Joy wrote:
To be honest, I’m not really proud to be an American right now. I’m proud of some things that America has accomplished in the past, but I’m not proud of what America has become. The government is corrupt, and people do a lot of horrible things in the name of America and the whole country is going down the toilet because there aren’t enough people thinking for themselves and standing up for what is right.
However, I am glad to be an American citizen because there are a number of advantages that that gives me. For example, I’m able to freely travel to nearly any country I wish without having to get express permission from the government of that country to be there. That’s what allowed me to move to Honduras with only a month’s notice and a plane ticket. However, for a Honduran citizen to travel to America, there’s a two month waiting period to even get an appointment to see if you’re allowed to travel. The appointment costs you whether you get permission or not.
There are other advantages of being in America, too, such as the ease of ordering whatever you want online and having it delivered right to your doorstep. Plus, in the land of plenty, it’s easy to get cheap or free food and clothing when you’re down on your luck. Say what you want about public education, but any child that wants public education can go without having to pay for uniforms and books and other school supplies like most other countries.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Saturday Extras!
Prompt: What is the best advice you have ever received?
Pope Jon wrote:
This is advice that has become legendary among my family, and I am delighted to share it with the rest of the world now.
The source is none other than my dear mother.
"When you leave from somewhere, always check to see if someone is trying to flag you down."
Basically, my dad and I were leaving our church to get a stereo system from our house because the one at the church wasn't working. This was before cell phones were common, so as soon as we left, it was too late. Without us knowing, the church's stereo started working just as we got in the car, but we failed to notice my mother attempting to flag us down as we were leaving.
I am admittedly terrible at following this advice. On one occasion, my cousins reminded me to check for flagging as I left their house. Despite just hearing the advice a few moments past, I completely forgot. One of my cousins tested me by attempting to flag me down, but I ignorantly drove off without a glance.
This is one of the most unexpectedly accurate pictures I've ever been able to find for one of my posts.
Dan Christmann wrote:
Everyone always seems to want to give me advice, but I am terrible at taking it. Like many young men of my social strata, I’m individualistic to a fault. Back when I was younger, I would even deliberately ignore advice, or do precisely the opposite of that advice, just to show how much of an independent thinker I was. Which always worked out well. A good example of this is when I started my master’s degree and my friend, Jane, told me that I should read Whitman’s Song of Myself.
“Now that you’re entering into the world of American literature,” she said.
But I, as always afraid of what might profoundly change me, brushed her aside. I preferred my Europeans, anyway, my Poles and my Romanians to the great authors of the American canon. Moths passed in Glasgow, and as I began my studies, my anxiety disorder flared up again. It became difficult for me to write, poetry especially, because I was published once as a Junior and had overinflated expectations of myself. I made new friends, but even there was more solitary than I’d ever been anywhere else, because I threw myself into my studies. I read Ianesco, Walcott, devoured Jovanović, Różewicz, along with Kierkegaard, Adorno, Brecht and Whitehead. My hair grew long. My beard, full and scraggly. I wrote, but it was a pained sort of writing. The kind of writing that tries to make blood from ink, squeeze something out of pure possibility, when nothing was there.
When I finally did get around to reading Whitmann, It was raining outside. Of course. I trudged through the streets to my favorite tea house and set up shop in a small corner, where I always sat, and had made a comfortable burrow for myself in and between the pillows and rugs scattered haphazardly about the place. I opened the book, and began to read. I read, and read, and I read. It was a very strange thing. As if my friend were speaking to me, giving me advice through a long dead poets masterpiece.
There’s not a single portion of Song of Myself that I could say is the best advice I’ve ever received. And maybe the advice I realized in it is not even written. But it made me realize that, to actually live, I needed to take advice. To hold it and its giver tight to me. Because to deny them is to deny myself, and myself to them.
Prompt: Write about this picture.
Chuck C. wrote:
The falling woman. She doesn’t know where she is falling to, doesn’t know why, or really if she will ever stop. It’s not really about the terminus, it’s about the fall. The rest is just details.
Melody Joy wrote:
It had been too long since Emilee had exercised her powers. After all, use of powers - genetic and experimental - had been banned for several years, and she had strictly adhered to the law after her brother had been arrested and imprisoned when he used his ability to save a little girl from drowning at the beach. The police had shown up with the ambulance. The little girl was taken to the hospital for observation and Emilee’s brother had been shoved onto the ground, handcuffed and collared, and shoved into the back of a van.
So when Emilee found herself hurling through the air toward the water, she had only a few seconds to consider her options. Her now soon-to-be ex-boyfriend had thrown her off of the side of the mountain during a hike with some of his friends. She had made the mistake of mentioning her powers, and he had instantly hated her for it. They fought, but he had mysteriously dropped it and not brought it up again. This had been just days ago, and now Emilee realized he had been quiet because he despised her and was planning this. She drew closer to the water which was certain to kill her falling from this height, and had to decide if she was going to die or risk arrest. Death didn’t seem too bad, but right before she hit the water, she thought of her brother’s sacrifice for another human. Could she really sacrifice her life to avoid something as trivial as prison?
She curled up and forced the transformation she had spent so long avoiding. Her clothes splatted against the water as her body shot back upwards, a swirling pillar of dark red smoke.
Prompt: What is your favorite type of weather? List the advantages of having that type of weather every day, year-round.
Pope Jon wrote:
Overcast and temperatures ranging from 55 to 70. Celsius. Jk, Fahrenheit. Totes fahrenheit, because I'm an American.
No sunburn. (Or darkening for those with Radiant Resistance/Immunity.)
No guessing what you need to wear. (All you need is a light jacket.)
No snow. (Snow knows nothing anyway.)
No one commenting on how crazy the weather is. (Seriously, worst small talk ever.)
No news station telling you the weather, or people telling you what the news told them about the weather. (Please never tell me what the meteorologists have said about weather. I care more about Kim Kardashian's love life than that. I care more about learning the name of the person who invented dry wall.)
Plus overcast skies can be beautiful too. Let's stop unrealistic beauty standards for skies.
Author's note: It is rarely more apparent than this how much of a pessimist I am. All of my listed advantages start with "no."
Dana Lee wrote:
My perfect weather would be the typical Michigan weather that we all love to make fun of. I love the unpredictability of the weather in Michigan. Here are some advantages:
-It keeps you on your toes. As Forrest Gump says, "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." We all know the same holds true.
-The plants are able to get all their nutrients. Whether they need rain, sun, or cooler temperatures. All will be available within a day at times.
-It keeps the conversation going. We always have something to talk about where the weather is concerned. Let's be honest, it's one of the best conversation starters.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Pope Jon wrote:
This is advice that has become legendary among my family, and I am delighted to share it with the rest of the world now.
The source is none other than my dear mother.
"When you leave from somewhere, always check to see if someone is trying to flag you down."
Basically, my dad and I were leaving our church to get a stereo system from our house because the one at the church wasn't working. This was before cell phones were common, so as soon as we left, it was too late. Without us knowing, the church's stereo started working just as we got in the car, but we failed to notice my mother attempting to flag us down as we were leaving.
I am admittedly terrible at following this advice. On one occasion, my cousins reminded me to check for flagging as I left their house. Despite just hearing the advice a few moments past, I completely forgot. One of my cousins tested me by attempting to flag me down, but I ignorantly drove off without a glance.
This is one of the most unexpectedly accurate pictures I've ever been able to find for one of my posts.
Dan Christmann wrote:
Everyone always seems to want to give me advice, but I am terrible at taking it. Like many young men of my social strata, I’m individualistic to a fault. Back when I was younger, I would even deliberately ignore advice, or do precisely the opposite of that advice, just to show how much of an independent thinker I was. Which always worked out well. A good example of this is when I started my master’s degree and my friend, Jane, told me that I should read Whitman’s Song of Myself.
“Now that you’re entering into the world of American literature,” she said.
But I, as always afraid of what might profoundly change me, brushed her aside. I preferred my Europeans, anyway, my Poles and my Romanians to the great authors of the American canon. Moths passed in Glasgow, and as I began my studies, my anxiety disorder flared up again. It became difficult for me to write, poetry especially, because I was published once as a Junior and had overinflated expectations of myself. I made new friends, but even there was more solitary than I’d ever been anywhere else, because I threw myself into my studies. I read Ianesco, Walcott, devoured Jovanović, Różewicz, along with Kierkegaard, Adorno, Brecht and Whitehead. My hair grew long. My beard, full and scraggly. I wrote, but it was a pained sort of writing. The kind of writing that tries to make blood from ink, squeeze something out of pure possibility, when nothing was there.
When I finally did get around to reading Whitmann, It was raining outside. Of course. I trudged through the streets to my favorite tea house and set up shop in a small corner, where I always sat, and had made a comfortable burrow for myself in and between the pillows and rugs scattered haphazardly about the place. I opened the book, and began to read. I read, and read, and I read. It was a very strange thing. As if my friend were speaking to me, giving me advice through a long dead poets masterpiece.
There’s not a single portion of Song of Myself that I could say is the best advice I’ve ever received. And maybe the advice I realized in it is not even written. But it made me realize that, to actually live, I needed to take advice. To hold it and its giver tight to me. Because to deny them is to deny myself, and myself to them.
Prompt: Write about this picture.
Chuck C. wrote:
The falling woman. She doesn’t know where she is falling to, doesn’t know why, or really if she will ever stop. It’s not really about the terminus, it’s about the fall. The rest is just details.
Melody Joy wrote:
It had been too long since Emilee had exercised her powers. After all, use of powers - genetic and experimental - had been banned for several years, and she had strictly adhered to the law after her brother had been arrested and imprisoned when he used his ability to save a little girl from drowning at the beach. The police had shown up with the ambulance. The little girl was taken to the hospital for observation and Emilee’s brother had been shoved onto the ground, handcuffed and collared, and shoved into the back of a van.
So when Emilee found herself hurling through the air toward the water, she had only a few seconds to consider her options. Her now soon-to-be ex-boyfriend had thrown her off of the side of the mountain during a hike with some of his friends. She had made the mistake of mentioning her powers, and he had instantly hated her for it. They fought, but he had mysteriously dropped it and not brought it up again. This had been just days ago, and now Emilee realized he had been quiet because he despised her and was planning this. She drew closer to the water which was certain to kill her falling from this height, and had to decide if she was going to die or risk arrest. Death didn’t seem too bad, but right before she hit the water, she thought of her brother’s sacrifice for another human. Could she really sacrifice her life to avoid something as trivial as prison?
She curled up and forced the transformation she had spent so long avoiding. Her clothes splatted against the water as her body shot back upwards, a swirling pillar of dark red smoke.
Prompt: What is your favorite type of weather? List the advantages of having that type of weather every day, year-round.
Pope Jon wrote:
Overcast and temperatures ranging from 55 to 70. Celsius. Jk, Fahrenheit. Totes fahrenheit, because I'm an American.
No sunburn. (Or darkening for those with Radiant Resistance/Immunity.)
No guessing what you need to wear. (All you need is a light jacket.)
No snow. (Snow knows nothing anyway.)
No one commenting on how crazy the weather is. (Seriously, worst small talk ever.)
No news station telling you the weather, or people telling you what the news told them about the weather. (Please never tell me what the meteorologists have said about weather. I care more about Kim Kardashian's love life than that. I care more about learning the name of the person who invented dry wall.)
Plus overcast skies can be beautiful too. Let's stop unrealistic beauty standards for skies.
Author's note: It is rarely more apparent than this how much of a pessimist I am. All of my listed advantages start with "no."
Dana Lee wrote:
My perfect weather would be the typical Michigan weather that we all love to make fun of. I love the unpredictability of the weather in Michigan. Here are some advantages:
-It keeps you on your toes. As Forrest Gump says, "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." We all know the same holds true.
-The plants are able to get all their nutrients. Whether they need rain, sun, or cooler temperatures. All will be available within a day at times.
-It keeps the conversation going. We always have something to talk about where the weather is concerned. Let's be honest, it's one of the best conversation starters.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Friday Favorites - The Weather Girls (and guys....)
Today's prompt: What is your favorite type of weather? List the advantages of having that type of weather every day, year-round.
Chuck C. wrote:
For me, the best weather has to be a good 65 degrees, breezy, and clear skies. As a perpetually awkward summer dresser, the year round ability to where slightly heavier clothing is, objectively, the best. Also, it is far easier to stay warm than it is to cool down. Layers can be added as needed. Layers can only be removed so far before the moms at the playground start calling the police about the naked bearded ginger.
Melody Joy wrote:
My favorite weather are those days when it’s sunny out, but it’s also raining a little, and nice and warm. There are a number of advantages to having this type of weather:
- The rain will make the flowers grow.
- Sun helps plants grow.
- Warmth is good for everybody. - Variety is the spice of life.
- It’s super trippy when it’s raining and sunny at the same time.
- You can still go out and do things because it’s not always rainy.
- It’s not too hot.
- It’s not too cold.
- All you need is a light jacket.
Dan Christmann wrote:
I’d say I like things sunny and cool, with highs of maybe 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Actually, the sun doesn’t matter so much, just as long as it stays about 45-60 year round. Why? Because this is prime jacket wearing weather. Yep, I’m choosing the type of weather I like by the kind of clothing that I would wear during it. But you have to understand, I am not a man with any form of fashion sense. I’m very good at hiding this, for two reasons. The first is because if you have a decent t-shirt and some nice, tight fitting jeans, and are in decent shape, no one is going to tell you, at least to your face, that you’re a bloody slob. The second reason is jackets. Jackets are the key to everything that you ever wanted to be. They make you look tall, dark, and mysterious, even if you are short, extraordinarily Caucasian, and tend to spout exposition out of your mouth at the slightest jostling. Jackets can also hold your things. A tiny notebook tucked in your voluminous pockets, pens, keys, wrappers, old receipts from who knows how long ago, bottle caps, an oddly shaped stone, your change; in short, your life. In a jacket, you cut a calm, imposing figure, a bit like a cape, or a robe, without the added baggage. It flows behind you endearingly as you navigate the winding streets and cobblestones near some famous cathedral. A jacket keeps the drizzle off your back. It is your solace. It is your best friend.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Chuck C. wrote:
For me, the best weather has to be a good 65 degrees, breezy, and clear skies. As a perpetually awkward summer dresser, the year round ability to where slightly heavier clothing is, objectively, the best. Also, it is far easier to stay warm than it is to cool down. Layers can be added as needed. Layers can only be removed so far before the moms at the playground start calling the police about the naked bearded ginger.
Melody Joy wrote:
My favorite weather are those days when it’s sunny out, but it’s also raining a little, and nice and warm. There are a number of advantages to having this type of weather:
- The rain will make the flowers grow.
- Sun helps plants grow.
- Warmth is good for everybody. - Variety is the spice of life.
- It’s super trippy when it’s raining and sunny at the same time.
- You can still go out and do things because it’s not always rainy.
- It’s not too hot.
- It’s not too cold.
- All you need is a light jacket.
Dan Christmann wrote:
I’d say I like things sunny and cool, with highs of maybe 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Actually, the sun doesn’t matter so much, just as long as it stays about 45-60 year round. Why? Because this is prime jacket wearing weather. Yep, I’m choosing the type of weather I like by the kind of clothing that I would wear during it. But you have to understand, I am not a man with any form of fashion sense. I’m very good at hiding this, for two reasons. The first is because if you have a decent t-shirt and some nice, tight fitting jeans, and are in decent shape, no one is going to tell you, at least to your face, that you’re a bloody slob. The second reason is jackets. Jackets are the key to everything that you ever wanted to be. They make you look tall, dark, and mysterious, even if you are short, extraordinarily Caucasian, and tend to spout exposition out of your mouth at the slightest jostling. Jackets can also hold your things. A tiny notebook tucked in your voluminous pockets, pens, keys, wrappers, old receipts from who knows how long ago, bottle caps, an oddly shaped stone, your change; in short, your life. In a jacket, you cut a calm, imposing figure, a bit like a cape, or a robe, without the added baggage. It flows behind you endearingly as you navigate the winding streets and cobblestones near some famous cathedral. A jacket keeps the drizzle off your back. It is your solace. It is your best friend.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Wacky Wednesday - Falling Girl ***PICTURE PROMPT***
Today's prompt: Write about this picture.
Dan Christmann wrote:
No one is really falling in this painting. The girl is not really flying at all, either. It looks like she’s reaching for the star, the big one to the left, but actually she’s lying on a very cleverly designed carpet. I don’t know how they got her hair that way, probably some very expensive gel. I am writing this at eleven forty and am trying to think of something wacky to say about this picture, but am pretty sure that I am shooting blanks at this point. I’m not really a fan of the color purple. Maybe, if I really wanted to be clever, I could do some research on the color purple and what the linkage between dreams, reality, stars, and the feminine self are in classical mythology. That would be a laugh riot. I’m sure there’s a woman somewhere in the Greek consciousness that fell in love with a star. Probably, the star was also Zeus. Zeus had this weird thing about inanimate objects that would take an entire team of highly trained psychoanalysts to piece out. The only problem is, the woman will probably also die in some horrific way, or be changed into some other inanimate object. That Zeus problem again. But maybe that is what is happening in that painting. A woman falling, becoming a star, because she overreached herself. Because she became too great to live in the mortal world. Never again to have its pleasures or its pains.
This was not a very funny piece, overall. The Greeks were not very funny people. At least, not in any way we can understand. Kind of like the painting.
Dana Lee wrote:
Floating through the sky
Capturing the stars
How have I
Come this far?
Girl in red
is what they call me
What they don't know
is how it bothers me
Catching my dreams
as the whirl on by
Watching my desires
pass me by
Wanting to badly
To Hold on
To never let go
To let my dreams
become my reality
This is my life
This is my world
Why should I
Change for them?
Pope Jon wrote:
As Courtney neared the water, she knew she only had two choices.
She could either accept her fated belly-flop, or she could try to look majestic again.
So in those fractions of seconds, having already failed to leap from the diving board properly, Courtney channeled the most majestic image she possible could. What image, you didn't ask out loud most likely but still wanted to know?
The form. The confidence. The determination. This artist is committed to his craft, and he is a absolute master.
LOOK AT HIM AGAIN!
So anyway, Courtney was imagining that guy. But not in a weird way.
In the instant right before her greatest failure, she decided to find a triumph instead. Camera flashes were going off rapidly, and Courtney locked eyes with one, and reached delicately for it. One of the other cameras caught the image above, and the rest was something. Or whatever.
Then she went and married this guy.
Because happy endings. And because majesty belongs with majesty.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dan Christmann wrote:
No one is really falling in this painting. The girl is not really flying at all, either. It looks like she’s reaching for the star, the big one to the left, but actually she’s lying on a very cleverly designed carpet. I don’t know how they got her hair that way, probably some very expensive gel. I am writing this at eleven forty and am trying to think of something wacky to say about this picture, but am pretty sure that I am shooting blanks at this point. I’m not really a fan of the color purple. Maybe, if I really wanted to be clever, I could do some research on the color purple and what the linkage between dreams, reality, stars, and the feminine self are in classical mythology. That would be a laugh riot. I’m sure there’s a woman somewhere in the Greek consciousness that fell in love with a star. Probably, the star was also Zeus. Zeus had this weird thing about inanimate objects that would take an entire team of highly trained psychoanalysts to piece out. The only problem is, the woman will probably also die in some horrific way, or be changed into some other inanimate object. That Zeus problem again. But maybe that is what is happening in that painting. A woman falling, becoming a star, because she overreached herself. Because she became too great to live in the mortal world. Never again to have its pleasures or its pains.
This was not a very funny piece, overall. The Greeks were not very funny people. At least, not in any way we can understand. Kind of like the painting.
Dana Lee wrote:
Floating through the sky
Capturing the stars
How have I
Come this far?
Girl in red
is what they call me
What they don't know
is how it bothers me
Catching my dreams
as the whirl on by
Watching my desires
pass me by
Wanting to badly
To Hold on
To never let go
To let my dreams
become my reality
This is my life
This is my world
Why should I
Change for them?
Pope Jon wrote:
As Courtney neared the water, she knew she only had two choices.
She could either accept her fated belly-flop, or she could try to look majestic again.
So in those fractions of seconds, having already failed to leap from the diving board properly, Courtney channeled the most majestic image she possible could. What image, you didn't ask out loud most likely but still wanted to know?
The form. The confidence. The determination. This artist is committed to his craft, and he is a absolute master.
LOOK AT HIM AGAIN!
So anyway, Courtney was imagining that guy. But not in a weird way.
In the instant right before her greatest failure, she decided to find a triumph instead. Camera flashes were going off rapidly, and Courtney locked eyes with one, and reached delicately for it. One of the other cameras caught the image above, and the rest was something. Or whatever.
Then she went and married this guy.
Because happy endings. And because majesty belongs with majesty.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Monday, June 22, 2015
All About Me Monday - Good Advice
Today's Prompt: What is the best advice you have ever received?
Chuck C. wrote:
The best advice I ever receive was from my father. Whenever I would go through a difficult time, whenever storms would come across my life, he would say four simple words. “This, too, shall pass.” This mantra is something I not only repeat to myself when facing trials, but something I say to friends and family facing difficulty. Sometimes circumstances are out of our control, and all we can do is weather the storm and remember: This, too, shall pass.
Dana Lee wrote:
My mother is a very wise woman. I once dated this guy who I thought I loved. I gave him the part of me that I could never give to anyone else. When we broke up I was devastated. I thought that that God would never forgive me for making, what I considered, the ultimate bad choice. How could he forgive me if I could not forgive myself. We had a long discussion about this and she told me that it would be okay. God gave me the gift of grace and he forgives our sins. He knows that we are not perfect and that is okay.
Melody Joy wrote:
I’m resisting the urge to write about Shia Lebouff’s “Just do it” TED talk. I haven’t seen the actual talk, but I have seen the many parodies that have popped up since then... Part of the problem I’m having is that I’ve received a lot of great advice over the years, and now I can’t think of a single one that I would consider the best.
The advice that most changed my life was more of a prophesy, but it works: Do it afraid.
The thing I struggle most with is fear, and it was an overwhelming fear that kept me from returning to Honduras after spending a year there teaching and a summer back in Michigan. Giving in to the fear, I elected to stay in Michigan rather than go back to where God had called me. After hiding from my calling for a year and a half, I received that word from the pastor’s wife of the church I was attending.
She didn’t know what it meant when she told it to me, but I did. It meant I had to do the thing that I was most afraid of doing, which at the time was returning to Honduras. When I look back now, I have a hard time identifying exactly what it was I was even afraid of. Now Honduras is my home and I fear returning to Michigan for any period of time longer than 2 weeks.... Ironically I’m flying to Michigan today, and facing fears of being there for an undetermined amount of time.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Chuck C. wrote:
The best advice I ever receive was from my father. Whenever I would go through a difficult time, whenever storms would come across my life, he would say four simple words. “This, too, shall pass.” This mantra is something I not only repeat to myself when facing trials, but something I say to friends and family facing difficulty. Sometimes circumstances are out of our control, and all we can do is weather the storm and remember: This, too, shall pass.
Dana Lee wrote:
My mother is a very wise woman. I once dated this guy who I thought I loved. I gave him the part of me that I could never give to anyone else. When we broke up I was devastated. I thought that that God would never forgive me for making, what I considered, the ultimate bad choice. How could he forgive me if I could not forgive myself. We had a long discussion about this and she told me that it would be okay. God gave me the gift of grace and he forgives our sins. He knows that we are not perfect and that is okay.
Melody Joy wrote:
I’m resisting the urge to write about Shia Lebouff’s “Just do it” TED talk. I haven’t seen the actual talk, but I have seen the many parodies that have popped up since then... Part of the problem I’m having is that I’ve received a lot of great advice over the years, and now I can’t think of a single one that I would consider the best.
The advice that most changed my life was more of a prophesy, but it works: Do it afraid.
The thing I struggle most with is fear, and it was an overwhelming fear that kept me from returning to Honduras after spending a year there teaching and a summer back in Michigan. Giving in to the fear, I elected to stay in Michigan rather than go back to where God had called me. After hiding from my calling for a year and a half, I received that word from the pastor’s wife of the church I was attending.
She didn’t know what it meant when she told it to me, but I did. It meant I had to do the thing that I was most afraid of doing, which at the time was returning to Honduras. When I look back now, I have a hard time identifying exactly what it was I was even afraid of. Now Honduras is my home and I fear returning to Michigan for any period of time longer than 2 weeks.... Ironically I’m flying to Michigan today, and facing fears of being there for an undetermined amount of time.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Saturday Extras!
Prompt: What is something you had to learn the hard way?
Dana Lee wrote:
I had to learn that I cannot always be in control of my life. God has the ultimate control because he knows what is best for my life. I have free will and am able to make my own decisions. However, these decisions need to be made according to what God wants for my life. My life plan does not always necessarily match with what God's plan for my life.
Prompt: Write a postcard from a mythical creature who travels by hot air balloon.
Pope Jon wrote:
First of all, I'm the realist.
Second, this Pokemon is not from the original 151, so it's not important that you recognize it in the least bit.
Drifloon.
What's sad, is that Drifloon is the not dumbest idea for a Pokemon. I can say with comfort that Klefki is the dumbest.
No, I didn't make either one up.
TO THE POSTCARD!
Drifloon,
Drifloon drifloon drifloon. Drif drif drifloon, loon drif loon loon drifloon. Drif loon, loon drif drifloon drifloon drifloon drif drif drif. Drifloon loon drif loon loon drifloon DRIFloon!
Drifloon drif,
Drifloon.
Prompt: What is your favorite natural sound? Describe it as if hearing it for the first time.
Chuck C. wrote:
Birds chirping? Beautiful. The frogs croaking in a pond? Haunting. My favorite natural sound? The thunderous, echoing, reverberating sound of human flatulence, especially when it is I that generate it. Nothing is more satisfying than shaking the windows with your butt wind. Nothing.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dana Lee wrote:
I had to learn that I cannot always be in control of my life. God has the ultimate control because he knows what is best for my life. I have free will and am able to make my own decisions. However, these decisions need to be made according to what God wants for my life. My life plan does not always necessarily match with what God's plan for my life.
Prompt: Write a postcard from a mythical creature who travels by hot air balloon.
Pope Jon wrote:
First of all, I'm the realist.
Second, this Pokemon is not from the original 151, so it's not important that you recognize it in the least bit.
Drifloon.
What's sad, is that Drifloon is the not dumbest idea for a Pokemon. I can say with comfort that Klefki is the dumbest.
No, I didn't make either one up.
TO THE POSTCARD!
Drifloon,
Drifloon drifloon drifloon. Drif drif drifloon, loon drif loon loon drifloon. Drif loon, loon drif drifloon drifloon drifloon drif drif drif. Drifloon loon drif loon loon drifloon DRIFloon!
Drifloon drif,
Drifloon.
Prompt: What is your favorite natural sound? Describe it as if hearing it for the first time.
Chuck C. wrote:
Birds chirping? Beautiful. The frogs croaking in a pond? Haunting. My favorite natural sound? The thunderous, echoing, reverberating sound of human flatulence, especially when it is I that generate it. Nothing is more satisfying than shaking the windows with your butt wind. Nothing.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Friday, June 19, 2015
Friday Favorites - Sound Off
Today's prompt: What is your favorite natural sound? Describe it as if hearing it for the first time.
Melody Joy wrote:
I love so many sounds from nature, which makes it difficult to just choose one, but I’m going to have to go with the sound of a cat purring. My favorite way to hear said sound is by laying my head on a happy cat.... Here goes the description....
She laid there in the sunlight, a satisfied smile curling up the side of her little kitty lips in a way I didn’t think was possible. Touching the warmth of her sun-bathed fur, I lowered myself and gently placed my head on her side. For a moment, it was joyful. Then, it became pure bliss as a deep rumbling sound started up from deep in her chest. At first, it sounded like a stick being bumped over a rugged surface, and then it evened out to a steady rolling of marbles together, changing slightly in pitch on the inhale and the exhale. It was the sound of contentment and love, and it brought unimaginable happiness to my heart as it continued while we shared a long moment on a lazy summer afternoon.
Pope Jon wrote:
I was sitting in my room at home, watching Spike T.V., and had just fallen asleep.
Suddenly, a something erupted beneath me!
I jumped up, shocked by the sudden pressure that had vanished. I scanned for a source, but I couldn't find one. It seemed like the couch had suddenly croaked, and sent air strait up my... non-face cheeks.
"What was that?!" I demanded to no one in particular, hoping desperately for an answer.
Then, the pressure returned! Since I was wide awake by this point, I could feel it welling up before it happened. This only made the sensation stranger, however, as concern and anticipation built together like Bob and Manny.
It wasn't pretty. The air pushed its way out, forcing me to allow passage. Then, a rather queer sound accompanied the gas leak, like a courier of mixed feelings.
I quickly realized that this feeling wasn't so bad, and despite the smell that also show up shortly later, it all ended rather quickly.
With a devious grin, I welcomed the next fart, and get to fully enjoy the jubilant announcement of the passing of my wind.
In case you weren't following along. I was talking about a fart.
Funky Aroma Readiness Trigger.
Dana Lee wrote:
I imagine laying in bed and hearing a thunderous roar outside my window.
I imagine being scared and delighted at the same time.
However could such a noise give me such delight?
I imagine driving in my car.
Hearing the roar and feeling it as it shakes my car.
I imagine being amazed.
I would wait outside to feel it.
I would wait outside to experience it first hand
The sound would embody my entire being.
Oh Thunder
How your sound I love to hear
You are so loud
You boom from the Heavens
Yet you are comforting
Melody Joy wrote:
I love so many sounds from nature, which makes it difficult to just choose one, but I’m going to have to go with the sound of a cat purring. My favorite way to hear said sound is by laying my head on a happy cat.... Here goes the description....
She laid there in the sunlight, a satisfied smile curling up the side of her little kitty lips in a way I didn’t think was possible. Touching the warmth of her sun-bathed fur, I lowered myself and gently placed my head on her side. For a moment, it was joyful. Then, it became pure bliss as a deep rumbling sound started up from deep in her chest. At first, it sounded like a stick being bumped over a rugged surface, and then it evened out to a steady rolling of marbles together, changing slightly in pitch on the inhale and the exhale. It was the sound of contentment and love, and it brought unimaginable happiness to my heart as it continued while we shared a long moment on a lazy summer afternoon.
Pope Jon wrote:
I was sitting in my room at home, watching Spike T.V., and had just fallen asleep.
Suddenly, a something erupted beneath me!
I jumped up, shocked by the sudden pressure that had vanished. I scanned for a source, but I couldn't find one. It seemed like the couch had suddenly croaked, and sent air strait up my... non-face cheeks.
"What was that?!" I demanded to no one in particular, hoping desperately for an answer.
Then, the pressure returned! Since I was wide awake by this point, I could feel it welling up before it happened. This only made the sensation stranger, however, as concern and anticipation built together like Bob and Manny.
It wasn't pretty. The air pushed its way out, forcing me to allow passage. Then, a rather queer sound accompanied the gas leak, like a courier of mixed feelings.
I quickly realized that this feeling wasn't so bad, and despite the smell that also show up shortly later, it all ended rather quickly.
With a devious grin, I welcomed the next fart, and get to fully enjoy the jubilant announcement of the passing of my wind.
In case you weren't following along. I was talking about a fart.
Funky Aroma Readiness Trigger.
Dana Lee wrote:
I imagine laying in bed and hearing a thunderous roar outside my window.
I imagine being scared and delighted at the same time.
However could such a noise give me such delight?
I imagine driving in my car.
Hearing the roar and feeling it as it shakes my car.
I imagine being amazed.
I would wait outside to feel it.
I would wait outside to experience it first hand
The sound would embody my entire being.
Oh Thunder
How your sound I love to hear
You are so loud
You boom from the Heavens
Yet you are comforting
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Wacky Wednesday - Mythical Postcards
Today's prompt: Write a postcard from a mythical creature who travels by hot air balloon.
Dana Lee wrote:
Dear mum and pop,
I am here traveling into Always Always Land. As you know I have been traveling by hot air balloon for the past week. I should be arriving shortly. I have high hopes that my class reunion will go swimmingly. Herman the Unicorn already promised to save me a dance. You know I have always had a crush on him. But I also know that Unicorns and Hippogriffs should never mate. You told me before that that is a dangerous combination. I never understood the true meaning of your warning until I met Thaddeus the Unigriff. He reeked of bad news.
Anyways, we are about to land so I will make sure to write you soon. Love,
Hermina
Chuck C. wrote:
Hey, this is Barish the Gnome again, coming at you from the spectacular Austrian country side. The hills are truly alive with the sound of awesome. I'm stuck here for a few days, as my balloon requires repairs from bird attacks. Hope I can get going soon; the beaches of Greece are calling me.
Melody Joy wrote:
Dearest Hubert:
I miss you! I’ve just passed the border and made it into the Netherlands! The balloon continues to fare well, as do I. I am so grateful for you and the rest of the fairies for supporting my travels. I look forward to returning to you with the many treasures I have picked up along my travels.
From: Jelina
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dana Lee wrote:
Dear mum and pop,
I am here traveling into Always Always Land. As you know I have been traveling by hot air balloon for the past week. I should be arriving shortly. I have high hopes that my class reunion will go swimmingly. Herman the Unicorn already promised to save me a dance. You know I have always had a crush on him. But I also know that Unicorns and Hippogriffs should never mate. You told me before that that is a dangerous combination. I never understood the true meaning of your warning until I met Thaddeus the Unigriff. He reeked of bad news.
Anyways, we are about to land so I will make sure to write you soon. Love,
Hermina
Chuck C. wrote:
Hey, this is Barish the Gnome again, coming at you from the spectacular Austrian country side. The hills are truly alive with the sound of awesome. I'm stuck here for a few days, as my balloon requires repairs from bird attacks. Hope I can get going soon; the beaches of Greece are calling me.
Melody Joy wrote:
Dearest Hubert:
I miss you! I’ve just passed the border and made it into the Netherlands! The balloon continues to fare well, as do I. I am so grateful for you and the rest of the fairies for supporting my travels. I look forward to returning to you with the many treasures I have picked up along my travels.
From: Jelina
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Monday, June 15, 2015
All About Me Monday - Hard Lessons
Today's Prompt: What is something you had to learn the hard way?
Chuck C. wrote:
Something I've learned the hard way? Yeah, cause that is a short list. It’s safe to say that life is one long string of learning things the hard way. I guess though, if pressed, one particular lesson stands out. Do not, under any circumstances, date a woman you've met in a mosh pit. It may sound fun, even adventurous, but it won't end well. Trust me.
Melody Joy wrote:
I feel like I have to learn everything the hard way since I often refuse to listen to advice and am convinced that things will work out differently than me. One major lesson comes to mind, though, regarding driving while distracted.
My first car was a red 92 Dodge Shadow. Not too long after having her, she blew a head gasket, but the repair cost was too much, so I was to drive her until she died, which kept things interesting because she stalled whenever I stopped for more than like 3 seconds... Anyway, I actually ended up getting her fixed by a friend of a friend for a fraction of the cost and was looking forward to the (slightly elongated) life of my very own car.
I was 17, and over confident in my driving abilities. It had been raining for several days, which I learned later makes the roads especially slick because the oils on the road hang out on top of the wet pavement. My car’s tires were also quite bald as I knew nothing of checking tread. To top that off, I had my brothers and a friend in the car, was trying to adjust the radio, and was also attempting to text a friend.
The light was green, so I was assuming that the people in front of me were still moving. However, a couple cars up someone stopped to let another person out of the bank. I looked up in time to slam on the breaks, but it didn’t do anything. I slammed into the car in front of me, an SUV. Being a big taller than my own car, their bumper went above mine perfectly.
I broke the pin that held their spare tire up beneath their car. They crushed the front of my car like a tin can. My poor car made it home, but to open the hood my dad had to later pry it open with a crowbar. The radiator was busted at least, and we’re not sure what else. How did I know the radiator was broken before opening up the hood? That’s another story titled “The Absolute Worst Weekend of My Life or That One Time My Beloved Cat Drank Radiator Fluid And Almost Died After I Crashed My Beloved Car While I Was Home Alone All Weekend.”
Pope Jon wrote:
I learned that I need to write these blog posts sooner. It's 3 am on Saturday morning, and Melody asks for these to be turned in by Saturday.
Now, it waiting until the last minute is something I've always done, and quite frankly, I'm not entirely sure that I've really learned the lesson. I'm afraid sometimes that I'm going to learn it the VERY hard way some time soon.
But the problem with waiting to do the blog posts is that I am now at my wit's end, meaning I'm just about out of wits. And in my amateur opinion, my wits are the reason people even read my posts!
Even after writing the above three paragraphs, my procrastinating self got caught on facebook again. Now I'm even more tired, and less likely to write something worthwhile. So, I guess you can look forward to seeing if I manage anything interesting for Wednesday and Friday!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Chuck C. wrote:
Something I've learned the hard way? Yeah, cause that is a short list. It’s safe to say that life is one long string of learning things the hard way. I guess though, if pressed, one particular lesson stands out. Do not, under any circumstances, date a woman you've met in a mosh pit. It may sound fun, even adventurous, but it won't end well. Trust me.
Melody Joy wrote:
I feel like I have to learn everything the hard way since I often refuse to listen to advice and am convinced that things will work out differently than me. One major lesson comes to mind, though, regarding driving while distracted.
My first car was a red 92 Dodge Shadow. Not too long after having her, she blew a head gasket, but the repair cost was too much, so I was to drive her until she died, which kept things interesting because she stalled whenever I stopped for more than like 3 seconds... Anyway, I actually ended up getting her fixed by a friend of a friend for a fraction of the cost and was looking forward to the (slightly elongated) life of my very own car.
I was 17, and over confident in my driving abilities. It had been raining for several days, which I learned later makes the roads especially slick because the oils on the road hang out on top of the wet pavement. My car’s tires were also quite bald as I knew nothing of checking tread. To top that off, I had my brothers and a friend in the car, was trying to adjust the radio, and was also attempting to text a friend.
The light was green, so I was assuming that the people in front of me were still moving. However, a couple cars up someone stopped to let another person out of the bank. I looked up in time to slam on the breaks, but it didn’t do anything. I slammed into the car in front of me, an SUV. Being a big taller than my own car, their bumper went above mine perfectly.
I broke the pin that held their spare tire up beneath their car. They crushed the front of my car like a tin can. My poor car made it home, but to open the hood my dad had to later pry it open with a crowbar. The radiator was busted at least, and we’re not sure what else. How did I know the radiator was broken before opening up the hood? That’s another story titled “The Absolute Worst Weekend of My Life or That One Time My Beloved Cat Drank Radiator Fluid And Almost Died After I Crashed My Beloved Car While I Was Home Alone All Weekend.”
Pope Jon wrote:
I learned that I need to write these blog posts sooner. It's 3 am on Saturday morning, and Melody asks for these to be turned in by Saturday.
Now, it waiting until the last minute is something I've always done, and quite frankly, I'm not entirely sure that I've really learned the lesson. I'm afraid sometimes that I'm going to learn it the VERY hard way some time soon.
But the problem with waiting to do the blog posts is that I am now at my wit's end, meaning I'm just about out of wits. And in my amateur opinion, my wits are the reason people even read my posts!
Even after writing the above three paragraphs, my procrastinating self got caught on facebook again. Now I'm even more tired, and less likely to write something worthwhile. So, I guess you can look forward to seeing if I manage anything interesting for Wednesday and Friday!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Friday, June 12, 2015
Friday Favorites - Flavorful
What is your favorite flavor of ice cream? Write about what would happen if everything you ate tasted like that.
Dana Lee wrote:
I love Moose Tracks. I only get it once a year for my ice cream so it is a special treat. If everything tasted like Moose Tracks I imagine one of two things would happen.
1. I would eat everything in site and probably gain 1,000,000 pounds. I would have no control over eating everything because it would be ridiculously delicious.
2. I would only eat once a year. I would feel as though the taste of the ice cream as a treat. This would cause me to only want it once a year. The benefit to this is that I would lose a lot of weight if I didn't die from hunger first.
Dan Christmann wrote:
If everything in the world tasted like pumpkin ice cream, I think that the first thing I would do would immediately consult a doctor, because I’m pretty sure that’s a sign that you are having some kind of stroke, or are dying.
But, barring that, I think the entire thing would be bloody fantastic, because technically I am tasting something every minute of every day. And so even if I got bored of that flavor, everything else, even inedible things, would still taste pretty decent. So I would probably make a career doing that, eating things that no one else could stand to eat. Like that fermented basking shark meat that some native tribes in Greenland eat. Either that, or I would become the healthiest man on the planet. It would revolutionize my diet. I could eat raw kale or broccoli day after day and, barring the texture factor, just keep on doing it as long as it kept me alive and kicking. Actually, if I think about it, it would also mean that I would never have to cook again because, aside from a few minor factors, cooking wouldn’t do a bit of good for me. No matter how much I braised, seared, broiled, or otherwise marinated my meals, everything would just come out as hot, cold, greasy or dry pumpkin ice cream.
Pope Jon wrote:
I'm a really REALLY big fan of raspberry anything, especially ice cream.
I mean, if everything tasted like raspberry, food would become all about texture, temperature, and appearance. It would actually be a vast contrast, as currently the taste is the primary factor involved with enjoying food.
I think I would want to just sip everything through a straw. Because without the flavor of steak, tacos, or pizza, what's the point of going through the trouble of tearing and cutting food apart? The one flavor you experience would likely end up being mainstreamed into an easily accessed format.
But then again, would I learn to value texture, temperature, and appearance to the point where flavor didn't matter? Would those become my way of enjoying food? I feel like with people who lose their taste, they tend to end up just slipping on smoothies anyway, so I'd probably follow in their foodsteps. Teehee! I made that pun on accident with a typo, but I absolutely love it.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dana Lee wrote:
I love Moose Tracks. I only get it once a year for my ice cream so it is a special treat. If everything tasted like Moose Tracks I imagine one of two things would happen.
1. I would eat everything in site and probably gain 1,000,000 pounds. I would have no control over eating everything because it would be ridiculously delicious.
2. I would only eat once a year. I would feel as though the taste of the ice cream as a treat. This would cause me to only want it once a year. The benefit to this is that I would lose a lot of weight if I didn't die from hunger first.
Dan Christmann wrote:
If everything in the world tasted like pumpkin ice cream, I think that the first thing I would do would immediately consult a doctor, because I’m pretty sure that’s a sign that you are having some kind of stroke, or are dying.
But, barring that, I think the entire thing would be bloody fantastic, because technically I am tasting something every minute of every day. And so even if I got bored of that flavor, everything else, even inedible things, would still taste pretty decent. So I would probably make a career doing that, eating things that no one else could stand to eat. Like that fermented basking shark meat that some native tribes in Greenland eat. Either that, or I would become the healthiest man on the planet. It would revolutionize my diet. I could eat raw kale or broccoli day after day and, barring the texture factor, just keep on doing it as long as it kept me alive and kicking. Actually, if I think about it, it would also mean that I would never have to cook again because, aside from a few minor factors, cooking wouldn’t do a bit of good for me. No matter how much I braised, seared, broiled, or otherwise marinated my meals, everything would just come out as hot, cold, greasy or dry pumpkin ice cream.
Pope Jon wrote:
I'm a really REALLY big fan of raspberry anything, especially ice cream.
I mean, if everything tasted like raspberry, food would become all about texture, temperature, and appearance. It would actually be a vast contrast, as currently the taste is the primary factor involved with enjoying food.
I think I would want to just sip everything through a straw. Because without the flavor of steak, tacos, or pizza, what's the point of going through the trouble of tearing and cutting food apart? The one flavor you experience would likely end up being mainstreamed into an easily accessed format.
But then again, would I learn to value texture, temperature, and appearance to the point where flavor didn't matter? Would those become my way of enjoying food? I feel like with people who lose their taste, they tend to end up just slipping on smoothies anyway, so I'd probably follow in their foodsteps. Teehee! I made that pun on accident with a typo, but I absolutely love it.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Wacky Wednesday - Octopus vs. Car vs. Tree
Today's prompt: Write an action scene that includes an octopus, a tree, and a racecar.
Pope Jon wrote:
Roger the Racer was determined to win. Nothing else mattered more to him. He was competing with one purpose: to save an endangered species: The Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus!
So far, the race had gone as was normal for Roger. He'd pulled ahead early, and was using his signature strategy to stay in the lead. He was an expert at preventing other racers from moving past him, much to their dismay.
As he approached a particularly wide turn, Roger knew he needed to pull out his secret weapon to keep the lead. With a calm but determined grimace, Roger pulled a tentacle shaped lever. Just as other drivers attempted to take advantage of the wide turn to pass Roger, Roger's octopus-themed vehicle, the Octoracer 8,000, lashed out with its eight tentacles and suctioned onto passing vehicles.
As the turn ended, Roger pushed the lever back in, and the tentacles pulled the other vehicles backwards, while propelling his own car forward at great speed. The other drivers were now hopelessly far behind, and Roger even glmipsed one of the octo-haters swerve off the road and crash into a tree.
Then he won, and the completely real and not made up or a hoax Pacific Northwest Tree Octopuses (Octopi? Octopusi?) were saved!
Dana Lee wrote:
Silly octopus. Everyone knows Octopuses cannot drive, let alone drive a race car.
Silly Octopus racing along the track
Hitting top speed
Watch out Octopus
Watch out
There is
a
tree
Splat
Silly Octopus
Stood no chance
Despite the warnings
The Octopus
is
dead.
Dan Cristmann wrote:
Crook. Crook. Crook.
The sound echoed through the water, rattling the coral and causing the sea creatures to dive back into their shoals and burrows. But then the thundering would pass and the water would cease rippling. One by one, the small fish darted out first, their colorful scales flashing in the light. The larger ones inched out warily, their longer memories reminding them to be wary. But soon they too joined the smaller ones out in the lances of sunlight that splashed down through the water. It was difficult to resist. No time in recent memory had there been such sunlight. And even with their longer memories, the older fish drifted out to bask in it. To take the opportunity to absorb some of the glorious heat before-
Crook. Crook. Crook
The thundering came again and even the young ones fled like minnows to their shelters under the rock. The process was always the same. A cycle of drifting, of forgetfulness, and sudden remembrance.
But there was something deep down that did not join them. Its eyes flashed in its burrow at the bottom of the floor. It did not leave, because it did not need to remember. It did not leave because it never forgot.
Crook. Crook. Crook.
Above them, the three Formula one racers blistered by. One by one they scorched the new pavement of the Troppicalsoundingname racetrack. In the stands, hordes of young, attractive people roared, each one of them so utterly sure of themselves that the day would never end, and that they, along with it, would live forever under the smell of the sun and roasted asphalt.
Billionaire playboy and prince of Tropicalsoundingname, Sir Richard Pumpaloaf, offered a dazzling smile as he blew past the checkpoint line. This had been the best idea he’d ever had. The section of the royal forest they’d demolished for the project had been marshy and unattractive, no use for anyone. He had saved, he thought, looking at the attractive coconut seat belted to his passenger seat, the only worthwhile tree in the place. The coconut tree now rested comfortably in the royal garden, much more comfortably than where he had found it, hanging over the water, about to take a dip, it had looked like.
Crook. Crook. Crook.
The racers blew by a fourth time, ready now for the homestretch. Pumpaloaf’s car trembled, and he turned over his shoulder, grinning. Yuri, the Lithuanian, had crept up behind him, and now was bearing down on his bumper, trying to get past him on the last leg of the race. The prince laughed a quick three salvo retort, and turned his concentration back to the road. He patted the coconut in the passenger’s seat and took hold of the shifter. It was time to show that filthy Soviet how it was done.
He was pulling ahead, blistering past the ocean stretch, when he felt a small impact on the side of the car. Suddenly, he jerked forward, nearly smashing into the front window. Trying to recover himself, he gunned the engine, but the wheels spun uselessly behind him as he and the car were lifted high into the air. Outside in the stands, spectators pointed, screamed, and started running. The prince was on the verge of it himself when he saw the massive tentacles snaking out at him from the sea.
Sensing that it now had a firm grip on the car, the gigantic octopus reached through the windows and pried off its roof, flinging the flimsy piece of metal into the stands. The shoddily manufactured structure collapsed in a cloud of dust. Far away, the Lithuanian and Nepalese computer mogul gaped on, their cars still running, keys forgotten in the ignition. Prince Pumpaloaf scrambled over the seats as the tentacles brought him over the water, and began to shake the vehicle violently.
It was an eternity suspended over that water, an eternity where the only heir to the Tropicalsoundingname throne clung only by the strap of a seatbelt as the great seabeast rattled his multimillion dollar car above its head like a can of cheap pretzels. But it was over before it had begun. Over the screams of the crowd, he could hear a soft plunk, and then seconds later was crawling toward mercifully firm ground. Turning back to his vehicle, he saw that the damage was not extremely extensive, and breathed a sigh of relief. But then stopped short. Something was missing.
Over in the water, the grumpy octopus wrapped one of his arms around the coconut and pulled it down after him under the surface of the water. Three bubbles rose to break the waves as he descended back to his lair. To anyone that might have been paying attention at the time, they might have sounded something like “Crook, Crook, Crook.”
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Pope Jon wrote:
Roger the Racer was determined to win. Nothing else mattered more to him. He was competing with one purpose: to save an endangered species: The Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus!
So far, the race had gone as was normal for Roger. He'd pulled ahead early, and was using his signature strategy to stay in the lead. He was an expert at preventing other racers from moving past him, much to their dismay.
As he approached a particularly wide turn, Roger knew he needed to pull out his secret weapon to keep the lead. With a calm but determined grimace, Roger pulled a tentacle shaped lever. Just as other drivers attempted to take advantage of the wide turn to pass Roger, Roger's octopus-themed vehicle, the Octoracer 8,000, lashed out with its eight tentacles and suctioned onto passing vehicles.
As the turn ended, Roger pushed the lever back in, and the tentacles pulled the other vehicles backwards, while propelling his own car forward at great speed. The other drivers were now hopelessly far behind, and Roger even glmipsed one of the octo-haters swerve off the road and crash into a tree.
Then he won, and the completely real and not made up or a hoax Pacific Northwest Tree Octopuses (Octopi? Octopusi?) were saved!
Dana Lee wrote:
Silly octopus. Everyone knows Octopuses cannot drive, let alone drive a race car.
Silly Octopus racing along the track
Hitting top speed
Watch out Octopus
Watch out
There is
a
tree
Splat
Silly Octopus
Stood no chance
Despite the warnings
The Octopus
is
dead.
Dan Cristmann wrote:
Crook. Crook. Crook.
The sound echoed through the water, rattling the coral and causing the sea creatures to dive back into their shoals and burrows. But then the thundering would pass and the water would cease rippling. One by one, the small fish darted out first, their colorful scales flashing in the light. The larger ones inched out warily, their longer memories reminding them to be wary. But soon they too joined the smaller ones out in the lances of sunlight that splashed down through the water. It was difficult to resist. No time in recent memory had there been such sunlight. And even with their longer memories, the older fish drifted out to bask in it. To take the opportunity to absorb some of the glorious heat before-
Crook. Crook. Crook
The thundering came again and even the young ones fled like minnows to their shelters under the rock. The process was always the same. A cycle of drifting, of forgetfulness, and sudden remembrance.
But there was something deep down that did not join them. Its eyes flashed in its burrow at the bottom of the floor. It did not leave, because it did not need to remember. It did not leave because it never forgot.
Crook. Crook. Crook.
Above them, the three Formula one racers blistered by. One by one they scorched the new pavement of the Troppicalsoundingname racetrack. In the stands, hordes of young, attractive people roared, each one of them so utterly sure of themselves that the day would never end, and that they, along with it, would live forever under the smell of the sun and roasted asphalt.
Billionaire playboy and prince of Tropicalsoundingname, Sir Richard Pumpaloaf, offered a dazzling smile as he blew past the checkpoint line. This had been the best idea he’d ever had. The section of the royal forest they’d demolished for the project had been marshy and unattractive, no use for anyone. He had saved, he thought, looking at the attractive coconut seat belted to his passenger seat, the only worthwhile tree in the place. The coconut tree now rested comfortably in the royal garden, much more comfortably than where he had found it, hanging over the water, about to take a dip, it had looked like.
Crook. Crook. Crook.
The racers blew by a fourth time, ready now for the homestretch. Pumpaloaf’s car trembled, and he turned over his shoulder, grinning. Yuri, the Lithuanian, had crept up behind him, and now was bearing down on his bumper, trying to get past him on the last leg of the race. The prince laughed a quick three salvo retort, and turned his concentration back to the road. He patted the coconut in the passenger’s seat and took hold of the shifter. It was time to show that filthy Soviet how it was done.
He was pulling ahead, blistering past the ocean stretch, when he felt a small impact on the side of the car. Suddenly, he jerked forward, nearly smashing into the front window. Trying to recover himself, he gunned the engine, but the wheels spun uselessly behind him as he and the car were lifted high into the air. Outside in the stands, spectators pointed, screamed, and started running. The prince was on the verge of it himself when he saw the massive tentacles snaking out at him from the sea.
Sensing that it now had a firm grip on the car, the gigantic octopus reached through the windows and pried off its roof, flinging the flimsy piece of metal into the stands. The shoddily manufactured structure collapsed in a cloud of dust. Far away, the Lithuanian and Nepalese computer mogul gaped on, their cars still running, keys forgotten in the ignition. Prince Pumpaloaf scrambled over the seats as the tentacles brought him over the water, and began to shake the vehicle violently.
It was an eternity suspended over that water, an eternity where the only heir to the Tropicalsoundingname throne clung only by the strap of a seatbelt as the great seabeast rattled his multimillion dollar car above its head like a can of cheap pretzels. But it was over before it had begun. Over the screams of the crowd, he could hear a soft plunk, and then seconds later was crawling toward mercifully firm ground. Turning back to his vehicle, he saw that the damage was not extremely extensive, and breathed a sigh of relief. But then stopped short. Something was missing.
Over in the water, the grumpy octopus wrapped one of his arms around the coconut and pulled it down after him under the surface of the water. Three bubbles rose to break the waves as he descended back to his lair. To anyone that might have been paying attention at the time, they might have sounded something like “Crook, Crook, Crook.”
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Monday, June 8, 2015
All About Me Monday - Fruit Salad
Today's Prompt: If you were a fruit, what type would you be? Why?
Dan Christmann wrote:
I think if I were a fruit I would be a tomato, not because there are any specific qualities of the tomato that I think are like me, but because of its ambiguous history. I think it was the medieval Europeans who thought that the tomato was extremely poisonous? When I was a kid I think I perfectly understood that sentiment, though now I also see positive sides to them. Plus, is it even a fruit? Of course it is, because science says so. But the tomato is a little weird like that and like me. We are both the outsiders in your salad bowl.
Dana Lee wrote:
Strawberries
so sensual and sweet
How I wish one day
I could be sensual
I could be sexy
Strawberries
Let me embrace you
Let me be you
Let me
for just one day
Have your sexiness
and your sensuousness
Pope Jon wrote:
Probably an eggplant.
I don't really have a lot of deep, philosophical reasons for this. I suppose I chose eggplant primarily because eggplants are very off-beat. They don't just to your mind right away as a choice of fruit. Not to say people don't think of me when they think of humans, it's just that I'm very unorthodox.
Here's me being cuddled by a cute chick:
Also, I've been told by multiple people that just the thought or sight of me is enough to make them laugh, and I feel like eggplants have a similar vibe to them. It's almost just funny that they exist.
Plus, I could totally see myself becoming a wizard someday, and then I could be just like this guy:
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dan Christmann wrote:
I think if I were a fruit I would be a tomato, not because there are any specific qualities of the tomato that I think are like me, but because of its ambiguous history. I think it was the medieval Europeans who thought that the tomato was extremely poisonous? When I was a kid I think I perfectly understood that sentiment, though now I also see positive sides to them. Plus, is it even a fruit? Of course it is, because science says so. But the tomato is a little weird like that and like me. We are both the outsiders in your salad bowl.
Dana Lee wrote:
Strawberries
so sensual and sweet
How I wish one day
I could be sensual
I could be sexy
Strawberries
Let me embrace you
Let me be you
Let me
for just one day
Have your sexiness
and your sensuousness
Pope Jon wrote:
Probably an eggplant.
I don't really have a lot of deep, philosophical reasons for this. I suppose I chose eggplant primarily because eggplants are very off-beat. They don't just to your mind right away as a choice of fruit. Not to say people don't think of me when they think of humans, it's just that I'm very unorthodox.
Here's me being cuddled by a cute chick:
Also, I've been told by multiple people that just the thought or sight of me is enough to make them laugh, and I feel like eggplants have a similar vibe to them. It's almost just funny that they exist.
Plus, I could totally see myself becoming a wizard someday, and then I could be just like this guy:
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Saturday Extras!
Prompt: Do you have any tattoos? If so, what are they? If not, do you want any and what would you like?
Dan Christmann wrote:
At this point in my life I have not yet besmirched my smooth body with the needle. I don’t actually have any problems with tattoos, but my taste in what I think is cool or interesting changes so regularly that there’s no way I could choose something and not think it was a stupid decision a year later. If I were to choose to ink my body immediately though, I can think of three ideas off of the top of my head that I think might be interesting.
The first would be a picture of Soren Kierkegaard dressed up like Batman. Underneath would be the caption The Dark Knight of Faith.
The second would be a highly detailed rendering of Philip K. Dick’s face on my face. I think he would probably appreciate the irony.
The third would be the entire text of Imre Kertesz’s Kaddish for an Unborn Child in spirals around my torso.
Dana Lee wrote:
Do you have any tattoos? If so, what are they? If not, do you want any and what would you like? I do not currently have any tattoos but would not mind getting one. My mom, sisters and I are all supposed to go together to get rose tattoos. We all have different tastes in roses but this is something I would love to share with them. My last name is also Scottish. I did some research into the clan I would belong in given my last name. The motto of my clan, the Sinclair clan, was something along the lines of "All work must be done in the name of God." That is another tattoo I would not mind getting because it is a nice reminder.
Prompt: Write about a basketball player that finds himself stranded on a utopian island.
Melody Joy wrote:
Spike Jordan wasn’t the best basketball player, nor was he the most well-known, but the latter changed when he disappeared while flying his personal plane over the Bermuda Triangle and became yet another mysterious disappearance in this region.
When the plane’s instruments started going crazy, he immediately began lowering the plane as much as possible just to be safe. When the engine started cutting out, he prepared for an emergency water landing since there was no land in sight. He felt like time stopped as he directed the plane toward the water and waited for the jolt.
He was nearly at the water when he squeezed his eyes shut and braced for impact. But, instead of the crash of a small plane hitting the water, he suddenly heard things scraping against the sides of the plane as he and the craft were bounced from side to side before coming to a sudden stop. Spike opened his eyes cautiously to see leaves and branches pressed against the front and sides of the plane.
Mostly uninjured, he somehow managed to get the door to the plane opened and climbed down the tree that he found himself in. Looking around, he found himself on a utopian island, abundant with fresh fruit and flowing with fresh clean water. Animals scurried around in the brush carelessly.
Spike looked back up toward the plane where it rested high above his head, and jumped in surprise as he saw nearly a dozen other planes in nearby trees, all from a variety of eras but all looking as fresh as his. As he marveled at this, a door to an old plane opened up and a young woman stepped out with a big smile on her face.
She scampered down a vine ladder and stuck out her hand. With a twinkle in her eye, she introduced herself, “I’m Amelia. What brings you here?”
Prompt: Who was your favorite teacher? Write them a note.
Pope Jon wrote:
That'd be Mr. Shire. Although I don't actually remember how to spell his last name. Or his first, for that matter.
He was my 6th grade science teacher, and spent a good portion of he school year screwing around with other teachers, much to us students' great joy.
Mr. Shire:
I would just like to thank you for being so wildly immature. You made me comfortable with the fact that I still found fart jokes funny, and encouraged me to continue to do so. You were one of the first to display absolute terror that is a quiet person turning angry, as well as the effectiveness of said tactic. I remember that on the first day of school, you gave us some paper, telling us to return it to you on the last day of school. As I was the only person in the classroom to remember, including you, I recall following you around after everyone else in the school had run off for summer vacation while you hunted down my candy reward. Anyway, it had been real. I don't know if you'd be proud of me, or whatever, but I think the fact that I graduated highschool should count for something. Even if it was just homeschooling, Wait... I was homeschooled... by my mother... my mother was my teacher, and I chose someone else over her... she reads these blog posts consistently... what have I done?! If only I remembered how to delete words on this infernal contraption! Musn't... send... NOOO!!!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dan Christmann wrote:
At this point in my life I have not yet besmirched my smooth body with the needle. I don’t actually have any problems with tattoos, but my taste in what I think is cool or interesting changes so regularly that there’s no way I could choose something and not think it was a stupid decision a year later. If I were to choose to ink my body immediately though, I can think of three ideas off of the top of my head that I think might be interesting.
The first would be a picture of Soren Kierkegaard dressed up like Batman. Underneath would be the caption The Dark Knight of Faith.
The second would be a highly detailed rendering of Philip K. Dick’s face on my face. I think he would probably appreciate the irony.
The third would be the entire text of Imre Kertesz’s Kaddish for an Unborn Child in spirals around my torso.
Dana Lee wrote:
Do you have any tattoos? If so, what are they? If not, do you want any and what would you like? I do not currently have any tattoos but would not mind getting one. My mom, sisters and I are all supposed to go together to get rose tattoos. We all have different tastes in roses but this is something I would love to share with them. My last name is also Scottish. I did some research into the clan I would belong in given my last name. The motto of my clan, the Sinclair clan, was something along the lines of "All work must be done in the name of God." That is another tattoo I would not mind getting because it is a nice reminder.
Prompt: Write about a basketball player that finds himself stranded on a utopian island.
Melody Joy wrote:
Spike Jordan wasn’t the best basketball player, nor was he the most well-known, but the latter changed when he disappeared while flying his personal plane over the Bermuda Triangle and became yet another mysterious disappearance in this region.
When the plane’s instruments started going crazy, he immediately began lowering the plane as much as possible just to be safe. When the engine started cutting out, he prepared for an emergency water landing since there was no land in sight. He felt like time stopped as he directed the plane toward the water and waited for the jolt.
He was nearly at the water when he squeezed his eyes shut and braced for impact. But, instead of the crash of a small plane hitting the water, he suddenly heard things scraping against the sides of the plane as he and the craft were bounced from side to side before coming to a sudden stop. Spike opened his eyes cautiously to see leaves and branches pressed against the front and sides of the plane.
Mostly uninjured, he somehow managed to get the door to the plane opened and climbed down the tree that he found himself in. Looking around, he found himself on a utopian island, abundant with fresh fruit and flowing with fresh clean water. Animals scurried around in the brush carelessly.
Spike looked back up toward the plane where it rested high above his head, and jumped in surprise as he saw nearly a dozen other planes in nearby trees, all from a variety of eras but all looking as fresh as his. As he marveled at this, a door to an old plane opened up and a young woman stepped out with a big smile on her face.
She scampered down a vine ladder and stuck out her hand. With a twinkle in her eye, she introduced herself, “I’m Amelia. What brings you here?”
Prompt: Who was your favorite teacher? Write them a note.
Pope Jon wrote:
That'd be Mr. Shire. Although I don't actually remember how to spell his last name. Or his first, for that matter.
He was my 6th grade science teacher, and spent a good portion of he school year screwing around with other teachers, much to us students' great joy.
Mr. Shire:
I would just like to thank you for being so wildly immature. You made me comfortable with the fact that I still found fart jokes funny, and encouraged me to continue to do so. You were one of the first to display absolute terror that is a quiet person turning angry, as well as the effectiveness of said tactic. I remember that on the first day of school, you gave us some paper, telling us to return it to you on the last day of school. As I was the only person in the classroom to remember, including you, I recall following you around after everyone else in the school had run off for summer vacation while you hunted down my candy reward. Anyway, it had been real. I don't know if you'd be proud of me, or whatever, but I think the fact that I graduated highschool should count for something. Even if it was just homeschooling, Wait... I was homeschooled... by my mother... my mother was my teacher, and I chose someone else over her... she reads these blog posts consistently... what have I done?! If only I remembered how to delete words on this infernal contraption! Musn't... send... NOOO!!!
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Friday Favorites - Teacher Time
Today's prompt: Who was your favorite teacher? Write them a note.
Dana Lee wrote:
In a previous post this year I wrote a small note to an old high school English teacher. The words still hold true. However, I would like to take the time to write a note to another high school teacher who really inspired me. Unfortunately he passed away while I was in school so will be unable to read it.
Dear Mr. Humphry,
I know you taught biology but did you know you taught us more than that? You showed me what it meant to be a Christian. You taught me that you do not always have to preach to people in order to show your love of God. You taught me how to love everyone around me. You taught me how to show Gods love through actions but as well as through words if people needed to hear it. You also taught me that being a Christian is cool. That this is something I should embrace because it is a gift.
Thank you. You will never understand how much you changed my life. How much you changed the lives of everyone who walked through the doors of the high school while you were there. Whenever I hear "Amazing Grace," I see you singing it. I can hear your voice radiating through the school halls.
I will never be able to thank you enough for doing all you did for me. I know you are blessed to be in Heaven with Jesus. I can only imagine that you are continuing to inspire everyone you crosses your path there.
Melody Joy wrote:
My favorite teacher would be Dr. Brooks, who insisted that we simply call her Michelle. I had her for Composition 101 and Creative Writing in college.
Dear Michelle,
Thank you for all of the inspiration and encouragement you gave me during the time I spent in your classes. Despite the fact that I was so young in your first class (just 16 and still a Jr. in high school), you treated me with the same respect as you did the rest of the class and gave my writings the same weight as the others. For the first time in my life, it made me feel like I really had something important to share and that maybe what I made was good enough.
I will never forget the time you were talking about the struggles of writing and how most writers (yourself included) spend an hour writing just one or two quality paragraphs, or even sentences. You talked about the writers that were both prolific and great, the category which I fell into, and still do. You also said you hated me for it in front of the class, and having my skills envied by an actual published writer really helped to make me feel like I could make writing my life.
I wish I could say that I allowed your encouragement to push me to finish at least one of my many novels, or that I have since gone out and published many things under my name, but the truth is that while I am making a good second income writing, it’s not under my name nor is it usually about anything that I am passionate about. I write articles, primarily for website marketing purposes.
Sure, it’s covered a few plane tickets along the way, but the satisfaction of making a living doing something you love when you’re doing it for other people and nobody even knows that you were the one that did it is minimal at best. I can only hope that I will take this moment of reflection will get me motivated to devote at least some of my time to my own writing projects.
-Melody Joy
Dan Christmann wrote:
Paigeby!
It’s been a while, eh, mon capitan? Are you still in town? I keep intending to call you, but, as always, life occurs and I put it off until the next day. And the next. And the next.
Are you well? I remember the last time we talked that you were recovering from some medical issues that I, unfortunately, failed to note in exact detail. But when we spoke, I remember that you seemed suddenly very old. I suppose that, numerically speaking, you have always been up there, even when Chloe and I were in high school and you came to teach us British accents for Pride and Prejudice. But it was something I never really realized until I saw you move with a cane, or when I sent an unorganized bit of my thesis to you and you just didn’t understand it. Not that anyone who wasn’t Rena or I would have been able to penetrate what I was getting at, at that point. But I think in so many things you and I had always been of one mind. And you, despite the decades between us, had never seemed old. You weren’t an authority, which I generally associate with age still. You were always, and have always been, my friend.
And so it was strange to see you limp like that, and for me to write something that you couldn’t seem to comprehend. Because it means that you are entering into a part of life that I don’t understand, and that I can’t follow. You are fading from my sight, Michael. And I so want to be able to see you longer, for as long as possible, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep up with you. I wish I could. The days move far too quickly now for me to count. And I don’t know how to deal with this.
My dear old friend, I am far too distracted by this world to see where your eyes fade off to in the pauses in our conversation. Someday, when there is time, will you tell me what is there? Or, if you can, write to me. It doesn’t have to be anything special. But write it.
-Dan
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
Dana Lee wrote:
In a previous post this year I wrote a small note to an old high school English teacher. The words still hold true. However, I would like to take the time to write a note to another high school teacher who really inspired me. Unfortunately he passed away while I was in school so will be unable to read it.
Dear Mr. Humphry,
I know you taught biology but did you know you taught us more than that? You showed me what it meant to be a Christian. You taught me that you do not always have to preach to people in order to show your love of God. You taught me how to love everyone around me. You taught me how to show Gods love through actions but as well as through words if people needed to hear it. You also taught me that being a Christian is cool. That this is something I should embrace because it is a gift.
Thank you. You will never understand how much you changed my life. How much you changed the lives of everyone who walked through the doors of the high school while you were there. Whenever I hear "Amazing Grace," I see you singing it. I can hear your voice radiating through the school halls.
I will never be able to thank you enough for doing all you did for me. I know you are blessed to be in Heaven with Jesus. I can only imagine that you are continuing to inspire everyone you crosses your path there.
Melody Joy wrote:
My favorite teacher would be Dr. Brooks, who insisted that we simply call her Michelle. I had her for Composition 101 and Creative Writing in college.
Dear Michelle,
Thank you for all of the inspiration and encouragement you gave me during the time I spent in your classes. Despite the fact that I was so young in your first class (just 16 and still a Jr. in high school), you treated me with the same respect as you did the rest of the class and gave my writings the same weight as the others. For the first time in my life, it made me feel like I really had something important to share and that maybe what I made was good enough.
I will never forget the time you were talking about the struggles of writing and how most writers (yourself included) spend an hour writing just one or two quality paragraphs, or even sentences. You talked about the writers that were both prolific and great, the category which I fell into, and still do. You also said you hated me for it in front of the class, and having my skills envied by an actual published writer really helped to make me feel like I could make writing my life.
I wish I could say that I allowed your encouragement to push me to finish at least one of my many novels, or that I have since gone out and published many things under my name, but the truth is that while I am making a good second income writing, it’s not under my name nor is it usually about anything that I am passionate about. I write articles, primarily for website marketing purposes.
Sure, it’s covered a few plane tickets along the way, but the satisfaction of making a living doing something you love when you’re doing it for other people and nobody even knows that you were the one that did it is minimal at best. I can only hope that I will take this moment of reflection will get me motivated to devote at least some of my time to my own writing projects.
-Melody Joy
Dan Christmann wrote:
Paigeby!
It’s been a while, eh, mon capitan? Are you still in town? I keep intending to call you, but, as always, life occurs and I put it off until the next day. And the next. And the next.
Are you well? I remember the last time we talked that you were recovering from some medical issues that I, unfortunately, failed to note in exact detail. But when we spoke, I remember that you seemed suddenly very old. I suppose that, numerically speaking, you have always been up there, even when Chloe and I were in high school and you came to teach us British accents for Pride and Prejudice. But it was something I never really realized until I saw you move with a cane, or when I sent an unorganized bit of my thesis to you and you just didn’t understand it. Not that anyone who wasn’t Rena or I would have been able to penetrate what I was getting at, at that point. But I think in so many things you and I had always been of one mind. And you, despite the decades between us, had never seemed old. You weren’t an authority, which I generally associate with age still. You were always, and have always been, my friend.
And so it was strange to see you limp like that, and for me to write something that you couldn’t seem to comprehend. Because it means that you are entering into a part of life that I don’t understand, and that I can’t follow. You are fading from my sight, Michael. And I so want to be able to see you longer, for as long as possible, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep up with you. I wish I could. The days move far too quickly now for me to count. And I don’t know how to deal with this.
My dear old friend, I am far too distracted by this world to see where your eyes fade off to in the pauses in our conversation. Someday, when there is time, will you tell me what is there? Or, if you can, write to me. It doesn’t have to be anything special. But write it.
-Dan
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
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