there are many stories in this world. Personal stories, stories of friends, stories that come from small things like going to a beach, or… walking in a park. All of it comes from one’s imagination, like this story. Humans are cool.
Stories are the gateway to someone’s life. To understand someone, you have to know their stories. More than the stories of people’s past, it is their response to it that shapes them and thus is vital in understanding them. Stories are like history except all people have the opportunity to write them – not just the ‘victors’. It’s a view of society, fiction or not. They are an escape.
stories are superb things. They are the evolution. Stories are the reason we believe in this world and other things may it be god or wars or countries. Without stories nothing is possible.
my boyfriend took me to prom one night and i looked very pretty. we were such a good looking couple
later we drove to the lake about 4 in the morning and he was so nervous and then he asked me out
i said yes and then i gave him a long kiss
i will never forget that night. <3
I have a million stories to tell, but to whom do i share them? Only one, only one girl do i wish to explain my lifes adventures, only one do i wish to share those adventures.
They were like magic. The words woven around, touching each of our hearts and minds. I believed I could touch stars when he spoke; and swim across the sea to the untouchable lands. A friend told me he felt as if he could fly when the stories were spoken, woven like a spiders web in circles. All making us believe in the impossible but it was impossible. In those moments we were anything, anyone we wanted to be. But now, with the bars slamming shut I gripped the iron bars and stared out. Knowing that stories were just stories and everything was untouchable.
I have no more stories to tell the world. I guess after i turned 21 my life got kinda boring. i’m sure this is only a slump. when i wake up tomorrow the adventurer will be back; slaying dragons and laying damsels…. that is the way things should, and always will be
“That’s enough now,” she said, to my disappointment, “Goodnight dearie”
She kissed me gently on my forehead as I slowly leaned to the chilly grass.
I was annoyed. Her stories never ended. The beginnings were wonderful and they developed to a thrilling climax. But the excitement would always end there. A good story always has a beginning, middle and end.
Where had the endings wandered off to… I wondered wistfully.
amanda bynes has stories
the likes of which you’ll never know
she’s seen the darkness
and made it through the light
sunshine running through her veins
illuminating her thunder
as it crashes on you
ruining your night
because you dare to queston
what amanda bynes means to civilization
Stories are what I’m expected to write here, but I don’t think I am properly equipped for that. I do love good stories though, I need to start reading more and more of them to make myself a more cultured person. Stories have been around forever and they definitely will not go anywhere, any time soon
stories newspaper pulp, yellow corners smell like ink, like black fingertips, scratch your neck and leave a smear, stories around a campfire dancing, wet eyes, dry eyes, the quiet of the night and the woods, the expanse of the night
We’ve all got stories. Some are more interesting than others, but I guess that really depends on the reader. Sharing stories can help people understand you better, but sometimes it’s just too scary to share.
Writing doesn’t always have to be all about stories. Personal memoirs and descriptive pieces can sometimes have as much interest and impact as any plot line you could develop, whether real or fiction. Writing is about words and how they affect the reader, combining 26 measly letters into so many different combinations it’s astounding. Writing within itself already tells a story.
Stories are nice. I like telling stories. I’d say I’m a relatively good story teller, the way I can craft them in to grand schemes and add humorous tones to them. I like hearing peals of laughter around me as I go on and on about things that happened when I was little, or last week or even in the past 20 minutes. What i love most though, is that somewhere on this planet, is another one meant for me, studying, reading, laughing as he tells stories, and one day, when we meet, I’ll get to hear all his amazing stories and we’ll hear each others laughter and I’ll let out a sigh followed by “Wanna hear a story?” and his eyes will glisten and crinkle as he laughs and it will be a symphony to my ears. Until then, I’ll keep telling my stories, I’ll knock them down one by one, one more story closer to his.
i like things that are stories. Many times things have no purpose. Those are not stories, those are boring. I an not boring. I swear. But no one loves me. Please someone love me. I want to die.
There are many stories to tell about my life. which one would you like to hear? The one about my father? The one about my mother? Do you want their version…or mine? It has been said that there is one side of the story, and then the other side of the story, and that somewhere in the middle of these stories lies the truth. I will tell you both stories, and then I will let you decide.
She tells them stories so they might relish the process of imagination. She tells them stories so they’ll have something to remember when she’s gone, and that will be all too soon. She likes the looks of wonder that surface on their childish faces, pink and naive, eyes widened with sweet, fragile wonder. The stories they will remember, perhaps, even after they’ve forgotten her.
Since I was a little girl, I wrote stories and poetry. Grandpa’s great boating accident, poems about rabbits and flowers, diary entries for an imaginary adventure happening only in my head. I had frozen tigers in the back yard that came to life in the moonlight, a gorilla in my attic with an appetite for fathers, angry snowbeasts that wanted their snowballs freed from our kitchen freezer. Sadness captured, sweet moments immortalized, thoughts cemented onto paper: there are all there waiting to surface again. My aunt told me I had a writer’s spirit born into my heart. Now each time I pause to let the words seep through my fingertips into written form, my aunt’s spirit smiles at my side as my hearts muse.”
Stories are wonderful things that hold many details of life that we are too scared to really think about. We pass stories down our family to preserve these thoughts of life without the fear of being forgotten
Stores are great because they can convey information that I would normally not know or care about, but maybe the story is great and then I will start to care about it and that would be good because stories have the power to do that even when the story is boring it can be somewhat entertaining because stories are like that some people tell good stories but mostly people are terrible story tellers but sometimes they are good I like stories.
I tried to pry them from my head, but nothing came. I waited for them to float down from the sky and land in my lap. I wanted so badly to kiss the pages with my fingers and have stories come to life in my presence, but it never happened. I kissed my papers and held them tight, but no words ever came, so I had to go find them; I had to tell my story.
I want to tell stories. But every time I begin one I find that it resembles another. I start writing and it suddenly sounds suspiciously like the plot of a book or movie I’ve seen before. Are there any original stories left? What makes a new story about the same old thing more exciting than any other? How do you come up with something never before written down?
tell them and yell them be colorful about frogs and places and hair color and places like castles and who was wearing orange shirts and maybe pants or smelling fruit or leaves and flowers
Anita had many stories accumluated over her travels. One didn’t spend years on the road as a pokemon trainer travelling hither and yonder without stumbling across some rather dubious and amusing things.
Stories tell of beginning and endings. Stories grant inspiration and depression. They can take one to whole new worlds or leave on with feet firmly on the ground. Stories are magic, plain and simple.
I love listening to stories. I love waiting for the next exciting moment in the story and wondering where it is going to lead to. I love telling stories. I get so excited when others get to hear things that I have seen/heard before from my perspective. I love stories.
A neo natal baby heard harry potter, and wanted to live until she found out the ending, a 46 year old with more than half the book written is bored with his story and wants to switch novels and all the while narratives and characters in life murky up the linear novel like a disruptive technology..and most of the time, the stories just don’t make sense.
Some people write stories just because. Other people actually have a story to tell. We all actually have stories to tell, but some are too difficult to share with others.
There were little stories that passed from mouth to mouth and these little stories were becoming truer every time it was passed. Like how Joanna disappeared from school and is rumored to have stepped out of the windowsill of her bedroom only to find herself a bloody mess all over her grandma’s shrubs. But of course, when this reached Ben he smirked bitterly, believing that it couldn’t have happened and he wouldn’t let it happen.
The adventures we go on now become the stories we laugh at later. We will cherish the memories forever and never forget them. 14 days until my summer really starts and I can’t wait for you to come home.
It was a blustery morning in Rome. Parsinian strode up the cobblestone stairway with only one thing on his mind, he must stop David and Michaelangelo from sleeping with that whore. He spied Medusa from behind, just as she was slipping David’s pants off. Parsinian lunged forward and sliced her blind fold, and poof… David was no more. Michaelangelo swung his blade, beheading both Parsinian and Medusa with the single swish of his blade. He then decided to consider himself a sculptor.
Everyone has their own story.
But what most people don’t realize, is that although some stories are definitely more interesting than others, every single one deserves to be heard.
We all write these stories we don’t even know are true. But they are in our heads, and the truth we see is our truth, the stories we tell ourselves are ours.
there are many stories in this world. Personal stories, stories of friends, stories that come from small things like going to a beach, or… walking in a park. All of it comes from one’s imagination, like this story. Humans are cool.
Stories are the gateway to someone’s life. To understand someone, you have to know their stories. More than the stories of people’s past, it is their response to it that shapes them and thus is vital in understanding them. Stories are like history except all people have the opportunity to write them – not just the ‘victors’. It’s a view of society, fiction or not. They are an escape.
stories are superb things. They are the evolution. Stories are the reason we believe in this world and other things may it be god or wars or countries. Without stories nothing is possible.
my boyfriend took me to prom one night and i looked very pretty. we were such a good looking couple
later we drove to the lake about 4 in the morning and he was so nervous and then he asked me out
i said yes and then i gave him a long kiss
i will never forget that night. <3
In the distant azure sky,
years and years to come,
stories to unfold and tell,
love that swells and dwells.
I have a million stories to tell, but to whom do i share them? Only one, only one girl do i wish to explain my lifes adventures, only one do i wish to share those adventures.
They were like magic. The words woven around, touching each of our hearts and minds. I believed I could touch stars when he spoke; and swim across the sea to the untouchable lands. A friend told me he felt as if he could fly when the stories were spoken, woven like a spiders web in circles. All making us believe in the impossible but it was impossible. In those moments we were anything, anyone we wanted to be. But now, with the bars slamming shut I gripped the iron bars and stared out. Knowing that stories were just stories and everything was untouchable.
I have no more stories to tell the world. I guess after i turned 21 my life got kinda boring. i’m sure this is only a slump. when i wake up tomorrow the adventurer will be back; slaying dragons and laying damsels…. that is the way things should, and always will be
“That’s enough now,” she said, to my disappointment, “Goodnight dearie”
She kissed me gently on my forehead as I slowly leaned to the chilly grass.
I was annoyed. Her stories never ended. The beginnings were wonderful and they developed to a thrilling climax. But the excitement would always end there. A good story always has a beginning, middle and end.
Where had the endings wandered off to… I wondered wistfully.
amanda bynes has stories
the likes of which you’ll never know
she’s seen the darkness
and made it through the light
sunshine running through her veins
illuminating her thunder
as it crashes on you
ruining your night
because you dare to queston
what amanda bynes means to civilization
“Tell me what happened next,” the little girl begged, cuddling closer to her mother.
Her mother smiled. “That’s a story for another day. Now, go to bed.”
The little girl groaned but sunk deep into her bed. Her mother turned off the light, leaving the little girl to dream of princesses and knights.
Stories are what I’m expected to write here, but I don’t think I am properly equipped for that. I do love good stories though, I need to start reading more and more of them to make myself a more cultured person. Stories have been around forever and they definitely will not go anywhere, any time soon
stories newspaper pulp, yellow corners smell like ink, like black fingertips, scratch your neck and leave a smear, stories around a campfire dancing, wet eyes, dry eyes, the quiet of the night and the woods, the expanse of the night
We’ve all got stories. Some are more interesting than others, but I guess that really depends on the reader. Sharing stories can help people understand you better, but sometimes it’s just too scary to share.
Writing doesn’t always have to be all about stories. Personal memoirs and descriptive pieces can sometimes have as much interest and impact as any plot line you could develop, whether real or fiction. Writing is about words and how they affect the reader, combining 26 measly letters into so many different combinations it’s astounding. Writing within itself already tells a story.
Stories are nice. I like telling stories. I’d say I’m a relatively good story teller, the way I can craft them in to grand schemes and add humorous tones to them. I like hearing peals of laughter around me as I go on and on about things that happened when I was little, or last week or even in the past 20 minutes. What i love most though, is that somewhere on this planet, is another one meant for me, studying, reading, laughing as he tells stories, and one day, when we meet, I’ll get to hear all his amazing stories and we’ll hear each others laughter and I’ll let out a sigh followed by “Wanna hear a story?” and his eyes will glisten and crinkle as he laughs and it will be a symphony to my ears. Until then, I’ll keep telling my stories, I’ll knock them down one by one, one more story closer to his.
i like things that are stories. Many times things have no purpose. Those are not stories, those are boring. I an not boring. I swear. But no one loves me. Please someone love me. I want to die.
Stories, everyone has one. Who’s story do you trust?
There are many stories to tell about my life. which one would you like to hear? The one about my father? The one about my mother? Do you want their version…or mine? It has been said that there is one side of the story, and then the other side of the story, and that somewhere in the middle of these stories lies the truth. I will tell you both stories, and then I will let you decide.
I let his stories whisper me to sleep under dark skies starred with city lights.
She tells them stories so they might relish the process of imagination. She tells them stories so they’ll have something to remember when she’s gone, and that will be all too soon. She likes the looks of wonder that surface on their childish faces, pink and naive, eyes widened with sweet, fragile wonder. The stories they will remember, perhaps, even after they’ve forgotten her.
Since I was a little girl, I wrote stories and poetry. Grandpa’s great boating accident, poems about rabbits and flowers, diary entries for an imaginary adventure happening only in my head. I had frozen tigers in the back yard that came to life in the moonlight, a gorilla in my attic with an appetite for fathers, angry snowbeasts that wanted their snowballs freed from our kitchen freezer. Sadness captured, sweet moments immortalized, thoughts cemented onto paper: there are all there waiting to surface again. My aunt told me I had a writer’s spirit born into my heart. Now each time I pause to let the words seep through my fingertips into written form, my aunt’s spirit smiles at my side as my hearts muse.”
Stories are wonderful things that hold many details of life that we are too scared to really think about. We pass stories down our family to preserve these thoughts of life without the fear of being forgotten
Stores are great because they can convey information that I would normally not know or care about, but maybe the story is great and then I will start to care about it and that would be good because stories have the power to do that even when the story is boring it can be somewhat entertaining because stories are like that some people tell good stories but mostly people are terrible story tellers but sometimes they are good I like stories.
I tried to pry them from my head, but nothing came. I waited for them to float down from the sky and land in my lap. I wanted so badly to kiss the pages with my fingers and have stories come to life in my presence, but it never happened. I kissed my papers and held them tight, but no words ever came, so I had to go find them; I had to tell my story.
I want to tell stories. But every time I begin one I find that it resembles another. I start writing and it suddenly sounds suspiciously like the plot of a book or movie I’ve seen before. Are there any original stories left? What makes a new story about the same old thing more exciting than any other? How do you come up with something never before written down?
tell them and yell them be colorful about frogs and places and hair color and places like castles and who was wearing orange shirts and maybe pants or smelling fruit or leaves and flowers
Anita had many stories accumluated over her travels. One didn’t spend years on the road as a pokemon trainer travelling hither and yonder without stumbling across some rather dubious and amusing things.
Stories tell of beginning and endings. Stories grant inspiration and depression. They can take one to whole new worlds or leave on with feet firmly on the ground. Stories are magic, plain and simple.
He liked telling stories. Stories about him and his friends, their adventures, stories about the past of the tribe. Stories that would become legends.
But his favorite kind of stories were stories of the future – stories where you were free to write it as you please.
I love listening to stories. I love waiting for the next exciting moment in the story and wondering where it is going to lead to. I love telling stories. I get so excited when others get to hear things that I have seen/heard before from my perspective. I love stories.
A neo natal baby heard harry potter, and wanted to live until she found out the ending, a 46 year old with more than half the book written is bored with his story and wants to switch novels and all the while narratives and characters in life murky up the linear novel like a disruptive technology..and most of the time, the stories just don’t make sense.
Some people write stories just because. Other people actually have a story to tell. We all actually have stories to tell, but some are too difficult to share with others.
i love you
There were little stories that passed from mouth to mouth and these little stories were becoming truer every time it was passed. Like how Joanna disappeared from school and is rumored to have stepped out of the windowsill of her bedroom only to find herself a bloody mess all over her grandma’s shrubs. But of course, when this reached Ben he smirked bitterly, believing that it couldn’t have happened and he wouldn’t let it happen.
Selling stories of secretive nature, she succumbed to the salaciousness of their sensuality.
The adventures we go on now become the stories we laugh at later. We will cherish the memories forever and never forget them. 14 days until my summer really starts and I can’t wait for you to come home.
It was a blustery morning in Rome. Parsinian strode up the cobblestone stairway with only one thing on his mind, he must stop David and Michaelangelo from sleeping with that whore. He spied Medusa from behind, just as she was slipping David’s pants off. Parsinian lunged forward and sliced her blind fold, and poof… David was no more. Michaelangelo swung his blade, beheading both Parsinian and Medusa with the single swish of his blade. He then decided to consider himself a sculptor.
Everyone has their own story.
But what most people don’t realize, is that although some stories are definitely more interesting than others, every single one deserves to be heard.
We all write these stories we don’t even know are true. But they are in our heads, and the truth we see is our truth, the stories we tell ourselves are ours.