Tale, the story I was told growing up. That if you work hard, go to college and are good… you will be successful in life. Now I am in my 30s, single, never married, no kids. All I have is my career and even that isn’t going well.
Ive told many stories of my life on the ranch. They spin out easy. People laugh and find it hard to believe. Stories of cattle, buffalo, horses, mud, cabins and baths.
I have one to tell you. Sit down over there, in the big chair. The smaller one, I don’t know why I keep it, no one likes sitting in it. Except for one person, who sat in it years ago. Always very straight, like he had a board in his back. Always with his legs apart, never crossed. Always with his coffee carefully balanced on his knee, the saucer sitting there perfectly, exactly the right size for the place where it sat. But this is not the tale I am going to tell you. He is in the tale; he makes up a small part of the story. So perhaps I should begin with how he came to sit in that chair that you should not sit in and when. This was about forty years ago, I think. Time is not something I think about any more. He arrived one day at the front door, peeking in the window to see if anyone was home. I was the only one that could answer the door; how he knew that I was there I couldn’t say. I made no noise or sound, but sat as quietly as I could, trying very hard to will him to leave. I was not supposed to answer the door, I was forbidden to open the door in fact to anyone that I didn’t know or recognize. He fit the bill. So I committed the first crime: I answered his knock. Which somehow I could see, he knew all along I would do.
A tale is a many splendid thing. It can take you on adventures you never could even dream of, or back to times you wish you could revisit. Tales shape us and the things around us, for if we did not have them, then how could we have ever dreamed up the world around us?
She told me lies. Wrapped in beautiful words of friendship. Fingertips interlaced mine. Our bony hug bringing our hearts together– but in reality, we were far from it. She was headed to infinity and I was headed toward nothing but reality. It was a fantasy we lost in our on-the-surface-conversations, our no-eye-contact glances… and now she is a tale of what could have been but what wasn’t meant to be.
My life is a tale. A story that seems to have no ending. Each night I go to bed and start a new section. I am sick of my tale right now, I’m in the devistation. But I know that every tale ends happy.
Eventually people will be telling tales of us now. The 2000s will be our equivalent of the 1900s, the 1800s etc. Pretty crazy thought, we’re all going to die and be a thing of the past. Hopefully not too quickly.
Telling a tall tale isn’t considered something great. It’s something that you’ll get called out on, when telling a story over a breakfast table surrounded by people you kind of sort of know from high school, and you”ll have a moment of wondering if it is a tall tale and that your memory betrayed you.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who had a tail. People made fun of her and in english class, they told her ‘tales’ to show their disdain for her. They called her a freak and told her mixed up version of beauty and the beast. she was the beast.
she killed all of them, the end.
I started to scrub the deck even harder once I heard him start talking. Everyone else listened to his tale rapturously, but they had never heard it before. Instead of listening for the hundredth time, I blocked out the self-assured boasting, simple-minded oohs and ahhs, and the screaming of my own limbs from exhaustion. The deck wasn’t going to scrub itself.
Come one, come all this Friday night! The Potters cordially invite you for a fun-filled evening of tale telling, highlighting the reasons we loathe and mock you! Refreshments will be served!
The fun starts at 6, the public grievances begin shortly thereafter!
Let me tell you a tale of a boy and a girl, caught up in one chaotic swirl. They landed in the woods, covered with hoods, no sure of their story, oh well. A witch came to them with a grin on her face, took the inside and showed them her place. What happens next?
a story your grandfather tells you when he comes to visit and he is tucking you in at know. he seems like the greatest in the world. you later learn its not true but he is still great in yor eyes
אגדה על זנבות כותב אדם עייף מהו זנב מהו צחי נזר הבריאה נחקק בין חתולים במרומים מתים שלמה ארצי כותב על חתולים המחשבים את קצם לאחור וחייב לעבוד קצת על האנגלית שלי אין די ואין דיין איך אהיה זיין אירופאי כשאהיה גדול בקושי ניגש איך איך אני לא יאיר לפיד באופיי אני דובי גל
It was a tall tale to begin with. Full of too many details and hesitations. All fabricated to make her believe he didn’t cheat on his once adoring wife…but she knew he did…and he knew he did…and nothing will ever be the same again.
I have a strange tale to tell. …But would you believe it? How likely is that? In the end, it sounds less real than anything I’d find acceptable. Shall I begin..??
Let me tell you something. I didn’t want to start to hate anyone. You made me feel like I needed to recognize I was under you but guess what, I’m not. Find yourself. A person that is nice to you but is rude to the waiter is not a nice person.
A great tale has the effect of making us real happy, make us to have faith and hope.
Somehow people has a spiritual feeling about life, and hope about the good way. I can say that this feeling is called spirit of God. And make to believe in good things, justice and so.
She sat on his knee and pulled at his beard with her grubby hands. He laughed and jostled her up and down. “Sweet girl. Let me tell you a story, huh?”
She shook her head furiously, grinning. “No! I want to tell you a story.”
His blue eyes, so soft in their gaze, twinkled merrily.
In the old days their were many tales going around. Like there was actually witches and wizards still around. And other magical beings were still alive.
He looked through the library shelves. Only nonfiction-looking books– was he in the right aisle? Yes. ‘Historical Fiction’
He felt dumb, looking for a fairytale book in here. He felt the tattered spines of the books, looked at the boring titles. His footsteps were loud against the quiet floor. His hand stopped one one thick book, the spine of leather. His fingers traced the title as he pulled it out of the shelf, releasing dust.
I always tell tales. Like i mean every single day. But they are not big bad tales more like white tales. Alot of theme are to teachers when i forget my hw or to my parents when i don’t tidy my room.
There is a tale of two people falling in love but their parents focused them to not see each other. The tale is romantic and makes you cry. But what can these two do, if they cant be each other.
Despite meeting upon the most cliche premise, we were so naive to think that our story was different. We deluded ourselves into thinking that this relationship would weave the most special tale we’d ever tell, that our feelings are steadfast enough to last.
Jessie spun a tale quickly for her parents when they demanded why she had been out so late the past night. The bruises on her arms, of course, helped boost any so-called credibility she was trying to attain, and I watched wide-eyed as her mother pulled the girl into her arms, soothing her and cooing her as she spilled her crocodile tears. Jessie had told her parents that my brother, her boyfriend, had abused her – in reality, the contusions were merely on her body because she had hit first, and Todd had fought back.
I tell a tale of time gone by. I tell a tale of life worth living.
Tale, the story I was told growing up. That if you work hard, go to college and are good… you will be successful in life. Now I am in my 30s, single, never married, no kids. All I have is my career and even that isn’t going well.
A long tail wraps around the corner. What was that. I look down at my arm or at least, what’s left of it
Ive told many stories of my life on the ranch. They spin out easy. People laugh and find it hard to believe. Stories of cattle, buffalo, horses, mud, cabins and baths.
I love the experience and the staff was so friendly.
I have one to tell you. Sit down over there, in the big chair. The smaller one, I don’t know why I keep it, no one likes sitting in it. Except for one person, who sat in it years ago. Always very straight, like he had a board in his back. Always with his legs apart, never crossed. Always with his coffee carefully balanced on his knee, the saucer sitting there perfectly, exactly the right size for the place where it sat. But this is not the tale I am going to tell you. He is in the tale; he makes up a small part of the story. So perhaps I should begin with how he came to sit in that chair that you should not sit in and when. This was about forty years ago, I think. Time is not something I think about any more. He arrived one day at the front door, peeking in the window to see if anyone was home. I was the only one that could answer the door; how he knew that I was there I couldn’t say. I made no noise or sound, but sat as quietly as I could, trying very hard to will him to leave. I was not supposed to answer the door, I was forbidden to open the door in fact to anyone that I didn’t know or recognize. He fit the bill. So I committed the first crime: I answered his knock. Which somehow I could see, he knew all along I would do.
A tale is a many splendid thing. It can take you on adventures you never could even dream of, or back to times you wish you could revisit. Tales shape us and the things around us, for if we did not have them, then how could we have ever dreamed up the world around us?
She told me lies. Wrapped in beautiful words of friendship. Fingertips interlaced mine. Our bony hug bringing our hearts together– but in reality, we were far from it. She was headed to infinity and I was headed toward nothing but reality. It was a fantasy we lost in our on-the-surface-conversations, our no-eye-contact glances… and now she is a tale of what could have been but what wasn’t meant to be.
My life is a tale. A story that seems to have no ending. Each night I go to bed and start a new section. I am sick of my tale right now, I’m in the devistation. But I know that every tale ends happy.
“Read us a story? Please momma?” The two children scrambled over each other, each one wearing a pleading pout.
Wander sighed and grabbed a nearby story book. “Fine, but only one more!”
The children cheered and flew back into their beds, watching Wander pull the pages with eagerness.
“Are you ready?”
The children nodded, and Wander smiled as he flipped open to an older story.
The best tale is the one that does not need to be told. The best tale has rode the winds of time and has been treasured by all kinds of hearts.
Eventually people will be telling tales of us now. The 2000s will be our equivalent of the 1900s, the 1800s etc. Pretty crazy thought, we’re all going to die and be a thing of the past. Hopefully not too quickly.
Telling a tall tale isn’t considered something great. It’s something that you’ll get called out on, when telling a story over a breakfast table surrounded by people you kind of sort of know from high school, and you”ll have a moment of wondering if it is a tall tale and that your memory betrayed you.
Telemetrically, telling tales true to turtle tail trends tries to tease terrors.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who had a tail. People made fun of her and in english class, they told her ‘tales’ to show their disdain for her. They called her a freak and told her mixed up version of beauty and the beast. she was the beast.
she killed all of them, the end.
I started to scrub the deck even harder once I heard him start talking. Everyone else listened to his tale rapturously, but they had never heard it before. Instead of listening for the hundredth time, I blocked out the self-assured boasting, simple-minded oohs and ahhs, and the screaming of my own limbs from exhaustion. The deck wasn’t going to scrub itself.
we never did. in my mind we did. i dream of him often. he fuels my fantasies. i call out his name when i orgasm.
Come one, come all this Friday night! The Potters cordially invite you for a fun-filled evening of tale telling, highlighting the reasons we loathe and mock you! Refreshments will be served!
The fun starts at 6, the public grievances begin shortly thereafter!
She told them the tale of Cinderella.
I would like to be able to tell a tale well.
Once upon a time. or do you remember or I remember when. This would make me happy.
Let me tell you a tale of a boy and a girl, caught up in one chaotic swirl. They landed in the woods, covered with hoods, no sure of their story, oh well. A witch came to them with a grin on her face, took the inside and showed them her place. What happens next?
a story your grandfather tells you when he comes to visit and he is tucking you in at know. he seems like the greatest in the world. you later learn its not true but he is still great in yor eyes
אגדה על זנבות כותב אדם עייף מהו זנב מהו צחי נזר הבריאה נחקק בין חתולים במרומים מתים שלמה ארצי כותב על חתולים המחשבים את קצם לאחור וחייב לעבוד קצת על האנגלית שלי אין די ואין דיין איך אהיה זיין אירופאי כשאהיה גדול בקושי ניגש איך איך אני לא יאיר לפיד באופיי אני דובי גל
It was a tall tale to begin with. Full of too many details and hesitations. All fabricated to make her believe he didn’t cheat on his once adoring wife…but she knew he did…and he knew he did…and nothing will ever be the same again.
I have a strange tale to tell. …But would you believe it? How likely is that? In the end, it sounds less real than anything I’d find acceptable. Shall I begin..??
Let me tell you something. I didn’t want to start to hate anyone. You made me feel like I needed to recognize I was under you but guess what, I’m not. Find yourself. A person that is nice to you but is rude to the waiter is not a nice person.
A great tale has the effect of making us real happy, make us to have faith and hope.
Somehow people has a spiritual feeling about life, and hope about the good way. I can say that this feeling is called spirit of God. And make to believe in good things, justice and so.
A fairytale was told yesterday. It said about a God who was good and eternal.
I think it was real!
She sat on his knee and pulled at his beard with her grubby hands. He laughed and jostled her up and down. “Sweet girl. Let me tell you a story, huh?”
She shook her head furiously, grinning. “No! I want to tell you a story.”
His blue eyes, so soft in their gaze, twinkled merrily.
I listened to the exciting tale of mystery. A bit of action here, and some adventure there. With a hint of romance.
In the old days their were many tales going around. Like there was actually witches and wizards still around. And other magical beings were still alive.
Their are many tales from all around the globe and from all kinds of people. Stories of monsters and stories of many things.
The mans tale was very realistic and was a good story for all ages. It was a mysterious story.
He looked through the library shelves. Only nonfiction-looking books– was he in the right aisle? Yes. ‘Historical Fiction’
He felt dumb, looking for a fairytale book in here. He felt the tattered spines of the books, looked at the boring titles. His footsteps were loud against the quiet floor. His hand stopped one one thick book, the spine of leather. His fingers traced the title as he pulled it out of the shelf, releasing dust.
I always tell tales. Like i mean every single day. But they are not big bad tales more like white tales. Alot of theme are to teachers when i forget my hw or to my parents when i don’t tidy my room.
I can tell you a tale about anything. I can tell you a truth or a lie. I can tell you a tale about pony-tails, I can tell about riding the sky.
Twas exactly 11 years ago to this very date the tale of two nimrods began. A sweltering summer day
There is a tale of two people falling in love but their parents focused them to not see each other. The tale is romantic and makes you cry. But what can these two do, if they cant be each other.
Despite meeting upon the most cliche premise, we were so naive to think that our story was different. We deluded ourselves into thinking that this relationship would weave the most special tale we’d ever tell, that our feelings are steadfast enough to last.
Jessie spun a tale quickly for her parents when they demanded why she had been out so late the past night. The bruises on her arms, of course, helped boost any so-called credibility she was trying to attain, and I watched wide-eyed as her mother pulled the girl into her arms, soothing her and cooing her as she spilled her crocodile tears. Jessie had told her parents that my brother, her boyfriend, had abused her – in reality, the contusions were merely on her body because she had hit first, and Todd had fought back.