Once upon a time there was a lonely trash bin. His name was John.
John was very lonely because he always stays alone at home with no one to speak to.
But one faithful day, the landlord of the building where John stayed at decided that today was the day to add two new trash cans next to John.
The green trash bin was named Susan. She was a recycle bin for all the papers to be reused. She was a hero to all the trees to the world!
And the blue trash bin's name was Paul. Paul was used to store glass bottles! He was very important to the environment.
When John had first met Susan and Paul he was the HAPPIEST trash bin in the world! He had never experienced this feeling in his whole life. He stayed up all day and night talking to Susan and Paul, trying to get to know them better. I mean, it's the only thing John could do!
John, Susan, and Paul quickly became the best of friends. They were always together. Rain and shine, hail and sleet, always.
But one warm afternoon, something terrible happened. John had discovered a tiny crack on the rim of his trash bin. Susan and Paul freaked out! But John had told them that everything would be alright. That he wasn't going to go anywhere.
Little did he know...
August 27th, 1968. 3:26AM
John woke up with a jolt of pain on his right side. He turned to that side to see what was wrong. What he found was beyond terrifying. He found a split on his can. It went from the very top of his trash can to the very bottom of his trash can. It had hurt so bad. The contents, all his trash, had begun to spill out.
He quickly woke Susan and Paul. He showed them what was wrong and it wasn't long before all three had begun sobbing.
The pain John was experiencing was so intense he could barely breathe. He knew he was dying.
John uttered his last words to Susan and Paul, smiled, and closed his eyes....
Paul, who never cried, shed his tears. One by one they trickled down his face and down his chin. He let out a sob and another. He replayed John's last words over and over again in his mind.
"Thank you for being my friend."
John passed away at age 36 on August 27th, 1968 at 3:48AM
@PensivePost #ss
John was very lonely because he always stays alone at home with no one to speak to.
But one faithful day, the landlord of the building where John stayed at decided that today was the day to add two new trash cans next to John.
The green trash bin was named Susan. She was a recycle bin for all the papers to be reused. She was a hero to all the trees to the world!
And the blue trash bin's name was Paul. Paul was used to store glass bottles! He was very important to the environment.
When John had first met Susan and Paul he was the HAPPIEST trash bin in the world! He had never experienced this feeling in his whole life. He stayed up all day and night talking to Susan and Paul, trying to get to know them better. I mean, it's the only thing John could do!
John, Susan, and Paul quickly became the best of friends. They were always together. Rain and shine, hail and sleet, always.
But one warm afternoon, something terrible happened. John had discovered a tiny crack on the rim of his trash bin. Susan and Paul freaked out! But John had told them that everything would be alright. That he wasn't going to go anywhere.
Little did he know...
August 27th, 1968. 3:26AM
John woke up with a jolt of pain on his right side. He turned to that side to see what was wrong. What he found was beyond terrifying. He found a split on his can. It went from the very top of his trash can to the very bottom of his trash can. It had hurt so bad. The contents, all his trash, had begun to spill out.
He quickly woke Susan and Paul. He showed them what was wrong and it wasn't long before all three had begun sobbing.
The pain John was experiencing was so intense he could barely breathe. He knew he was dying.
John uttered his last words to Susan and Paul, smiled, and closed his eyes....
Paul, who never cried, shed his tears. One by one they trickled down his face and down his chin. He let out a sob and another. He replayed John's last words over and over again in his mind.
"Thank you for being my friend."
John passed away at age 36 on August 27th, 1968 at 3:48AM
@PensivePost #ss
A question that haunts poets, "ISN'T IT DIFFICULT TO FIND ACCEPTANCE?"
What makes the work of a poet most difficult is not that the world doesn't always appreciate what he or she does. We all know how wrong the world can be. It was wrong about Vincent Van Gogh when it refused
to purchase his sunflower painting for the roughly $125 he was asking, and it is every bit as wrong to pay $35 million or $40 million for it today.
What is most difficult for a poet is to find the time to read and write when there are so many distractions, like making a living and caring for others. But the time set aside for being a poet, even if only for a few moments each day, can be wonderfully happy, full of joyous, solitary discovery. Here's a passage about the joy of making art from Louise Nevelson's memoir Dawns and Dusks. Nevelson was a sculptor, but what she says about an artist's life can be applied to poetry, too:
"I'd rather work twenty-four hours a day in my studio and come in here and fall down on the bed than do anything I know. Because it is living. It's like pure water; it's living. The essence of living is in doing, and in doing, I have made my world and it's a much better world than I ever saw outside."
The essence of living is in doing, Nevelson suggests, and the essence of being a poet is in the writing, not in the publications or the prizes.
@PensivePost
What makes the work of a poet most difficult is not that the world doesn't always appreciate what he or she does. We all know how wrong the world can be. It was wrong about Vincent Van Gogh when it refused
to purchase his sunflower painting for the roughly $125 he was asking, and it is every bit as wrong to pay $35 million or $40 million for it today.
What is most difficult for a poet is to find the time to read and write when there are so many distractions, like making a living and caring for others. But the time set aside for being a poet, even if only for a few moments each day, can be wonderfully happy, full of joyous, solitary discovery. Here's a passage about the joy of making art from Louise Nevelson's memoir Dawns and Dusks. Nevelson was a sculptor, but what she says about an artist's life can be applied to poetry, too:
"I'd rather work twenty-four hours a day in my studio and come in here and fall down on the bed than do anything I know. Because it is living. It's like pure water; it's living. The essence of living is in doing, and in doing, I have made my world and it's a much better world than I ever saw outside."
The essence of living is in doing, Nevelson suggests, and the essence of being a poet is in the writing, not in the publications or the prizes.
@PensivePost
"Accidentally" HBO leak a couple episodes of a TV show [GOT] to hackers, but give them an alternate version of the finale, in which a critical moment has a completely different outcome. It'd confuse the hell out of the people who watch it illegally
@PensivePost #RandomIdeas
@PensivePost #RandomIdeas
A real crime story (non-fiction) that's almost a gothic fiction!! Read it here
For someone who wants to write, it is a story plot.
@PensivePost
For someone who wants to write, it is a story plot.
@PensivePost
Msn
A teen reunited with her birth mother — who then killed her and burned her body, police say
In an affidavit that reads like gothic fiction, investigators describe how a teen reunited with her birth mother last year on an isolated farm in Missouri — only to be tortured there, forced to crawl through hog pens and have salt rubbed in her wounds, and…
Crossroad Blues
Back home in St Louis, there was this music store called Holman’s. They had just about everything on Heaven and Earth, from pianos to penny-whistles. They even sold records, too, and the very first time I ever heard the blues, it was Bessie Smith’s voice flowing like sweet, cool water out of Holman’s front door. That music meant so much to me that it’s somehow almost a footnote to remember that the sidewalk outside Holman’s, coincidentally, was one of my parents’ many prime fighting spots. Soon as they turned that street corner, every damn time, my mother or father would let out a sharp “So about that…” or “I think you oughta…”, and it’d break out into an unholy shouting match to put the dogs of war to shame. I’d shrink down into the concrete just to avoid catching another burning fist.After a couple of years of this hell, Mister Holman himself gifted me with a guitar, as compensation for my troubles, and I played that thing until my fingers bled. It was my only God and solace.A little later, I started playing my songs wherever people’d listen, but they all just walked on by. Bobby Dixon had tighter rhythm. Art Freeman had smarter lyrics. Lissy Mulligan knew these obscure chords from China.So I went down to the crossroads and begged for salvation. The devil, he’s shorter than you’d think. Thinner, too. But he had those eyes like diamonds and that crooked smile, just like all the stories. He cut me a deal, a sweeter deal than I expected; ”I’ll make you the greatest guitarist on this side of the globe”, he said, his voice as smooth and cold as silk, ”and in twenty years, you can pay me back.” “You want my soul?” I asked. ”That ain’t necessary”, said he… “but we’re having some trouble back where I come from, and I sure could use someone to help look after my pets.”I agreed, of course, and for the next twenty years I lived like a king, cutting records, playing gigs, hooking more than my fair share of adoring fans. But the greatest reward, for me, was finally being able to play the music I pictured in my head, with no damn skill barrier rising in my way. It was like liquid gold trickling from my fingers, raw yet beautiful, every single time.As he does, though, the devil came to collect. I kept my skill, thank God, but in return, I had to take care of his pets. And as a thousand hell-bound souls poured weeping into my head, I only had the chance to ask him how long it would last.”Oh, maybe a hundred years or so. Just ’til we get things straightened out.”I’ve been living with this for almost a decade now, and it hasn’t gotten any less awful.They fight and cry and scream so loud I can barely hear myself play.
@PensivePost #ss Submitted by tilvast
Back home in St Louis, there was this music store called Holman’s. They had just about everything on Heaven and Earth, from pianos to penny-whistles. They even sold records, too, and the very first time I ever heard the blues, it was Bessie Smith’s voice flowing like sweet, cool water out of Holman’s front door. That music meant so much to me that it’s somehow almost a footnote to remember that the sidewalk outside Holman’s, coincidentally, was one of my parents’ many prime fighting spots. Soon as they turned that street corner, every damn time, my mother or father would let out a sharp “So about that…” or “I think you oughta…”, and it’d break out into an unholy shouting match to put the dogs of war to shame. I’d shrink down into the concrete just to avoid catching another burning fist.After a couple of years of this hell, Mister Holman himself gifted me with a guitar, as compensation for my troubles, and I played that thing until my fingers bled. It was my only God and solace.A little later, I started playing my songs wherever people’d listen, but they all just walked on by. Bobby Dixon had tighter rhythm. Art Freeman had smarter lyrics. Lissy Mulligan knew these obscure chords from China.So I went down to the crossroads and begged for salvation. The devil, he’s shorter than you’d think. Thinner, too. But he had those eyes like diamonds and that crooked smile, just like all the stories. He cut me a deal, a sweeter deal than I expected; ”I’ll make you the greatest guitarist on this side of the globe”, he said, his voice as smooth and cold as silk, ”and in twenty years, you can pay me back.” “You want my soul?” I asked. ”That ain’t necessary”, said he… “but we’re having some trouble back where I come from, and I sure could use someone to help look after my pets.”I agreed, of course, and for the next twenty years I lived like a king, cutting records, playing gigs, hooking more than my fair share of adoring fans. But the greatest reward, for me, was finally being able to play the music I pictured in my head, with no damn skill barrier rising in my way. It was like liquid gold trickling from my fingers, raw yet beautiful, every single time.As he does, though, the devil came to collect. I kept my skill, thank God, but in return, I had to take care of his pets. And as a thousand hell-bound souls poured weeping into my head, I only had the chance to ask him how long it would last.”Oh, maybe a hundred years or so. Just ’til we get things straightened out.”I’ve been living with this for almost a decade now, and it hasn’t gotten any less awful.They fight and cry and scream so loud I can barely hear myself play.
@PensivePost #ss Submitted by tilvast
Forwarded from Interrobangs‽
"I'll be seeing my parents soon," she thought as the plane started to descend.
With smoke filling the cabin and the screams of her fellow passengers growing ever more terrified, all she could do was helplessly clutch the urn in her lap and pray it wouldn't hurt too much.
@PensivePost #2lines
With smoke filling the cabin and the screams of her fellow passengers growing ever more terrified, all she could do was helplessly clutch the urn in her lap and pray it wouldn't hurt too much.
@PensivePost #2lines
Night Run
I'm still not sure what happened. Everything feels like...a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.Last night, I went out for one of my weekly night runs. I'm not a marathon runner or anything, but I put in a few miles a couple times a week. Usually I run the same route too. I leave my apartment and head towards a park that is about a mile away. I run a couple laps at the park and then head home. All in all, I run between four and five miles.But something happened the other night that scared the hell out of me. I started my run in typical fashion, leaving my place and running towards the park. I was feeling good, too, working up a nice sweat and keeping a fast pace (at least for me).When I run at the park, I always take the same route. I run along a concrete path on the perimeter of the park and then I head towards a bike path by the river bed. There's a section of the park that is overgrown and wild. There's a dirt trail and some trees. I like to run in their shade before re-connecting with the cement path.So I'm running and I reach this part of the park, when I notice a guy standing at the edge of the trail. He's wearing dirty jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. My intuition kicked into over drive, so I slowed my pace. He wasn't moving. He was still as a scarecrow, just a black silhouette against the setting sun. I figured it was fine so I started running again. That's when I heard it.A shot rang out in the night. A gun shot. It was close enough to make my ears ring. And then I saw it. The figure was pointing a gun at me. He was about thirty feet from me and I could see the faint smoke wafting away from his gun. For a moment I lost all sense of self preservation. I froze. Then another shot. This one grazed the ground by my feet. Then I got it: He was firing at me.I looked down at the dirt that billowed up from the impact shot. My eyes were drawn back to my shooter. He was running at me and I heard another shot. This one barely missed my left arm. Finally my body kicked into reaction mode. I ran. I ran as hard as I could.More shots were fired. The bullets felt close to my skin, zinging past my head and body and legs. I ran until I saw a small dip and I jumped. I fell down the hill and rolled behind some brush. I crouched as low as I could. I held my breath. And prayed.My shooter stopped about ten feet from me. He was looking out into the park, but didn't see me. I prayed he didn't walk down the hill and see me crouching behind the bush. I stared at his face, but I couldn't make out what I was seeing. His face was blurred. There were no features, it was just...blank.He stood there for a few more seconds and then ran in the opposite direction. I didn't wait to see if he'd come back. I crawled along the edge of the park until I saw the path and then I ran. I didn't look back, I just ran as fast as I could home.I got home and locked the door behind me. I sat down at my kitchen table. My pulse racing, my heart beating like a drum. And then I realized something. I hadn't seen another soul the entire run. Weird. I checked the news for anything I could go off of--perhaps a victim or someone spotted my blurry-faced attacker. But there was nothing.I stayed inside and my heart continued to pound in my chest. I wasn't sure what to do. Should I call the cops? Should I tell someone what happened? And I also thought about who this person was. I mean, why was he firing shots at me? What had I done?I headed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I looked in my bathroom mirror and then out the window. And that's when I saw it. He was standing on my front lawn.
@PensivePost #story by worldofleo
I'm still not sure what happened. Everything feels like...a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.Last night, I went out for one of my weekly night runs. I'm not a marathon runner or anything, but I put in a few miles a couple times a week. Usually I run the same route too. I leave my apartment and head towards a park that is about a mile away. I run a couple laps at the park and then head home. All in all, I run between four and five miles.But something happened the other night that scared the hell out of me. I started my run in typical fashion, leaving my place and running towards the park. I was feeling good, too, working up a nice sweat and keeping a fast pace (at least for me).When I run at the park, I always take the same route. I run along a concrete path on the perimeter of the park and then I head towards a bike path by the river bed. There's a section of the park that is overgrown and wild. There's a dirt trail and some trees. I like to run in their shade before re-connecting with the cement path.So I'm running and I reach this part of the park, when I notice a guy standing at the edge of the trail. He's wearing dirty jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. My intuition kicked into over drive, so I slowed my pace. He wasn't moving. He was still as a scarecrow, just a black silhouette against the setting sun. I figured it was fine so I started running again. That's when I heard it.A shot rang out in the night. A gun shot. It was close enough to make my ears ring. And then I saw it. The figure was pointing a gun at me. He was about thirty feet from me and I could see the faint smoke wafting away from his gun. For a moment I lost all sense of self preservation. I froze. Then another shot. This one grazed the ground by my feet. Then I got it: He was firing at me.I looked down at the dirt that billowed up from the impact shot. My eyes were drawn back to my shooter. He was running at me and I heard another shot. This one barely missed my left arm. Finally my body kicked into reaction mode. I ran. I ran as hard as I could.More shots were fired. The bullets felt close to my skin, zinging past my head and body and legs. I ran until I saw a small dip and I jumped. I fell down the hill and rolled behind some brush. I crouched as low as I could. I held my breath. And prayed.My shooter stopped about ten feet from me. He was looking out into the park, but didn't see me. I prayed he didn't walk down the hill and see me crouching behind the bush. I stared at his face, but I couldn't make out what I was seeing. His face was blurred. There were no features, it was just...blank.He stood there for a few more seconds and then ran in the opposite direction. I didn't wait to see if he'd come back. I crawled along the edge of the park until I saw the path and then I ran. I didn't look back, I just ran as fast as I could home.I got home and locked the door behind me. I sat down at my kitchen table. My pulse racing, my heart beating like a drum. And then I realized something. I hadn't seen another soul the entire run. Weird. I checked the news for anything I could go off of--perhaps a victim or someone spotted my blurry-faced attacker. But there was nothing.I stayed inside and my heart continued to pound in my chest. I wasn't sure what to do. Should I call the cops? Should I tell someone what happened? And I also thought about who this person was. I mean, why was he firing shots at me? What had I done?I headed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I looked in my bathroom mirror and then out the window. And that's when I saw it. He was standing on my front lawn.
@PensivePost #story by worldofleo