The Evidence that Santa ExistsLittle kids know his name by heart. They look to him for confidence that they are doing what is right. But as we grow older we realize we were foolish. That childhood fantasies never were real. That dreams are just dreams and that life is without magic. And so, with age, comes reality, and with reality, comes a loss of dreaming. But what if Santa really did exist? And what if he really did bring us gifts? Just we didn't realize it because soon it becomes "too childish" to believe in such foolish things. But if one was to just look back at Christmas would they not find, if not one, then multiple people that find joy in the gifts that have been given and the joy that had been brought to you? Is there not, at least, one person that tries to make you happy? No friends? No family? Not even Mom or Dad?
And so I bring forth evidence that Santa Clause is something real, not a figment of childhood imagination that drives us on to be good little kids. For one thing, I ask that you look at what i
101 Hufflepuff Morals101 Hufflepuff Morals4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
#1 When it all come down to the end, I could sure use a friend.
#2 It's not childish to hold onto hope. It's actually hard.
#3 Don't judge a person for what they've done, because you don't know why they've done it.
#4 A person who deserves my loyalty receives it.
#5 Have a heart that never hardens, a temper that never tires, a touch that never hurts.
#6 We can do no great things; only small things with great love.
#7 There is nothing wrong with loving the crap out of everything. Negative people find their walls, so never apologize for your enthusiasm. Never. Ever. Never.
#8 Do not pray for an easy life; Pray for the strength to endure a difficult one
#9 I use to think your were weak and just didn't fight back. But now, honestly, I think you're actually pretty tough. It takes a hell of a lot of strength to not complain and lash out.
#10 If you think you're too small to make a difference, you've never spent
The Old ManThe old man's wife passed away a few days ago.The Old Man4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He wouldn't like me writing it that waya fan of George Carlin, the thought of 'soft words' tended to make him cringe; he would have preferred 'died' or 'shuffled off her mortal coil.' He said that second one plenty. Every few years now one of his friends shuffles off their mortal coil, and he always says it that way when he finds their name in the obituary. 'I guess Mavis shuffled off her mortal coil. A shame. She had the most wonderful rack as a young woman. Would've married her if I hadn't met Julia.'
The old man wasn't exactly politically correct. Come to think of it, he was a bit of a cantankerous old bastard with every imaginable bigotrythe 'self-hating Jew' routine was something he carried out very well. But with him you could always see the humor in his words. I once watched in awe as he told a joke that had the word 'nigger' in it at least three times to a table full of black men who could remember when they heard that
Peeling a Potato-Shaped YouI picked you up from a gutter in radioactive Russia. Somehow, you had fallen out of the body-bag you were carried in, and I nearly kicked you further into the muck. I heard your pleas though, begging for my hands to pick you up. They ate a hole in the fabric and sent you rolling before my feet. In normal circumstances, that would never happen, but there is nothing normal about a world covered in grief.Peeling a Potato-Shaped You6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
You were a real piece of work. It's got to be expected after all, in these parts, but you were still fascinating all the same. For instance, you were covered in that signature brown dirt. Most of the time, it was brushed neatly before you were zipped up. But you'd been out too long in the open and it showed. Reptilian shoots punched through your skin and waved like a many-armed grotesque plant. They looked like bleached coral that decided to grow out of your flesh rather than in the nutrient-rich sea. As I ran my fingers over your suppurating sores, I wondered why I picked up the sort of
The Stellar Void"Can you kill me, please?"The Stellar Void6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I must have looked startled because her expectant gaze saddened a bit.
"I'm sorry. What?"
"Can you kill me?" Her face brightened as she repeated the morbid probe.
Confused, I couldn't help but notice her rather familiar clothes. Faded pink jeans, knock-off Converse shoes. Little black hoodie with a torn right sleeve.
"You just looked a bit angry and I figured you'd be the best person to ask."
I stood next to the bench. My backpack dug into my shoulder and I shrugged it off. It'd be awhile before the next bus came anyway.
She looked down the street. The dim lights barely revealed the closed shops and leaf strewn sidewalks. A short breeze caused the dead landscaping out front to rustle gently but now, it seemed slightly ominous.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." Her voice was hollow and even though she was turned away, I could sense the hint of disappointment.
Sighing, I sat on the other side of the bench. Pausing for a minute, I glanced up at the mos
Schizoid scherzoOpeningSchizoid scherzo7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Today's civilization is somehow synthetic,which is finite.People that you see on the street bear time as decay,first their bodies then their spirit.You see history as the ancient egyptians want you to see past,present and future because is their synthetic breakthrough concept.And they placed their concepts of life and death in history.Smart move.As a result their dead spirit lives today.It's the analytic breakthrough I'm interested in and this one takes place in France,Europe with Descartes.The world of the machines you see today sprouted as mere applications in this synthetic world of the analytical mind.The industrial revolution in Europe that followed the analytical cracking of the synthetic world,which is God's world,was quickly understood by the European powers at that time.'Cogito,ergo sum' is the thought that opens up modernity with a new problem.Is whether we rationalize life or we leave its development to a synthetic way.Synthetic is to be a science,think at all
Letters from a Beloved RatDedicated to All the Daddies and Mamas of Furchildren EverywhereLetters from a Beloved Rat10 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Thank you for my mama. You know the one, my human mama. She picked me! How awesome is that. She could have easily chosen another, but she heard me calling to her. She cuddled me on the way home instead of leaving me in the scary box, and gave me the most special foods that night to make me feel welcome. She has given me a new family and they are still unsure about me, but i think everything will be ok because my mama is there to keep me safe.
Thank you for my mama. She constantly tells me I am beautiful and perfect even though I know I have flaws. Only you, Lord, are perfect, but mama says that my flaws are what make me perfect. I don't understand that but I guess that is what true love is about.
Thank you for my mama. She makes me take my medicines when I am sick and I hate that, but I do not hate my mama. After all, she is trying to make me get better. Afterwards she gives me something yummy to t
The 13 Blessings of SheogorathFor Our Lord Sheogorath, without Whom all Thought would be linear and all Feeling would be fleeting.The 13 Blessings of Sheogorath8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Blessed are the Madmen, for they hold the keys to secret knowledge.
Blessed are the Phobic, always wary of that which would do them harm.
Blessed are the Obsessed, for their courses are clear.
Blessed are the Addicts, may they quench the thirst that never ebbs.
Blessed are the Murderous, for they have found beauty in the grotesque.
Blessed are the Firelovers, for their hearts are always warm.
Blessed are the Artists, for in their hands the impossible is made real.
Blessed are the Musicians, for in their ears they hear the music of the soul.
Blessed are the Sleepless, as they bask in wakeful dreaming.
Blessed are the Paranoid, ever-watchful for our enemies.
Blessed are the Visionaries, for their eyes see what might be.
Blessed are the Painlovers, for in their suffering, we grow stronger.
Blessed is the Madgod, who tricks us when we are foolish, punishes us when we are wrong, tortures us
DarknessTell me a story of darkness," the sun asked the moon, but the moon just smiled and shook his head.Darkness4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
There is no real darkness," the moon replied. It's really just the absence of light."
The sun was confused. Isn't that what darkness is all about?" she asked with a puzzled look on her face.
Again the moon smiled. Indeed it is. But darkness is an illusion. It doesn't exist."
I'm quite sure it does," the sun said and she seemed very certain. "Everybody is always talking about darkness."
The moon nodded understandingly. Oh, but they talk about a lot of things, don't they? Let me ask you this: Have you ever actually seen darkness?"
The sun went quiet for a moment. She looked down upon the earth in deep contemplation, thinking about what the moon had said, and eventually she had to admit: No, I haven't."
The moon nodded. See. That's what I'm talking about. It doesn't actually exist. Darkness may seem big and scary at times, but it's really
Attention Whore Attention whore. That's what you call me.Attention Whore4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Am I really? I'm usually the one girl who sits quietly in the back of the classroom, and rarely participates in public. I'm the one who hates to be on the spotlight with questions, who cries silently when someone berates her. I hardly ever ask for anything, but for you to listen when I feel like talking. Whether it be serious or not, a pair of loyal ears is a good thing to have.
And you. You started to pull me out of that hellish shell I locked myself in years ago. I loved you. You loved me. We were happy, being the only two peas in a humongous pod. I let you take whatever you wanted of me, and I didn't ask for much in return. I didn't need your body or materials. I just wanted a space in your heart, that secluded place no one had ever seen before. I thought I was se
Pokemon Rant on PaulWhy I Hate PaulPokemon Rant on Paul6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The Paul I am referring to is a character in the pokemon anime, who is currently Ash's primary rival while the group is in the Sinnoh region. Paul is really a varied character: on the Serebii.net forums, the Paul character discussion thread has, at the time of writing, nearly spans twenty pages, though most of it is saying how "awesome" he is. However, I do not think he is awesome. I hate him more than I hate Harley from the same show. I want to strangle Paul and break one of his limbs. Most probably won't know why I feel this way, so I will explain.
First, Pokemon are sentient beings in this setting. As Linkara pointed out in his review of "Captain Planet and the Planeteers #3," if animals were truly intelligent enough to make their own decisions and follow orders, animals would easily be given rights. Considering that many pokemon in this setting are shown to be smart enough to qualify, pokemon should have a bill of rights. In the real world, Paul's trea
Reverse Culture ShockFlying home was not flying home. Flying home meant grabbing the homing pigeon inside of me and twisting its imaginary magnet one hundred and eighty degrees to the north instead of southwards to Australia. The magnet still twitched stubbornly north even as the plane droned over Darwin, five hours before I finally reached home. Except it wasn't home. Sydney now looked as foreign as the glossy travel leaflets I grabbed from Singapore, its shine not quite matching the missing substance of my once childhood home.Reverse Culture Shock4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Thank you for choosing Singapore Airlines I hope you will enjoy your stay in Sydney, or a warm welcome home."
Winter air slapped me like a bucket of ice water as I emerged, searching for my parents and my sister. For eight years, their voices were tinny and masked by static on the occasional phone calls home. Today, they sounded as brittle as ever, Australian accents barely sheathing the chill emanating from them.
"Welcome home, sis," said my sister with an unusually bright v
and it came on in waves.and it came on in waves.6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Big Sur was a name that lived in the mouths of surfers and the words of Jack Kerouac and Henry Miller. Spontaneity drove me to this place as I ventured away from the Los Angeles wasteland back to the Silicon graveyard called home. The boredom of business for a whole week might have been the true cause. I'm never one not to take an adventure.
But California natives drove smart. To cross from one side of the state to the other, you took I-5 or 101. We laughed at the idiots who took the "scenic route" for pleasure, not for business. You only took Highway 1 to access the beaches. With the twists and turns, possible motion sickness, mudslides, rockslides, fog and constant construction, Highway 1 was a tourist's wake-up call-- not all is sunny-sexy in the Golden state. Seeing as I lived four years away from home, where the Northeast's transportation circulatory system pulses strong, fast and easy, I did an un-native thing and turned off at Pismo Beach for Highway 1.
Driving this road a few h
Parable of the LanternThere were once two men seeking wisdom under the tutelage of an ancient master. He brought them into a dark room. In the center were two metal lamps, each containing a flickering flame.Parable of the Lantern1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Grip your lamp by the base, endure the heat, and gaze into the flame," instructed the master. "If your faith wavers and you look away, or your strength fails and you let go, even for an instant, you will be lost. You will never be wise. But gaze at the flame and, if you prevail, you will know truth."
And the master left them.
The two men gripped their lamps, and gazed into the light. Soon the lamps grew hot from the fire within, and began to burn their hands.
One man let go and stood up. "Aha!" cried the faithful man, as he continued to grip his lantern. "You have shown yourself too weak to become wise."
"Who is wise, the one who holds fire, or the one who lets go?"
The faithless man's eyes adjusted to the dark, and he saw that
Sleepless NightsMy bloodshot eyes are stained with black, circled by dark rings of sleepless nights and smudged ink. I have a permanent headache, my mind singing bloody hymns with battered rhythm and broken voice; my failing vision clouded by smoke and cracked glass.Sleepless Nights6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Words leak out of my skull, seeping like black tar; they burn my skin like the sting of elusive flames. I have broken promises tattooed on my chest.
And this is how it feels to have your imagination chained to your heart.
I lower my ink-stained hand to ravaged paper, and words trickle out of my veins.
The man looks up through shadow-filled lashes. His desperation drifts like smoke through the air with the heavy sound of his quiet voice:
What must I do to be happy?
I drink poison; ink washes over my tongue with the bittersweet taste of inspiration. These words are my prison: whispers of loss drift across my heart.
But this is the life I created; I write down my dreams and they become n
The Parable of the WriterThree writers came to the table, manuscripts in hand.The Parable of the Writer8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
One writer said,
"I wrote this piece to be edited. There is plenty to be cut and moved around."
Another writer said,
"I wrote this piece to be published. Between these pages you'll find everything people want to see."
The last writer said,
"I wrote this to be read."
Then he set his manuscript down, and walked away.
The fairness of lifeThe little mouse nuzzled at the old crust of bread. It was a good week old and covered in all kinds of hideous fungi and insects of old. It wasn't much, but it was all his miserable little life had to present him with. Cautiously, he nibbled upon it, retching with every single bite he took. It tasted foul, but he needed it to keep his worthless life afloat.The fairness of life6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Suddenly, his nose twitched. A glorious smell filled his nostrils. A smell he hadn't recognised for many a year. Oh rapture unforeseen what a smell it was. He turned to face the small crevasse in the damp rotten wood, and popped his scrawny bullet shaped head to locate the source of such a godly emission. He soon located it with his black bead like eyes. There it was, glistening in the evening sun. The light seemed to dance it so gracefully, as if it were destined to be there; outside of his small abode. It was almost too good to be true.
"Cheese" He uttered on to himself "Such wonderful cheese! Is it cheddar?
Large Man and the Small MenThe Large Man asked the Small Men for peace.Large Man and the Small Men4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The Small Men answered with pestering, and precisely placed pestilence.
The next day was dark. And the next and the next.
The Small Men went looking for the Large Man to take out their anger. Strangely, he was nowhere to be found.
The day grew darker still and the moon became tired and angry. She sent killing waters to the land.
The Small Men became pained and diseased. Still they looked for the Large Man, still they grew angrier. Still the water became stronger and the day grew darker.
Finally, "Get me down!" The Moon yelled in a crashing waves.
Every day, the Large Man pulled down the moon, and picked the sun from the ocean to lift it into the sky.
The Small Men ran to the place where the large man had asked for peace. There they found footprints so massive that they could not be tracked. Footprints that were camouflaged by the hills and valleys of the landscape.
The day gre
With the Strength of a Child His ripped shirt is barely visible in the dust and smoke. He kneels in the rubble, bloody faded jeans loose on his hips, tan skin lined with ragged cuts and bruises underneath. Long dark hair, now dusty white and matted with blood, ripples in the wind like a tattered flag of surrender.With the Strength of a Child6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He can't feel the pain.
Broken jaws whisper of sadness.
Broken voices scream of loss.
And his broken eyes turn toward the ground, shadowed with fear and weakness. He clutches his head in scarring hands, ignoring the sharp debris biting his legs. He stares vacantly at the cracked concrete lying in the dust.
He can't see it at all.
Young eyes glisten with tears.
'Canary'. Rough Draft. IntroductionA darkening gray patch of sky laced with thin whirls of clouds hangs over the pale yellow, quiet house. It stands strong, and solitary, with doors and windows locked up tight, sealing out the picturesque neighborhood. This house is immaculate with touches of care and detail, as if watched over by a gentle ghost: behind the clear windows hang simple white curtains, embroidered in the corners; a ring of moist earth encircles the carnations sprouting from each window box, though the wet and wrinkled petals tucked inside each bud are too weak yet to blossom. The lawn is tidily trimmed, though moss still grows in patches on the shingles. As the evening darkens, the street light casts a yellow light down the front path, where lonely footsteps click against the stone. The young, thin-framed woman who unlocks the door carries many thoughts in her head, but none at all escape from her mouth. Aside from a sigh that slips into the night, all other expression is hidden behind the walls,'Canary'. Rough Draft. Introduction4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Paradise lost AKA All gods die Kiedy wychodził, nie spodziewał się, że zacznie padać – w końcu był dopiero początek grudnia, a zimy z roku na rok robiły się coraz cieplejsze. Siergiej nie lubił śniegu, wbrew swojej rosyjskości i temu, co w tej kwestii sądzili o nim inni, więc przeklął pod nosem, zobaczywszy frunące z gracją białe płatki. Nie znosił zimna, wilgoci i tego, że bez rękawiczek palenie stawało się uciążliwe i mało przyjemne. Jakieś dziecko krzyknęło do matki, a chwilę później spróbowało złapać wirujący puch na język. „Udław się nim” – pomyślał zirytowany Siergiej, rozplątując tkwiące w uścisku słuchawki. Gdyby tylko wiedziały, z kim miały do czynienia, nie byłyby tak złośliwe.Paradise lost AKA All gods die3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Dear HumanDear Human,Dear Human4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
You continue to write in me. You take a pen and mark my pages with memories. Why do you do this? I cannot help you; I cannot accompany you through your life. You will write in me and then what you write will stay hidden beneath my cover. These words do not solve any of your troubles, or make any of your joys greater. Why do you continue to write? I do not care what happened to you on March 16th, be that March 16th in 2002 or March 16th in 2012. I do not care.
I do not care what happens from day to day, the world outside which I have not seen in years. I am shut in a drawer in a desk that never changes. I do not know the people whose names you scrawl, sometimes with hate, which fills me, sharp words, sharp tip of the pen, stabbing, carving deep symbols, these words that indent other pages, stretching deeper, impaling me with your passions. I hate these names, these people, these deeds, with such hate that I cannot think beyond the fresh ink. The next page is blank and sends
Write What You KnowWrite What You Know3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Once upon a time, a young woman was so in love with books that she decided she wanted to become a writer so she, too, could create loveable stories. She read everything she could about writing. Then, one day, she found herself in a book store where she bumped into an old man among the shelves. Turning to apologize, she discovered it was a venerable, much-loved author.
As soon as she could find her voice to speak, she said, "Oh, sir! I know you are very busy, and so I would just like to ask you one small question: what is the best piece of advice you have for a beginning writer?"
The old man smiled and said, "Certainly, young lady. In fact, I will write it down for you." He took out a small slip of paper and a pen and jotted something down. Then he handed the paper to her.
She thanked him profusely and moved out of his way so he could go about his business. Then she looked at the little paper in her hand. She frowned.
"Write what you know."
Well she was very disappointed. In fact, it m
Falling LeavesJohnny took me to a new place today. He told me it was his little slice of Heaven, as though God had taken a knife and gouged out that slice for him, and for me to enjoy. I believed him then, even though he was only twelve and I was only thirteen. I think it was something to do with his eyes, the way they shone through to me, just like the frosty blue sky above.Falling Leaves7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I told myself it was a sister-like affection, but even affection had no boundaries.
The first thing I noticed was the fallen leaves carpeting the ground, and as we stepped on them they crackled and crunched. Johnny told me it had been snowing, and I laughed, because there was no hint of white in the auburn setting.
Leaves are like snowflakes, he argued, But they also look like golden cornflakes that we eat in the morning for breakfast everyday.
Sometimes I forget how childish he is.
He ran to a bench that was carved from wood, and I sat next to him, watching the green field beyond the l
Moonlit NocturneThere was blood on my hands when I played the piano for you that day.Moonlit Nocturne6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was the same street piano on the corner of the park that we used to play in, outracing the butterflies that gathered around the roses that grew there. We used to pretend we could fly like them, dancing from petal to petal, free from the world's cruelties. So happy. So naive.
A skid of a wheel had changed all that.
That day, your butterfly wings had been torn out of their sockets. They joined a long list that had been stuffed into jars over the centuries, to be ogled over by Death, the sadistic collector who never failed when it was our turn to submit. You were captured too early, too soon, but there was nothing I could do. I was on the piano, playing your nocturne, when you crossed the busy road. Blood sprayed, horns screamed and I turned to see you flung over a windscreen, unmoving.
There was a funeral, of course. There were tears, but none slid down my face that day.
I saved it for the piano.
You should have see