GEWGAW WRITINGS

The Boy Who Saved Christmas

2010-01-02T01:27:00.000-08:00

There was once a time when Christmas as we know it, almost did not arrive. It was the year when the act of a little boy, without his knowledge, had a powerful effect on this great tradition we know as the Season of Giving - Christmas.

Tony is a bright, lovely boy of nine. He is a middle child, with an older sister and a baby brother. Their family is a happy one, with lots of love to go around. Tony loves Christmas and every year, he patiently waits for the time when Santa Claus comes to their house to give presents.

One day in church, Tony heard about Jesus giving them the best gift ever. He also learned that the real meaning of Christmas is not about receiving but rather, giving.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” the preacher intoned.

Tony thought of Santa Claus, who did nothing but make children around the world happy by giving and giving and giving some more. So, young as he was, he decided to change that and be the one to give something to Santa Claus for a change.

“It’s not fair for him to be giving and giving and we kids not giving him anything in return,” he thought. He could not wait for Christmas to come. He started making a list of all possible gifts to give Santa Claus.

He thought long and hard about what Santa Claus is like, so that he would get him the perfect present. He read books about where Santa lives and how he looks like, what he wears and just about everything about him.

Aside from reading, he also asked his mother and father, his teacher and friends, what they thought was the best present for Santa Claus. Some of his friends thought it unusual to be asking such a question.

“Why Tony, are you planning to reverse Christmas this time?” teased Randy, his playmate.

“I haven’t heard of anyone ever giving Santa anything,” taunted another playmate.

Tony ignored the jibes. Instead, he thought about how to give the present to Santa Claus. Would he just leave it on the mantelpiece, beside the glass of milk and cookies they always left for Santa? Would he write a letter to his old bearded friend as well? How about posting it?

“Oh!, it would be nice to hand the present personally to him,” Tony thought.

His next concern was how much to spend and where to buy the present. He tried to save every penny - the coins his parents give him when they go to the candy shop, the money from Grandma when they go visit once in a while. He also planned to ask a few more coins from Mom when it’s time to do the Christmas shopping.

At last, when Christmas was nearing, he asked his Mom to bring him along for shopping. He went to a lot of shops but alas!, he could not find a suitable present for someone whose life mission is to give away presents! He could not have guessed how daunting a task such as choosing Santa’s present would be.

Then, all of a sudden, a thought came to him. A glorious, wonderful, brilliant idea! He would write a poem for Santa Claus. Yes, that would be his gift to his hero! He will ask his father to help him put the poem in a frame and have it posted to Santa. Perhaps, it will inspire Santa Claus to make more children happy this particular Christmas.

That night, Tony was juggling ideas and thoughts around in his head all through supper. He was stringing beautiful words together to form lines and phrases to capture his lofty thoughts about who Santa Claus is to him. Surely, the old guy will be mighty delighted!

Lying in bed, his mind never stopped working. He could hardly get himself to sleep. He now had a title for the poem and the first two paragraphs. He will make it short and sweet and full of meaning. After all, a young boy like him only had simple thoughts and a simple message.

Meanwhile, up in the North Pole, where Santa’s team of elves are busy assembling and wrapping and checking Santa’s list twice and thrice, Santa Claus is sitting forlorn in his usual chair that rocks and plays a melody by the fire. Mrs. Claus is like a bee hovering over him, handing him a mug of steaming coffee to chase away the cold, adjusting the blanket on his knees, and rubbing Santa’s back, reassuring him that this Christmas will be another success just like the thousands of Christmasses in the past.

Santa Claus believed his dear wife, and yet, he knew that he is not well. He looked back on all those years when he enjoyed flying high in his sleigh bearing all the goods boys and girls have been dreaming of all year round. Yet, right now, something is bothering him. His spirit is not quiet within him. His heart is not at all delighted at the thought of making children happy once again.

Mrs. Claus suggested that they call Mr. Elf Ringleader to inquire about what is troubling Mr. Claus. Mr. Elf Ringleader has a gift to see beyond what is visible. He also has the ability to inquire of the heavens about what is troubling his fellow creatures.

At once, Mr. Elf Ringleader was summoned to the Claus residence. Upon entering, he immediately sensed something wrong in the atmosphere, as if a heavy weight was bearing upon his spirit. When he saw Mr. Claus seated and looking rather out of his usual character, he soon realized what was wrong.

The winter witch is at work! Her spell is working against the good intentions of Santa Claus and his entire workforce of family, elves, and reindeers. This spell makes one despair when there is nothing to despair of, distressed when everything is fine and miserable when the world is as rosy as can be.

Mr. Ringleader solemnly declared what he thinks is the impending doom of the Claus dynasty. Mr. Claus, and all his forebears, carried on the noble tradition of giving and sharing during Christmas time. This tradition goes centuries back. Thanks to the winter witch, this might just be the end of such a beautiful and selfless practice.

“What should we do?” asked Mrs. Claus, her face the picture of absolute distress.

She knows how much gift-giving means to Mr. Claus. He is nearing his retirement, and will soon pass the reindeer rein to their oldest son. Surely, it will break his heart to see the doom of this great family tradition in his watch. What about the future Claus generations? What will life mean to them without doing what they were always meant to do?

As she was pondering on these thoughts, she could hear Mr. Ringleader say still in that solemn voice, “The spell is profound in its damaging effect but it takes such a simple act to break it. Mr. Claus must receive a gift from a pure heart that gives selflessly in order to reverse the effects of the winter witch spell. He had been doing the giving all his life and this time, there must be some sort of giving towards him to revive his flagging spirits and save Christmas.”

“Oh! how can this be possible? There has never been anyone who gave us any gift! Oh! this is not happening.

Are we doomed forever to a life of no purpose?” wailed Mrs. Claus. She can imagine a bleak future with nothing else to do and no one to make happy.

On such a sad note, Mr. Ringleader departed from the Claus residence. Before going to bed, Mr. and Mrs. Claus, together with everyone with them in their home, prayed together for a miracle.

Back in Tony’s house, it’s almost morning. He arose early to put his poem on paper and polish it one last time. At last, it is now finished. He went to his father who was reading the morning paper over a piping hot mug of coffee and toast lathered with thick butter and marmalade.

“Father,” the boy hesitated a little bit. “Would you mind if I ask you a big favour?”

“Of course I don’t mind, Tony,” his father answered. “What can I do for you? Just don’t ask for the moon,” he managed to jest.

“Remember what the Pastor said one Sunday about giving as the real essence of Christmas? Well, I have decided to give something to Santa Claus for a change.”

“That is a noble thought, Tony. I am mighty proud of you for coming up with such a wonderful idea! I can imagine how happy Santa will be to receive a present.”

“Do you think so, father?” asked the little boy, his face animated and aglow.

“I honestly think so, my son,” his father beamed with pride.

“Can I leave this poem that I wrote for you to put in a frame and post it to Santa Claus today, then? His address is at the back of this paper.”

Having been assured by his father, he kissed him goodbye and went back to his room to prepare for school.

As Christmas approached, Tony was beside himself with excitement.

A week later, back at the North Pole, an excited elf was running frantically to the house with a package in his hand. He had just come from checking the mail box for some news about more toys that they ordered for Christmas. While the winter witch spell is still at work, they were still hoping against hope for the miracle they prayed for to happen. So work continued in Santa’s workshop as boxes upon boxes are filled with presents, lists are checked twice and then thrice and more sleighs packed with more boxes.

“Mrs. Claus! Mrs. Claus! There is a package for Mr. Claus,” cried the elf. “I have a delightful feeling this is the miracle we have all been waiting for.”

“Oh, come on, my dear elf. Contain yourself, will you?” chided Mrs. Claus. "Mr. Claus is still in bed and he is likely to have breakfast in the room so let us be careful not to rouse him unnecessarily. He was unable to sleep well last night, that’s why.”

While saying this, Mrs. Claus was busy turning the box over to check who it came from. Then, her hands stilled as she read the return address: Tony O’Connor, 7 Hazel Drive, Derby, Nottingshire. Who must this person be? She hasn’t heard of such a name before.

She thanked the elf and quietly made her way to where Mr. Claus was lying down. He heard her approach and was propped high on his pillows when Mrs. Claus entered their room. At once, Mr. Claus’ eyes went to the package and he held out his hands eagerly to receive it. Mrs. Claus detected a slight trembling of those gnarled, lovely hands of his.

Very tenderly and lovingly, Mr. Claus unwrapped Tony’s present and as he read the poem, tears ran down his cheeks. Ironically, as he was crying and weeping for joy, he could feel his strength and vigour returning. There was an apparent lifting of a heavy load off his chest. The air seemed fresher, the surroundings brightening up. This is it! This is the miracle they prayed for, and it came through the simple gift of a little boy who did not know what to give but gave something of himself anyhow.

This is Tony’s poem for Santa:

All these years you gave to kids

Made them happy with your gifts

Your arrival we dream all year

Your Ho!ho!ho!’s we want to hear.

This Christmas I’m being good

I want to give, as you would

A gift to say thank you

For all the good you do.

Christmas is for giving

It’s a time for love-sharing

Though you give and give to kids

A single gift you never received.

This Christmas I’m mighty glad

Am grown now, a young lad

I will give you the best I can

Thank you, Santa, you’re my man!

And so, that year, Christmas went on as usual. Santa Claus did his usual round of gift-giving on Christmas eve and made thousands of children happy and loved. When he came to Tony’s house, he wept more tears of joy as he carefully and lovingly filled Tony’s stockings with Christmas goodies.

Before sleeping that night, Tony was so happy thinking that he made Santa feel appreciated this Christmas. Little did he know that he was the real hero.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

MARIA TERESA BANIAGA is an excellent writer having graduated from one of the most prestigious universities in the country - University of the Philippines. She is right now in the UK with her family, and in spite of work and her parenting duties, she is still, able to maintain two blogs: HotMomma and Pinoy Around the World. I admire this woman a lot and I bow to her writing prowess!

Mathe and her family

She has this to say for herself, quote:

"HotMomma is a mother of two wingless angels, married to a wonderful man for more than 12 years already and currently based in England. An aspiring writer, she dreams of one day publishing bestsellers about amazing stories of people she meets along the way. Meanwhile, days are spent looking after the boys and the home, where she creates and keeps a haven for the whole family. An avid cook, a health enthusiast, a driven mom and wife to be the best to those who matter most to her."
Unquote.

Need I say more? Visit her blogs and read more about her interesting, personal adventures.

This story has also been published at Helium.com

Photo 1 by Scott Schram
Photo 2 by krisdecurtis
Photo 3 by krisdecurtis

WOOF Winners

2009-12-22T09:30:00.000-08:00

WOOF Contest – Top Picks

Poetry

Zorlone – “A Strong Rope” - A poem about climbing on a piece of rope called fate.

dragon blogger – “Manichean Monks” - Poem about a battle between monks and a calico dragon.

reyjr – “Contemplation” - A poem about being dealing with stress and missing your loved one.

Memoir

Jena Isle – “A True Story: This Could Happen to You” - A true story.

Brought to you by PlotDog Press with the Serial Suspense Screenplay "Intervention"

(WOOF participants should re-post all the links above by next Monday. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top posts as chosen by the December 18, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends December 25. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form on this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you’re all set.

A True Story: This Could Happen to You!

2009-12-11T21:24:00.000-08:00

“This is my new roaming number, my old number was blocked. How are you?” A text roused me from sleep. It was from my daughter.

“Michelle? How are you?” I texted back.

“Yes, it’s me. I'm fine, how’s everyone?”

“We’re good. Will you be coming home?” I excitedly queried.

“Not sure yet, by the way, someone would like to buy prepaid cards here, and they’ll pay in cash.”

“I’m at work now, will try to send later, love you.”

“I need 6 pieces smart 500 and 8 pieces globe 500. I would sell them for 900 each. Love you," came the quick reply.

I calculated this roughly in my mind, and it was around 7,000. I would have to withdraw from my ATM. The added earnings though, would help a lot with the Christmas
Noche Buena. It was quick and easy money.

I forgot all about it during the course of the day but at around 3:30 pm, my cell phone sounded off again. “Were you able to buy? I will have to sell them today, they might buy somewhere else.”

“Okay, I’ll attend to it as soon as I get off from work.”

After 5, I went home and remembered my crops at Farmville, so I first harvested my sunflowers. I had several perfect bunches and I was thrilled by the thought of buying my own villa before Christmas.

My cell phone beeped again: “I’m still waiting.”

Startled out of my “profound perusal” of my harvests at Farmville, I jumped to my feet and thought how irresponsible I was.

“Jenny, kindly withdraw from my ATM and buy these,” I wrote down the items on a piece of paper.

When Jenny left, the cell beeped again. “How many were you able to buy?” I peered at the text in the approaching dusk.

My hypothalamus was triggered by a stimulus I could not put a finger to. My hands stopped momentarily typing my reply. What the_???

My daughter never pressured me like that, and she had always teased me “old woman”, and would address me mom, at least once or twice, in a 6 message-text. But these texts, never said “mom” even once. Perhaps, it was the hubby texting? I reasoned out. But even then…

I deleted what I was typing, and typed this instead:

“Anak, I’ll be sending a package to your Auntie Mary in the US and I forgot the address. Do you have it?” I pressed send.

My daughter knew that address, so she should not have any problem providing it.

But I received a different reply: “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

She/he did not reply because he/she did not know the address. My heart did a double flip as I haphazardly put aside the lappy and dialed Jenny's number, but I heard her cell phone ringing in the other room. She didn’t bring it!

I didn’t bother to change; I went out in my house clothes and searched for Jenny in the neighboring area. I might not be able to return the cards. What would I do with all of them? I may be able to sell them, but it would take time.

To my dismay, Jenny had bought the cards already.

"We have to return it," I said.

We were lucky the salesperson was kind and had understood our predicament. He returned the money.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Whew! I'm not filthy rich to give out money just like that. I was almost duped out of my cash because I wanted MORE money.lol… Greed is indeed a potential, source of misjudgment.

I thank my lucky stars; I still have my Christmas money intact! Thanks to Farmville, I have been "waylaid" (so to speak). lol.

What about you, did this ever happen to you? Do share similar stories to "inform" our readers.

Merry Christmas in advance!

An Immortal Relationship : Friendship

2009-11-27T04:46:00.000-08:00

By: Krishna

My Friend when I think of you.
I think of all that we've been through.

I remember that most of the times we argued and fought, ( like kids)
in spite of knowing deep inside that it wasn't right.

We both then felt bad, and in a lot of pain.
It felt like we have fallen from the sky like the rain.

I love you dear friend with all of my heart.
But now that you're gone I've fallen apart.

(I now feel that my friend is no more like she was)

I'm getting better as the days go by.
I wish sometimes this was all a big lie.

I pray to you every night.
It's like you're my fire, a burning light.

My dear friend, I miss you a lot.
I still wonder why you were put in that spot.

I know you're in a place much better than here.
Watching and helping me with all of my fear.

Our friendship, my dear friend, we will have to the end.
Friends till the end is what we will be.

Someday we'll be together, together you and me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Krishna is the author of Krishna's Musings. He is a public servant in India (meaning - a person of "position"), who has very little time to compose or even update his blog because of his dedication to his work. But today, I'm lucky to have him here as a guest writer.

He composed this poem within 5 minutes (can you beat that?), and I would like to present it as raw as possible so you could see the brilliance in its simplicity. Sometimes, simplicity is beauty.

He had been a true and trusted friend for 4 years now.

Thanks Krish, for this wonderful poem of friendship.

Crafting Poetry

2009-11-20T07:28:00.000-08:00

By: HOLLY JAHANGIRI

If you write poetry only for your own personal pleasure--as a way of recording your inner emotions, as therapy, as journaling technique--then please read no further. There is nothing at all wrong with that, and no one can tell you the "right" way to do it. You might, however, want to invest in a good lock for your diary.

If you have a fragile soul or a delicate ego, and you're going to bleed tears at the mere thought of your poems suffering rejection, please don't read this. Even great poets suffer rejection; most have enough rejection slips to wallpaper a small house. They toil in relative obscurity, recognizing that their passion is also hard work. Great poets don't let a little rejection stand in their way.

If you are serious about the art and craft of writing poetry, and hope some day to see your poems in print, then read on. You can, of course, circumvent the whole process and write me off as a crackpot - just go post your poems at Poetry.com and believe those nice folks when they tell you that you are one of the most promising poets to emerge in this decade. Shell out fifty bucks for the beautifully-bound coffee-table anthology and bask in your own glory. Pat yourself on the back, for you have arrived.

Still with me here? Good. Before you begin to write, let me strongly recommend that you not only devour a smorgasbord of great poetry, but that you have handy a good, unabridged rhyming dictionary such as The Complete Rhyming Dictionary: Including the Poet's Craftbook, Clement Wood (Editor), Revised by Ronald J. Bogus (Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, 1992; ISBN: 0440212057). This book is not just a rhyming dictionary; it contains valuable and digestible tips for crafting poems that have wide appeal and are a pleasure to read.

Is Poetry a Dead Language? Basic Do's and Don'ts for Today's Poet

Write in your own natural voice, using fresh language that speaks--or sings--to today's readers. Avoid archaic, outdated, or overly academic words. Run from weird, "poetical" contractions and mechanisms, such as "ne'er" or "ere" or "'gainst" - that is the mark of an amateur, desperately forcing language to conform to an unnatural meter or rhyme scheme. If you attempt to imitate Shakespeare (or anyone else, for that matter), you will sound ridiculous and your poems will appear contrived.

Remember that you are writing for others. If your poetry is full of poignant, sentimental thoughts, does it have universal appeal? Can your readers relate? Poetry that is too deeply personal, too full of "I" and replete with introspection, is generally not marketable poetry. If you are struggling with this, try eliminating the pronoun "I." Try stepping out of yourself; tell the tale as if lived by another, and see what happens. Imagine yourself as the uninvolved reader--what would it take to yank on your heartstrings or ignite your imagination to engage you fully in the poem?

Use words that appeal to and arouse strong emotions. Use words that invoke visual images. Compare the impact of "the night air, filled with the seduction of white ginger" to "the night air, filled with the scent of flowers". Avoid abstractions, such as "truth," "beauty," "freedom," "love," and so on. Be specific. Play with metaphor and simile, always being careful to avoid using allusions that have been done to death by others. How original is your poem if you write that something is as "red as a rose," or "white as snow"? How much emotion will that arouse? Pleasure, in reading poetry, comes from the unexpected. Let's see, "orange as the juicy center of a nectarine" or "black as slush" or "gray as snizzle" might work.

Play with words, but don't mangle or invert them to force-fit a rhyme scheme or metric pattern. Phrases such as "hit he him" are just glaringly distracting and unnecessary. Rework the whole idea, if necessary--choose new words, or choose a whole new rhyme scheme or metric pattern. Sometimes you've just got to let go. When you do, set it aside for a bit and trust that the words will flow again.

In Form, There is Freedom

Learn the basic fixed forms of poetry: the Sonnet, the Sestina, the Triolet, the Rondel, the Ballade, the Limerick, the Chain-Rhyme, the Haiku, the Tanka, and so on. Learning to write within the structural framework of the fixed forms gives you discipline and practice, and prepares you to invent your own rules and framework. I will be the first to admit that I don't fully understand the concepts of "blank verse" and "free verse," and cannot recall reading any that I enjoyed. Although that is a matter of personal taste, I still urge you to study formal verse and master several forms before flying without a net.

Poetry: Therapy or Art?

Ever read a poem that left you speechless? I mean, how can you comment on the utter turmoil of a human soul? When someone is laying their raw emotions out on the dock to dry, do you step over their supine form and say, "Gee, the meter's a little off, and 'angst' doesn't rhyme with 'dagger,' what the hell were you thinking?!" 'Cause you probably don't really want to know, and there are better ways to ask for a lesson in free verse. This is what I call...

Bleeding on the Page
by Holly Jahangiri

Teardrops of blue-black ink fall to the page.
Souls bleed in fourteen lines of tortured verse,
That limps along, five-footed, filled with rage.
What angst! How could it possibly get worse?
But worse it gets - for he's compelled to share,
As literature, the sorrow and the pain.
This solitary madness must ensnare
And captivate, and drive us all insane.
Oh, certainly to this we can relate -
Soul-sucking torment's siren call.
Let's just give in to cruel whims of fate,
Then, pen a poem! Entertain us all!
The poet shares the anguish in his heart;
Some turn away, but others call it art.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Holly Jahangiri is the author of the blog "It's All a Matter of Perspective". She is a professional writer, with 4 books to her name: Trockle, Dealing With the Demon and nine other stories , Mood Swings (A Collection of Poems), and her most recently released book - A Puppy, Not a Guppy.

I find Holly to be a head strong woman, who says what's in her mind candidly but is also a caring and loving friend. She's one of the bloggers that I respect a lot. Thanks, Holly for this guest post. Mabuhay ka!

Terminus

2009-11-15T13:42:00.000-08:00

Spare me the pains of the billowing dust,
in the shadows of the glorious dusk.
Don't sing me songs of adieu
in whispers, that I barely knew.

Rest and let go of the garbled breath,
that wracks your tattered body.
Let go, my love, of the thread
that leads to turmoil and misery.

Go, move on to the sunshine of joy,
and suffer no more my sweet.
gnarled fingers and wrinkles are done now,
and time for your restful sleep.

Don't worry, for in time, I will be,
with you in the folds of your dreams.
Where nothing matters but you and me,
and together we will always be.

...until the end of time.

Hello dear readers, may I request your participation? I know this is a simple poem to interpret, but I'm interested to know if anyone could tell me the specific scenario in this poem. Am I getting through?

Thanks. Anyone who could interpret it correctly will have sizzling sisig waiting for her/him, here in Pampanga. lol, so to claim your prize, you will have to visit me and Roy first.

Bookshop and Reading

2009-11-14T08:26:00.000-08:00

Ask any writer what his hobbies are and one would always be reading. I have never come across a writer who is not a voracious reader. This is because books are vital sources of information and knowledge. They keep us abreast of things we should know. We could travel the world through books. We could learn anything from books: from sewing, to blogging, to carpentry, to physics, to chemistry and many more. Reading would always be a major part of our continuing education.

Even if you’re not a writer, reading books is one hobby that is definitely worth pursuing because of its many positive outcomes. A bookshop therefore, should be one of the places that a person should visit when shopping offline or online.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the prices of these books on a bookshop online. They’re so cheap yet, very good reads, and there are several options to choose from. There are college ebook and ebook gadgets, fiction and non-fiction, novels and children’s books. There are even audio books. Name it, and they’ll most likely have them.

I had promised myself I’ll be going back to reading again one book within a month. I used to read 1 or 2 books within a week, but blogging and my regular daytime job are just too much to handle. But I’ll surely fulfill this goal from now on.

WOOF Contest – Top Picks for November 6, 2009

2009-11-10T14:29:00.000-08:00

Congratulations Doc Z, for having two of your entries in the Top 3.

WOOF Contest – Top Picks

Poetry

Zorlone – “No Call to Counter Strike” - A poem inspired by the fall of Gondolin.

Jena Isle – “My Painful Past” - What is more excruciating than remembering a painful past?

Fiction

Zorlone – “Diary of a Broken Heart” - A glimpse of an entry in a diary of a man, who once found the love of his life.

Brought to you by PlotDog Press with the Serial Suspense Screenplay "Intervention"

(WOOF participants should re-post all the links above by next Monday. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top posts as chosen by the October 30, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends November 6. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form on this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you’re all set.

Other WOOF Contestants for 11/06/09

Poetry

Jennifer M Scott – “Myriad” - Free form of thought.

dragon blogger – “Reunited” - Poem about wanted to be reunited with a lost love.

Memoir About Genuine Friendship

2009-11-05T04:53:00.000-08:00

I oftentimes hear people talking about dogs as their best friends. I could only respond to them half -heartedly, as I did not yet have a first hand experience regarding the matter. But now that I had experienced it, then I could truly say that dogs are indeed, the most faithful friends one could ever encounter. This is the story of my dog- Piper.

Photo by: Nikes Alviz

Piper had been brought home by my husband when she was just several days old. Even then, she was so impish and unruly. She would run around the yard non-stop; toppled everything blocking her path, and bit strange looking things into Kingdom come.

I was irritated at first because of how she was turning the house upside down, so I decided to tie her up. She refused to be restrained, of course, and did all she could to get out of her imprisonment. I had no option but to set her free. By then I was starting to like her cute antics. Perhaps she could be a good pet and so I named her Piper. Yes, after the lovely lady - Piper of the TV series - Charmed!

When I arrived home from work, she would rub her body against my feet and wagged her flurry tail, wanting to be cuddled. There were times that my husband and son were out, so I had to bathe her and feed her myself.

Read the rest of the story here...

My Painful Past

2009-10-24T06:48:00.000-07:00

I stood astride your songs,
In pulchritude we joined.
You with your mellow prongs,
I, with my opened loins.

We earned each accolade.
Our fame is all aflame.
We feasted on the glade.
And wealth we too proclaimed.

Alas, it did not last,
As all would come to pass.
I sit here quite aghast.
You're now under the grass.

I grieve my painful past.
Our days that should have been.
I sigh and say Alas!
We never will be seen.

Oh, Elvis where are you?
I yearn each day for you,
Hopeful that you could play.
My strings again someday!

Photo courtesy of Nikes Alviz

The Inspirational Book is Finally Here

2009-10-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

Finally the inspirational book is ready for release.

This is a labor of love by 27 authors/bloggers who have contributed so that the book would come to fruition.

It's a rare anthology that each book collector should own. Here's your chance to buy yours.

Just click on the button below and you'll receive your copy within 10 days. (for local delivery) and 15 days. (for international delivery)

OR YOU COULD ALSO BUY THIS BOOK AT EBAY.COM

FOR THE CONTRIBUTORS, I APOLOGIZE FOR THE DELAY. I'LL START MAILING YOUR COPIES NEXT WEEK. THANKS.

RELATED POSTS:

1. A Call for Minds by Zorlone

2. Inspirational Thoughts and Stories of Bloggers All Over the World by Holly Jahangiri

3. Frustrated Writer No More by Roy dela Cruz

4. Turning Bloggers into Published Writers by Rey Jr.

5. Ing Kekong Talasuyo, Atin Ya Pung Libro by Roy dela Cruz

6. DiTesco's Weekly Echo by DiTesco

7. We Need More Inspiration in This World, and I Have a Suggestion… by Mathe Baniaga

8. Inspirational Bloggers by Francis Scudellari

9. Beautiful Blogger Book by Patricia Rockwell

10. 27 Reasons Why Jena Isle's Inspirational Book Rocks by Jan Geronimo

11. I am a Published Author by Brady Frost

12. The Inspirational Book by Jean Knill

13. Inspired to Write by John Rooney

14. Brad Pitt Writing on the Inspirational Book Project by Elmot

15. Dreams Do Come True by Roy dela Cruz

16. Choices We Make In Our Life by Mon Paulino

17. My Life Story is Now in an Inspirational Book by Angel Cuala

18. I Am by Roy dela Cruz

19. One Word-Poetry: Inspiration by Roy dela Cruz

20. Inspirational Thoughts and Stories of Bloggers from All over the World
by Tasha Bud

21. Of Chasing Traffic and For The Love of Writing by Ceblogger

22. Hurra, mein Märchen ist veröffentlicht by Ray Gratzner

23. Inspirational Book by Mon Paulino

Arvie Vitente and Warrior is a Child

2009-10-07T03:31:00.001-07:00

Arvie, is Sir Arvie to many of his students. He's a brilliant educator, an excellent singer and a wonderful "adopted" son.

Here he is singing one of my favorite songs - The Warrior is a Child". Do play it twice to allow it to load properly, thanks.

I apologize for the wrong spelling. It has to go back to the MMC if I were to edit it again.

WOOF Contest Results for October 2

2009-10-05T23:01:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to all winners, especially to Zorlone, Roy, Jenn and Deeptesh. Cheers!

WOOF Contest – Top Picks

Fiction / Drama / Short Story

Roy – "I'm sorry, Matthew" - How long must one carry the guilt for something that was done in the past?

Jennifer M Scott – “Best Friends and the Meaning of It” - The beginning of a new series called Dr Simon's Velvet Couch Monologues of Everyday People. In this one September Don confesses she wants to kill her best friend but finds something more important.

Anne Bender – “... the world faded away” - A woman's memory of a morning with her lover.

Memoir

Jena Isle – “I Survived Raising My Teen” - A memorable episode in my life as a mother. The most challenging "career" in life is being a mother.

Poetry

Zorlone – “Ideal Teacher” - An example of Jenanian poetry about the essence of a teacher.

Zorlone – “Brick Wall” - Nothing hinders emotions than a cold and unfeeling brick wall.

Roy – “When the flame is dying...” - Do not let hatred burn forever in your heart... it will pass... let it die... let it be... so you can live in peace.

Deeptesh Sen – “An Evening in mercury” - Love in Kolkata.

Brought to you by PlotDog Press with the Serial Suspense Screenplay "Intervention"

(WOOF participants should re-post all the links above by next Monday. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top posts as chosen by the October 2, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends October 9. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form on this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you’re all set.

Other WOOF Contestants for 10/02/09

Fiction / Drama / Short Story

H. Benjamin Petrie – “A Couple Paragraphs of Sci-Fi War” - A very short description of war in the future.

About Writing

H. Benjamin Petrie – “Why We Would Read Something” - There's two reasons we would read something: i) it's well-written ii) it has an interesting story.

Poetry

Roy – “Let Go, Let God” - A poem about letting go of past pains, hurts and worries... and letting God take care of all our concerns.

Deeptesh Sen – “Parting at Park Street” - Love drifts away at the crossroads of a throbbing city!

Jennifer M Scott – “Autumn” - A poem about autumn written in acrostic form using the word autumn.

My Philosophy in a Couple of Trilogies - Inspirational Book

2009-09-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

By: Luke Christian Yu

I first watched Star Wars when I was three or four years old. I do admit that I did not understand much of it at that time. Instead, I kept on asking some of the adults watching along with me about some parts of the plot. Looking back at their answers to my questions, it seems like they did not understand much, either. Some of the scenes I saw at that time, however, made an impression on my young mind. While reviewing Star Wars a number of times decades later, I can still see clearly those scenes and feel the hard wooden chair I sat on when I was a child watching that movie.

For a lot of people, Star Wars is just another science fiction movie that takes place a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away—a movie that justifies teenagers and even those beyond to tell each other “May the Force be with you”. But for me, Star Wars is something deeper and more real. Their galaxy does not seem to be parsecs away, either. It might not even be out of place within the neighborhood.

Additionally, one may not need to look long and hard to find someone in the workplace or school that matches a B1 battle droid in sheer stupidity. (Roger, roger) A tyrant not unlike Emperor Palpatine might even be behind the government of some state or nation. All within the confines of our watery blue planet without having to board the Millennium Falcon and jump to hyperspace.

I view Star Wars as a story about Anakin Skywalker—the chosen one who has the highest midi-chlorian count of any Jedi, was conceived by a virgin and who faced death unflinchingly to end the suffering brought about by Darth Sidious. Star Wars is not about the good and the bad, the light and the dark, nor the yin and the yang.

It is about one man’s struggle for balance. Jedi Master Yoda represents the Light and Sith Lord Darth Sidious represents the Dark; but again, Star Wars is not about them. It is about Jedi Anakin/Darth Vader who represents both the Light and the Dark. While still Anakin, he might have traces of the Dark Side within him masquerading as fear, then anger and hatred; but even when he was transformed into Darth Vader, there was still good left in him. He was a perfect human representation of the Tai Chi symbol.

The story began when the young Anakin Skywalker was discovered by a Jedi Knight; it ended with his death and redemption. You can say that the prequel trilogy is about Anakin and the original trilogy is about Darth Vader. Others would say that Luke is the principal protagonist of the story and Lord Vader, the principal antagonist. Maybe, but in the grand scheme of things, it is more like Anakin Skywalker versus himself. Luke’s role, in my opinion, is just like his mother before him—a pivot in Anakin’s journey, nothing more.

Star Wars is not only my all-time favorite sci-fi/fantasy movie; it also influenced the way I look at things. Why? Honestly, I have not thought of that until now. Maybe it is because I can relate to it or because it is consistent with my own worldview. After all, if something is totally inconsistent with your worldview then it cannot influence you in any way, right? Or could it? But then, you might again ask whether it really is consistent with my worldview or whether it is my worldview that is concordant with Star Wars as it has shaped my worldview in the first place. That question, I cannot answer you. In a parallel plane,

Plato might have asked whether the virtues are good because they are appreciated by the Jedi, or whether they are appreciated by the Jedi because they are good.

Star Wars is deep—even philosophical. And there are many concepts, instances and conflicts in my life which I can deeply relate to the movie. Like I said, it influenced my thoughts in some ways. I will try to look into a few of them here. But understand that dissecting Star Wars like this could fill an entire book of its own. So let me just tell you as much as I can gather in a sitting or two. Why do I make this connections, you ask? Could it be because I am hopelessly addicted to Star Wars or because the conflicts in Star Wars are so much similar to those in real life? Now, I am not formally trained in philosophy or something, but those who know me know that I do tend to ask questions a lot.

First, I will talk about the high degree of contrast in the morals and dogma that I was initiated into. I was born, baptized, and raised as a Roman Catholic. Our family has more than our fair share of religious ministers—not to mention those in various religious organizations which I do not even know the name of.

These guys masquerade as aunts, uncles, cousins, or what have you. Sort of like Darth Sidious hiding behind the Senator Palpatine façade, right? Wrong. I was just kidding you. My point is, I was already shown the distinctively clear line between what is right and what is wrong even at an early age.

The line was so very clear, then. So clear that when one of those relatives stepped inside my room while I was away and found my books, she asked my mother to burn almost a row of them. Why? Like I told you, the line was very clear and those books happen to stand on the other side of that line.

You must be thinking of dark dangerous books, oozing with black magic and demon invocation, by now. That would have been fun but I am sorry to disappoint; those books were about science—prehistoric times, to be exact. You know, dinosaurs, prehistoric man, continental drift and stuff.

My first major is in the field of applied science so I do not think it is that inconceivable to have those sorts of books. However, it seems like some people are still bent on convincing others that the earth is just a couple thousand or so years old despite tons of archeological digs as old as 1.3 million years staring them at the face. Oh, I forgot: Those fossils were planted evidence by a red guy with horns, hooves and a pointy tail and were calculated to deceive mankind. Right. And I thought the Dark Ages was no more.

In the early part of the first episode of the original trilogy, this clear distinction between good and evil was shown when Darth Vader confronted Princess Leia Organa. One was a menacing seven-foot man in pitch-black armor and radiating pure evil; the other was an innocent-looking petite woman dressed in soft, pure-white cloth exuding goodness. A perfect symbolic representation, don’t you think.

But going deeper into the movie, as in life, you will find moral ambiguity and shades of gray in a supposed-to-be-black-and-white world of Star Wars where everyone works either for the Light or the Dark. I’d like to individually enumerate these instances but sadly, I will be quickly running out of space if I do so. I also do not have the luxury of time. So, it might be better to leave that as an exercise to the reader. As a bonus, it will make reviewing the movie that much more exciting.

But the color of my world or the absence thereof is not the only thing that I can relate with Star Wars. Star Wars, you see, has some depth if you look closely enough. The next time you watch Star Wars, watch out for this phrase: “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” In every episode of Star Wars, you will hear at least one of the main characters share this sentiment. I have heard it even in the animated movie and in the television series. Call it a basic expression of existential anxiety. I am sure that at some time in your life, you felt this intuitive response when confronted by an undefined problem. In episode three of the first season of The Clone Wars, the character who said that phrase was, of all things, a B1 battle droid piloting General Grievous’ Ship! Funny; I never thought they were capable of combat without shooting each other, much less existential thought.

Now, Let me share with you a scene from the original trilogy about the possible inconsistency between appearance and reality. When Luke was about to pass out in the planet Hoth (The name is curious as the planet was clearly very, very cold. A contradiction?) because of the cold, Obi-Wan’s Force ghost appeared before him and told him to go to the planet Dagobah and look for a great Jedi Warrior by the name of Yoda. Luke then went to the Dagobah system. What he found in that remote world of swamps and forests is mentally stimulating.

Man is a very visual creature. We lean heavily on what we see. We even demand that “to see is to believe”. I do not think that there is a problem with that unless you already have a preconceived notion of what you should be seeing. Selective perception is problematic, at best.

In a lot times, I find myself in my office when someone comes in looking for me. I would talk to that client and hear her say that she’d rather talk to me. Then I’d say “Oh, sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I am him.” There would then be that puzzled, unbelieving look in her face that I have seen countless of times in other’s faces. This scenario happens more times than I care to count. Then, my thoughts would wander back to that swampy planet…

When Luke arrived in Dagobah, he was startled by an old, small, green dwarf with large eyes. Being a young warrior, he instinctively aimed his blaster at the little green goblin. The poor thing was now covering his face and whimpering “Away put your weapon! I mean you no harm” Seeing the dwarf as a harmless little creature, he put away his weapon.

Anyway, he thinks, he could probably just kick this thing into the swamp if ever it would try to harm him. After that, the creature acted like a silly, old beggar trying to rummage through Luke’s supplies for food, taste some, and throw away stuff he does not like. Luke had no idea that this thing is the Yoda he has been searching for. When he told the dwarf that he is looking for a great warrior, it just laughed and said “wars not make one great.” Right, and that response came from a Grand Master Jedi whose name, Yoda, means “warrior” in Sanskrit. But surely,
the dwarf does not look like one.

I am not saying that I am a dwarf with large eyes. Neither am I saying that I am a Jedi Master who could wield a lightsaber and do a Form IV as lethally graceful as Yoda does. All I am saying is that it would be a lot better for all if we could only shed our preconceived notions and ideas and freshly perceive the world.

But Star Wars is not only about morality and philosophy; it is also about hope. Since this book is supposed to be an inspirational book rather than a book on the philosophy of some old movie as applied to the life of some obscure person, I saved this part for last.

Darth Vader, as I have said, has been considered by many to be an evil, mean killing machine. That cannot be denied. That said, I hope that all of us can be like Darth Vader. Yes, I said it. You can read that again, if you want.

The truth is that no one in this world could truly claim that he had not gone to the Dark Side or that he will not be seduced by its power. Every breathing human in this world has, at one time, crossed the boundary or will soon be crossing it.

Yes, none of them may have killed another human being for not finishing the Death Star on schedule using the power of the Dark Side in the form of a Force choke to do the deed; but have none of us lied as early as grade school specially during examination time? It would also be very surprising if none of us used or tried to use another person for our own needs, at least once, just like what Vader and Sidious have done.

The problem is, once you have been to the Dark Side, it would be difficult to come back to the Light. And the longer you stay there, the stronger will its hold be on you. Darth Vader declares this difficulty to his son, Luke, when he said, "You don't know the power of the Dark Side, I must obey my master... It is too late for me, son."

Once you have experienced how easy it was to copy your seatmate’s answers during grade school, it would seem to make more sense to do it again than to study diligently. Then, when you get used to it, it would be more difficult to be rid of the habit in your higher years. It goes on in the workplace and the rest of your life. Doing it the right way is almost always harder. Why else do you think would there be spammers in the Internet and unscrupulous businesses and get rich quick schemes?

When Luke asked Yoda whether the Dark Side is stronger, Yoda replied “No, but it is quicker, easier, more seductive.”

But difficult as it is, Vader showed that it can be done. And if we cannot avoid the Dark Side, or if we have already been bathing in its pleasures, I just hope that we can be as strong and courageous like Lord Vader who was able to search within himself and find the key to make it back to the Light.

May the Force be with you!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Luke is called Master Jedi Luke by the Jedi bloggers.

He is also @dezertsnow at Twitter.

His blog is "A Walk in the Dark" or "Law of the Force" which was created when Jan Geronimo of Writing to Exhale insisted that he should have his own blog instead of being a great commentator/commenter.

His first post "About How This Blog Came To Be" earned 77 comments, the first I have seen of its kind yet in blogging. He writes with a discerning and meticulous eye, careful to present the topic at hand in an organized and tapoted manner. Sometimes I imagine him "defragging/defragmenting" his highly technical terms to suit his "technically-challenged" readers - including me.

Each of the Jedi bloggers has a completely unique style of writing that "clicks" with me. For Luke, it is his philosophical mind which tries to merge with his expertise in internet technology and computer science.

By the way, I would like to mention that he is happily married to a lawyer, Dee, who authors another blog - Tales From The Mom Side.

This dynamo of a couple is a tandem to beat in the blogosphere.

A toast for both of you, guys!

Photo by futureatlas.com

PUFFY WHITES

2009-09-22T02:05:00.000-07:00

By: Elmot

I saw dancing, sheep
Of puffy irregular whites;
Running, playing, and changing
Shapes with the summer sun.

They run and catch
Each other’s tails,
bump and mate each other’s wool.

Others sleep in the curving
Corner of velvet farm,
Their colors I wonder is
Not of perfect white?
Theirs’ are sleeping colors
Puffy ash?

Then, sheep started to feast
On velvet and changing grass,
They stop, and eat and gently hop;
Till the farm in blowing wind concealed.

All these innocent puffy sheep ate
The changing velvet grass;
Through blowing wind,
Herded happily changing,
To sleep in the edge
of the velvet farmland.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elmot is the prolific and dynamic writer behind three blogs namely:

PinoySoundingBoard: Commentaries on Socio-Political Issues,
Ani-Mo!: Elmot's Whatever Blog and
Gaudencio Diaz: My Poetry Blog

He is a jovial and cheerful soul, you'd be surprised to find out that he discusses serious socio-economic problems and concerns in his blog.

Read his latest post on the May 2010 Election Concerns: An Online Interview with Mr. James Jimenez

"My Blog is my alter-ego, the online me: where I share some of my rants, senseless commentaries on everything I see, hear and smell..." he says this of his blog.

He is also an incredibly versatile poet who could shift easily from composing an erotic poem to a pristine, virginal poem like this one.

Thanks Elmot for accepting my invitation for a guest post, and for this refreshing and invigorating poem.

Photo by Tumble Fish Studio

For My Blogging Friends

2009-09-20T10:56:00.000-07:00

I am Lyle, The Struggling Blogger had declared falsely.

Writing to Exhale, he skedaddled into his Sugar Coated world.

You see, he was Born on a Syzygy too that’s why he is a Third World Geek

It’s all a Matter of Perspective really.

And I would not blame his friend, Zorlone, if he thinks upon Reflection:
that he’s got to visit Ceblogger’s Sports Blog instead of hanging out with him.

The good doctor is a badminton enthusiast, you know.

Kelvinonian ideas on the other hand, might work as a Pamatay Homesick for him.

And Tales from the Mom Side usually comfort people.

But if it does not, then reading the Yatot Chronicles might do the trick .

Or he might be needing an exercise and A Walk in the Dark would rejuvenate his soul.

And if everything else fails, then he should hop over to Pinoy Sounding Board.

This would definitely save the day for his transient stay in this mundane existence.

And here's a related article about MY NEW BLOGGING FRIEND, are you in it? Read and discover.

Don't Ask Me Why

2009-09-12T03:12:00.001-07:00

By: Roy dela Cruz

Don't ask me why I love you,
I just do.
I love you not because you love me back
I just do

Although I may not say it,
Sometimes It may not show,
But believe me,
I do

I love you not for the caring
Nor the thoughtfullness you've shown,
Not for being there
At times when I'm low!

Not for taking care of my children,
Not for making me a home
and not for being patient
of all my imperfections.

Please don't ask me for reasons
'cause I don't need them at all
Because loving you is itself the reason
And nothing else matters anymore

So don't ask me why I love you,
Because I do.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Roy dela Cruz is one of the winners ( 3rd) of the Top Ten Emerging Influential Bloggers for 2009.

As I have kept mentioning, he has 12 blogs (not counting those at Multiply) namely:

Be Inspired Now!
Etsetera! Etsetera!
Kapampangan Blog
Money OnLine
more than just copy-paste
REFLECTIONS
Roysville dot Com
Short Stories Blog
Subukan Taya Ing Kapampangan!
The House Of Puroy
The Struggling Blogger
The Struggling Blogger dot Com

Roy is now into poems and short stories, just like his blogging friend Doc Z . This passionate blogger is a versatile writer as evidenced by the different niches of his blogs: He has a business blog, a reflection blog, a random thoughts blog, and many more. He could be serious one minute and then crack a joke the next. There is always the satisfactory feeling of "Eureka" - the "aha" syndrome - when one gets to read his diverse posts.

I admire his natural propensity and ingenuity for writing; and most of all I salute him for striving hard to fulfill his one most significant role in this lifetime - that of being a good and responsible father to his three kids.

To Roy, I give you a standing ovation!

Re: Inspirational Book Release

2009-08-29T20:41:00.000-07:00

I would like to make an announcement regarding the Inspirational Book; there will be a slight delay of one - two weeks on the release of the book, due to some inevitable circumstances.

Rest assured your free copy will be mailed ASAP. If you have not sent your correct email addresses, kindly do so, through the EC dashboard or through my email.

The book is more of a journal type and is soft bound. Please don't expect glossy, colored pages due to financial constraints. What is important are the thoughts within the pages and the fact that it is a collection from all over the world.

Here are the final entries. If there are any questions, feel free to email me. Thanks.

1, "My Jeepney Ride to Church" by Zorlone
2. "Remember When" by Tasha Bud
3. “She Didn’t dance” by Roy dela Cruz
4. " Let's Vault in" - by Roy
5. "The Day We Touched the Sun" by Roy
6. "My Philosophy in a Bottle of Ketchup" -by Jan Geronimo
7. "Self-Confidence" by Holly Jahangiri
8. “Inspiration” by Nicholas Chase
9. “It’s Not Too Late” by Jean Knill
10. Nightmare turns into a dream come true - Jean Knill

11. "Television" by Francis Scudellari
12. "Blessed Martin and the Fridge by Ken Armstrong
13. "A Simple Theory of Communication" by Patricia Rockwell
14."The Weeping Girl" by Ray Gratzner
15. "Memories for my Mother by Durano Lawayan
16. "Inspiration 2" by Jim Murdoch
17. "An Angel in Each One of Us" by Angel Cuala
18. "One Decision" by Nancy McCarroll
19. "The Boy Who Saved Christmas" by Ma.Teresa Baniaga
20. "The Laughter of Grief" by John Rooney
21. "A Life Worth Living" by Irene of LifeLots
22. "The Curse of the Winter Mist" by Buraot
23. "Missing the Bus" by Ceblogger
24. "Keepin' the Love Alive" by Mon Paulino
25. "The Boy in the Window" by Brady Frost
26. "The Day My Students Taught Me a Lesson" by Gerson Garcia
27. " It's Just Me" by Richard Ryan R. Mergal
28. "My Philosophy in a Couple of Trilogies" by Luke Yu
29. "If I let go, I'm going to drown!" by Rey Rombawa Jr.
30. "How I Survived Raising My Son" by Jena Isle

This is the final list for the book. Yehey!!!

UPDATES: ( September 3, 2009)

This anthology is officially called a journal and not a book, as it has been registered as such with its ISSN . This would be in keeping with its yearly publication.

But whatever term applies whether it's a book or a journal - the contents are still the same for me and it will always be our first Inspirational Book for year 2009.

All systems are on the go, now!

The Video Aftershock

2009-08-28T08:26:00.000-07:00

The tall, elegant woman greeted me at the doorstep.

“Are you Alex?“ She asked.

“Yes,” I said, eyeing her warily. “And you?”

“I’m Venus.”

What kind of a name was that? I thought, chuckling surreptitiously.
Women are from Venus and men are from Mars? Ha, ha, ha.

“Venus the Vampire, “she hissed as she bared her sparkling, sharp fangs at me.

I screamed and tried to shield my face from her advancing attack.…There was a loud thud...and then, I woke up.

The videos player was buzzing. I had forgotten to turn it off after watching that vampire movie… Horror movies are not for me. I always had nightmares after watching them.

I could not go back to sleep, so I decided to visit my favorite interactive site.

Forums and sites that promote interaction with other people in the World Wide Web community are very popular nowadays.

Thoughts.com is one interactive site that allows me to enjoy maximum interaction, easy accessibility to new blogs, posts and updated news, while controlling the information that I would like to reveal online.

I could also interact with various people and learn from them as they learn from me. The opportunity to increase my knowledge through other people is limitless.

The activity had calmed me down. I know I’ll be able to sleep soundly now.

It’s time for my beauty rest. Good night.

IT'S JUST ME

2009-08-17T03:38:00.000-07:00

By: RRchard

When I was born I thought I was different,
After a few years I found out everyone is different.
When I started playing with others I thought I should always win because I’m the best,
But after some games I realized that winning doesn’t matter as long as you enjoyed the game.

When I first went to church I thought I should go because my family does so,
But after some time I realized that even if I don’t attend, those who love God will still attend
After graduating from the elementary I thought studying was just part of life,
But after graduating from College, I found out that learning is part of life’s necessities.

When I started working I thought that it is a must because I need to earn for a living,
After a few years, I realized that working means helping others achieve their goals.
Recently I thought that talking to people - especially co-workers - is just part of life,
Lately I realized it is part of our journey towards deciphering what life really is.

When I had a girlfriend I thought that it was just for company,
But after a few years I recognized that is just the beginning of a lifelong friendship.
When I married I thought I found a wife,
But as years passed I realized that I took in someone to serve.

After years passed I thought I’m starting to lose my identity as a husband,
But instead became a father to whom my children and wife rely on.
More than ten years has passed and at one time I felt that I have lost my wife,
But upon examination, found out that she became a mother not only to my kids but to me as well.

Hope that as time passes by, God would continue to reveal more about life to me,
As I struggle to retain my identity, dignity and honor.
Now I know that time is indeed short and limited,
But hope that each moment spent would matter not only to me, but also to my family and friends…

But most of all to the Lord God Almighty, my creator, redeemer and friend.

August 15, 2009, 8:36 pm

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

RRchard is young man of 35 occupying one of the junior positions in the academe. He's witty, fun to be with and one of the most intelligent persons I have ever met. He may dazzle you with his cognitive ability but he could also whip a joke or two in a jiffy.

He has only composed three poems in his lifetime, (for whom? - I could not reveal). This is the third one, so you must realize by now that his poems are like translucent shooting stars in the starless night; you'll never know, when you'll be able to witness their splendor again.

Read this soulful poem and bask in its meaning ... another poet is unveiled!

Let's all welcome RRchard to the blogosphere!

Photo by: stage88's photostream

Plotdog's WOOF Contest Results - August 7, 2009

2009-08-15T04:31:00.000-07:00

It feels great to be second to a poet as talented as Doc Z. Zorlone congratulations! To Dragonblogger and Jennifer Scott, that goes for you too.

WOOF Contest – Top Picks
Poetry

Zorlone – “Three hours” - A poem about getting stuck in traffic on a rainy night.

Jena Isle – “You” - A blog - to truly exist - needs other blogs to survive. You is a poem dedicated to those who believed in my blog.

Dragon Blogger – “Twisted Creatures” - Rhyming child like poem about the insects of the night.

Jennifer M Scott – “Aurora of the Damned” - A surreal poem on life.

Fiction

Dragon Blogger – “Kendrick's Story” - A fantasy short story I wrote last week, my first one ever submitted to WOOF.

(WOOF participants should re-post all the links above by next Monday. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top posts as chosen by the August 7, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends Aug 14. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form on this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you’re all set.

Jedi Bloggers in the Top 10 Emerging Influential Blogs for 2009

2009-08-09T08:05:00.000-07:00

The Jedi Bloggers (courtesy of Jan of Writing to Exhale), came out victorious from the Awards Night for the Top 10 Emerging Influential Blogs of 2009. The dust has settled down and there are collateral losses; nevertheless, the impressive results are all worth it.

Congratulations to the organizer of the writing project - Janette Toral - for the wonderful adventure and for the valuable lessons learned.

These are the Top Ten Blogs for 2009

Writing to Exhale
Patay Gutom
The Struggling Blogger
Zorlone
Father Blogger dot Com
Kelvinonian Ideas 2.0
Tales from the Mom Side
Adaphobic
Lakwatsero
Let's Go Sago!

We would like to thank everyone who voted for these remarkable blogs. These are all “must-read” blogs; you must hop over and peruse their rousing and thought provoking posts.

Special mention goes to the Jedi Bloggers: Jan, Roy, Zorlone, Kelvin, Dee and Angel (honorary member)

Here’s to a new breed of blogs who truly “breathe blog” (courtesy of Roy of The Struggling Blogger).

Here is Dr. Lorenzo Bernardino's - aka Zorlone's heartwarming speech during that momentous event. It is an extemporaneous, touching delivery of a blogger who has carved his name from being an unknown into what he is now - an Influential Blogger, who has provided inspiration and motivation for "would be poets" and creative writers in the blogosphere . Way to go Zorlone!

Congratulations again Doc Z, Roy, Jan, Kelvin, Dee, Angel and the rest of the winners!

Thanks a lot for the mention. It brought a lump to my throat.
Video courtesy of angmakata (Zorlone) For more videos click on the link.

You

2009-08-02T04:20:00.000-07:00

You are the moonbeam in the inky night;

the firefly of each wayward traveler.

You are the welcome shade in a scorching day;

the warm umbrage of refuge and love.

You are the sparkling rain in a humid weather;

the dewdrop in the morning dawn.

You are the joyful song in everyone's heart;

the promise of another fruitful start.

You are the one who makes my life complete;

the breath of life into my soul.

You are the quiddity of my being;

The one I would love forever.

I often wonder what am I to you;

the moonbeam or the shade of blue?

I guess this won't really matter,

just as long as I have you!

Just taking a break from the EIB , he he he. Congratulations to all winners and non-winners!

I would like to take this opportunity to thank those who have voted for me:

1. Luke of A Walk in the Dark - "Life Is Not A Walk In The Park. That's The Universal law."

2. Holly Jahangiri of It's all a Matter of Perspective: Mine - "This blog is 99.3% truth, .7% blatant lies. Somewhere in between lies my perspective on life."

3. Yatot of Yatot Chronicles - "Life, blogging and everything in between..."

4. Tasha Bud of Tasha's Take - "My take on life, in general. I'd love for you to stop and stay a while. I'd love to hear what you have to say. So, come on in and have a seat. I'm right here, in my rocking chair, by the window. Before you leave, I'd like to say THANK YOU for taking the time. I enjoyed visiting and chatting with you. Thank you so much. You made my day."

5 Dee of Tales Fom the Mom Side Mommy Dee likes the following "Reading Playing The Sims2 Trekking Hiking Surfing the Internet Watching TV Series and Movies" and she writes about anything and everything under the sun.

6. Angel of Fatherblogger dot com - "My Family and everything that comes my mind."

7. Reica of Candid Mom Reviews - "unbiased. real. personal."

8. Patricia Rockwell of Subjective Soup - "A hearty mix of daily events, experiences, thoughts and feelings, seasoned with a hint of attitude."

9. Dia Rowena - Clinical Chemistry Blog Notes 17 "I'm just a simple girl who loves to meet people with different personalities. . I spill a lot of things and "Learned that the little things can make a big difference" "

10. Justin of Personal Blog of Justin Germino - "My Name is Justin Germino, I am also known as “Dragon Blogger”. I love all forms of entertainment, Movies, Television, Books (Especially Audiobooks), Role Playing (Dungeons and Dragons mostly), Music (Rock primarily, but all kinds Sting is my favorite musician)"

11. Dencios of His Name is Dencios - "I am not disappointed, it doesn't affect me...You can't be liked by Everyone."

12. Snow of Dear Bloggery - A Blogger’s Diary of Just About Anything!

and special mention to:
11. Ever of Pamatay Homesick
"Istorya,lugar,like's and dislike,kabaliwan,kuro -kuro,pakikipagsapalaran!,ng isang matinong baliw na nagpapakadalubhasa sa pagsusulat,pagkwento,at pagbibigay kaalaman sa damdamin working and living, na isang pinoy abroad!!!"

Ever nominated my Random Thoughts Blog which is DQ because of its date of creation. It was Jena Isle's Random Thoughts that was qualified.

Thank you guys for nominating my blog. I would have composed a poem for each of you if I had the talent of Doc Z's poetic inspiration, so I just dedicate one poem to all of you. More power and may the force be with you!

I Want To Enjoy A Tenerife Holiday

2009-07-28T08:09:00.000-07:00

I had always wanted to travel around the world. To see the beautiful scenic spots in Northern Ireland, or travel to the verdant hills of Scotland or to the pristine Alps of Switzerland. It would also be a complete tour if I could visit the Rhodes or the Taba Heights and other similar lovely places.

The rolling hills in the movie “The Sound of Music” are one memorable place that has captured my imagination. I had always dreamed that someday, somehow, I would be able to visit this peaceful and wonderful place.

Something has come up that makes this dream, edge a little bit closer to reality. I could actually have at my fingertips thousands of available services I could select from with a click of my keypads; from hotels , to flights to holiday packages that are very cheap and affordable . I now could fulfill this dream of traveling to these dream places.

One trip I would absolutely enjoy would be the Tenerife holidays. Tenerife is a unique and exotic place to be. Now, my dream would no longer remain a pipe dream forever. I could actually select a cheap holiday that my pocket could afford.

"The Boy in the Window" - 23rd Story for the Inspirational Book

2009-07-25T03:57:00.000-07:00

By: Brady Frost

Andrew looked through the lightly frosted window at the man inside, a shiver of cold rippling down his spine. He pulled his ragged jacket tighter around his skinny frame and rested his forehead on the glass. His breath created circles of fog which faded and reformed with each exhale. Soon the magic would begin.

Each night, as the last ray of sunlight slipped behind the busy city buildings, Andrew would make his way to the old man’s house to stare into the thinly paned window and wait, watching ever so quietly in the darkness. That old man, that wondrous magician who he had come to admire in secrecy, was once again preparing something magnificent. He entered his study in the usual manner, walking to the closet and shedding his olive green dinner jacket. He placed it neatly on a hanger and closed the door softly. His old fingers were wrinkled and tired, weary from a lifetime of tinkering at the sewing factory where he had tuned and repaired the machines that never quit. It was here in his study each night where he could finally escape the noise of the factory, where he could finally listen to the thoughts swirling around in his head.

Andrew shivered again and smiled as the old man sat down at his desk, his back to the window. He bent down and picked up the shoebox sitting next to him on the floor. He lifted the lid and pulled out a hardbound book and his special writing pen, just as he had for countless evenings. Clearing his throat he opened the book and thumbed through his earlier entries until at last he’d reached a blank page. There weren’t many left these days.

“Tonight,” announced the man, “we shall begin with the softest of ocean breezes.”

His pen touched the paper, and he took great care with each word as he wrote. A slight breeze blew around him, causing the papers on his desk and the notes tacked to the wall to flutter restlessly. Andrew took in a sharp breath and smiled. He’d never seen the ocean.

“The sky, lightly clouded, and almost as blue as the cresting waves,” the man continued aloud and the ceiling rippled and faded into the most beautiful sky Andrew had ever laid eyes on.

“No, not blue.” The sky jittered, the boy’s brow furrowed, “A perfect sunset!”
Andrew gasped in delight as the crackling blue twisted and turned, finally disappearing into the most wondrous oranges and reds. And so it continued until the man sat at his desk, not in the small house just outside the factory district, but on a beach, staring off to where the cool ocean met the burning sky. He leaned back in the creaky, old chair and closed his eyes, wiggling his toes in the wet sand. After a few moments of relaxation the man leaned forward and closed the book. The cries of the gulls and chorus of waves lapping at the sand faded away, then the room melted back into an old man’s study.

On the way home, Andrew trudged through the snow, still thinking about the magical beach and the waves that had washed away his cares. A harsh wind tore him from his daydream and he pulled his worn jacket tight, put his head down and scurried homeward. His mother would be waiting.

“Aye boy, and where have you been off to this evening?” She chided in her sweet, motherly voice.

Andrew smiled and motioned for her to come near. “A beach Mum!” He whispered, his face beaming with delight. “A real beach!”

She smiled back and turned, “Help me out with my strings.”
Andrew blew warmth into his cold hands and set to work at untying his mother’s apron. Her eyes had looked especially tired this evening.

“Pa’s home, isn’t he? Andrew asked.

She glanced behind her and then nodded. “Wash up,” she said. All traces of her smile faded.

They sat at the table in uncomfortable silence. The only audible sound was the occasional clanking of dishes or utensils. Andrew stared intently at the cabbage and potatoes on his plate, focusing on not making eye contact with the gruff man across the table.

His father was often described by his friends as a fearsome coal miner, loyal friend, and the best damn drinking fellow if ever there was one, but here at the dinner table he was sullen and easily irritated. Andrew had grown to appreciate the weeks his father was on shift, but felt like a prisoner in his own home every third week when Benjamin Carter was on outward rotation. It was during these weeks, just as the purples and blues on his mother’s cheeks were beginning to fade to a sickly green and yellow, that they would again regain their color. The last time his father had come home he’d brought Andrew his own purples and blues. It had been to toughen him up, he’d said. He did not like the idea of his son staring into the window of an old man’s study. Benjamin Carter was a coal miner; his father had been a coal miner, and his father before him. It was tough enough raising a family on miner’s wages, especially when you drank like a Carter.

“Been stayin’ away from that old man?” He peered over the rim of his third pint.

“Yes Pa.” Andrew lied.

“You lying to your old man?” His father glared dangerously.

Andrew’s eyes dropped to his cabbage and he poked it with his fork.

Later that night as his cheek burned against his pillow and the swelling felt fit to break skin, Andrew’s thoughts were with his mother. She was taking the brunt of his father’s drunken rage now and he wished he could shut out the yelling, wished he could take her away with him to the old man’s study where magical things happened. Maybe they could run away, maybe they could escape. He closed his eyes and wished he had magic of his own.

He did not return to the old man’s window until his father had left for the mine again. Instead, he took on chores from Mr. Parker, the man who owned the newspaper he sold papers for. The extra wages paid for a few trips to the pub for his father and saved any additional trouble at home. No one asked about his blackened eye or his split lip; he was a Carter, they all knew better.

It was Saturday evening and Andrew hid behind a large, old oak. He waited impatiently for the man to walk down the narrow lane. Had it been a whole week since he’d last spied upon the enchanting magic that sprang to life inside that window? It seemed as if he’d been waiting for ages before the man came down the darkened street, but as he drew near, Andrew couldn’t help but notice a new spring in his step. He seemed particularly happy to be headed home this evening.

Shortly after the front door closed to the cold, Andrew quietly made his way to the window, careful not to arouse the suspicion of nosy neighbors. The man was already hanging his jacket in the closet. Something was different tonight; the man seemed very relieved, as if a large weight had been lifted from his chest. He nearly pranced as he made his way to the chair. Andrew couldn’t help but smile at the comical sight and let the warmth of the window glass on his forehead melt the turmoil that had built in his heart during the previous week.

The man sat at his desk and picked up the old picture frame he often looked at while writing. Andrew never could quite tell what the picture was, but he was sure it meant something special to the man. He set the frame back down, adjusted it slightly, and leaned over to grab the old shoebox by his side. He removed the lid and held up the book within. It was as old and worn as he was, and Andrew suspected it brought the man as much comfort as it did to him, perhaps a little more. He rested the book on his forehead a moment, seeming to tune his thoughts to its wishes, and set it on the desk in front of him. There were few pages left in the volume and Andrew found himself wondering what the next book would look like when this one was finished, but he was soon whisked away to a crowded city street and let the thought slip from his mind.

It was midmorning in the small study and he could hear the sounds of traffic through the sheet of glass. A large commuter bus rolled across the room and came to a stop. When it drove off into the distance a man and woman were standing behind the bus sign. She wore a fancy black dress with a yellow umbrella. He couldn’t help but think how beautiful that dress would look on his mother. She’d be at home now after pressing clothes all day in the Laundromat. She’d be tired but she’d be starting dinner without complaint. He closed his eyes and imagined her tying her apron strings before rolling noodles on the counter. She could have been that woman, Andrew thought to himself, if only she’d chosen a different life.

When he opened his eyes again the man was talking to her. He appeared very businesslike in his tan trench coat.

“A private investigator,” Andrew whispered aloud.

“Might I interest you in brunch?” the investigator asked the attractive lady. A street vendor selling fruit materialized out of thin air behind them.

“Thank you.” She answered.

The investigator turned to the vendor, and when he’d paid the man, he tossed her a shiny red apple. She nearly dropped it in surprise; she obviously wasn’t used to such crude behavior.

“A mystery…” Andrew sighed. The weight of the past week was still heavy on his mind.

The man stopped writing and the city froze in place. He glanced at the picture on his desk once again and drew a line through the text, making a small correction.

“Might I interest you in brunch?” the investigator asked the attractive lady. The street vendor looked up from his cart and smiled.

“Thank you.” She answered.

The investigator turned to the vendor, and when he’d paid the man, he tossed her a banana. She nearly dropped it in surprise; she obviously wasn’t used to such crude behavior.

Andrew smiled, “A comedy!”

When the story finished, Andrew wiped the tears from his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. The old man leaned back in his chair and took a deep, fulfilling breath. He placed his writing pen neatly into the shoebox and closed the book. There were so few pages left, enough for perhaps one last story. The box slid into its familiar place on the floor beside him and Andrew snuck off, away from the light of the window.

While walking home he wondered again what the next book would look like. Would it be the same leather bound cover or would it be something new? What new stories would lie within its blank pages? His stomach rumbled in the darkness and he suddenly realized how terribly late it was. He broke into a sprint and didn’t stop running until he reached the door. He walked inside, still breathing heavily, and removed his coat and boots. His mother was sitting at the table with her head in her hands. Her apron was already hanging on the nail and his soup was sitting on the table; tendrils of steam still weakly swirled from its surface.

The air was thick with a tension he’d never felt with his mother before. She seemed more tired than he’d ever seen her, broken somehow. Without a word, he washed his hands and sat in his chair. For a moment he sat in silence before looking up at her. She was crying.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” he said, but she didn’t budge.

All at once he realized that she wasn’t crying because he was late for dinner, no, this was something bigger. Maybe Pa died, Andrew thought, but quickly pushed it from his mind. He stared at his soup in silence.

“You can’t go there anymore, Drew.” His mother’s voice startled him as it broke the eerie quiet.

“Mum?” he asked.

“No more beaches, no more cities, no more mountaintops. You sell your papers and you come home,” she said with tears in her eyes. His father’s handy-work still showed plainly on her beautiful face.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Things would never be the same between them. Never again would she ask him to help with her apron strings and never again would his heart leap to see her. That night he didn’t sob into his pillow like he had the week before, but he cried harder than he’d ever cried; silent tears that signaled the shedding of his boyhood skin.

The next day, while selling papers, Andrew couldn’t stop thinking about the old man on the lane. This man, to whom he’d never spoken, now seemed to be his only friend. It was with a heavy heart that he walked past the empty house and his familiar waiting spot behind the ancient oak. He’d never watch the last story of the book unfold, never see the cover of the new book or the new adventures it might bring. He pulled his jacket tighter around him and walked home, stopping only once to look back.

Dinner that evening was as quiet and awkward as it had been the night before. Afterwards he went to bed early and thought about the last story that he had missed that evening. In his dream he was the old man in his small study in the industrial side of town. His back and fingers ached after a long day in the factory; his ears still rang with the clanging of machinery and the drumming of hundreds of sewing needles. He sat at the desk and pulled out his magic book and his writing pen. There were so few pages left. Feeling an uneasy sense of being watched in his subconscious, he slowly turned around, the book still in his hand. It fell to the floor with a thump and Andrew lurched upright in his bed when he saw the face of a young boy pressed against the window pane with little circles of fog forming around his mouth and nose.

The next day Mr. Parker asked him to help move the printing press once he’d sold his papers, already a double load. When Andrew had looked a little unsure, he’d even offered to stop by to tell his mum he’d be helping at the shop while he was on the rounds. At this Andrew had agreed, as long as she knew he’d be at the shop instead of catching a glimpse of the old man’s new magical writing book.

He didn’t quit working until late that evening. The old man would be sitting in his chair at this desk by now, writing beautiful stories. Unable to resist, he turned down the lane on the slight detour that had become habit over the weeks. He still remembered the first night he’d made that detour. Mr. Parker had asked that he make a special delivery to an old friend. He’d made it worth his while, the trip had earned his father a night at the pub and probably saved his mum a purple and blue.

He’d walked down the lane and up to the step of the small house and placed the paper against the door, just as Mr. Parker had instructed. It was then that he’d heard the clanging of swords and the battle cries from within. When he’d crept over to the window under the cover of the bushes, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Now, for the first time, the lights of the small house were off, no battles waged within, no one was laughing or crying, it was just another house that created a lonely silhouette against the dark sky and polluted haze. Something was wrong.

Andrew crossed the street and snuck up to the cover of the bushes. Inching his way through the branches, he looked into the darkened room through the cold glass; no warmth met his skin this evening. Everything seemed to be in its place. The closet door was shut, the chair neatly tucked in, the picture frame still on his desk, and the shoebox… the shoebox sat in its place but the lid was askew. Something inside him told him that the book would not be there. He stood in the light of the moon, losing all sense of time. His last friend, the one he’d never even spoken to, would never again return to his study to write in his magical book. A tear stole down his cheek, followed by another and then another, until his eyes stung with grief. As he wiped the salty streaks on his sleeve he noticed his many footprints from weeks of standing, watching. Then, just as he was about to turn away, he saw it; a shoebox beneath the windowsill, tucked under a limb of one of the bushes.

He knelt down and pulled the box into the moonlight. His fingers fumbled at the lid; he was shaking now. Inside he found a black leather-bound writing book, a pen, and a small note: To the boy in the window.

He sat down hard, his head dizzy. This only seemed to confirm what he’d already suspected. He would never see the old man again. His shakes turned to shivers, but he didn’t care. The old man had known he was there all along, but how? He pulled the book from the box and stared at the cover. It was different than the one the old man had written in. The leather cover of his had been brown.

As he cracked it open a tiny sparkle escaped and floated upwards. Andrew watched it with wide eyes as it drifted towards the sky until it vanished. He stared back down at the book in his lap and opened it now so it lay flat upon his legs.

Then, just like that, he was no longer hiding in the bushes outside the old man’s home, instead he found himself in a dingy waiting room. He smiled as he realized that this must have been the old man’s last story. Somewhere in another world he was still outside in the cold, but none of that mattered now as he stared at the room that had grown around him.

“Mcdurmot, Phineas Mcdurmot?” A fellow in a white coat had stepped into the room.

The old man had been in the corner, hiding behind the pages of a well-read book. He nervously slid a small piece of paper into the fold and tucked it into his pocket as he stood.

“Yessir?” He asked.

“I’m Doctor Livingston, I’ve been going over your test results,” the man said.
Phineas looked at the doctor expectantly.

“I’m afraid I have bad news.”

The waiting room dissolved and the two men were gone. Andrew was now sitting in the study. Even though he knew it was nothing more than an illusion, he felt strange finally seeing it from the inside, as Phineas had seen it. He walked over and touched the glass. The cold of the night threatened to come in, licked at his fingertips, but the warmth of the air around him kept it at bay, for now at least.

Startled by the sudden sound of a closing door behind him, he turned to see Phineas at the closet. His eyes looked defeated and weary, much as he’d seen his mother’s eyes look whenever his father was home from the mine. He sat on the floor and watched as Phineas removed the scrap of paper and place the book he’d been reading in the waiting room on the shelf, watched as he moved to the desk and stared at the picture frame. Andrew could see now that it held a picture of a cottage surrounded by waves of grain and a boy he presumed to be Phineas as a child. He sighed and sat in the creaky old chair. After a moment’s pause he reached down and pulled the writing book from its shoebox on the floor

When his pen touched the paper it began to rain inside the study, it was bitter and cold. The roar of hooves on the sloshy battleground surrounded them and the first clangs of steel upon steel rang out. The men in dark armor were overpowering the haggard knights on their own battlefield. Their king was now surrounded but fought valiantly onward, desperate to save the lives of his men.

Andrew realized this was the part in the story that he had heard from the doorstep. The familiar face of the warlord emerged from the ranks; his voice triumphed over the clashes of battle.

“Lord Phinfaer! You will be defeated this day, this glorious dismal day! No one will remember you or your kingdom! These lands now belong to The Brotherhood!”
The king fell to his knees as an arrow pierced his lung. The man leapt forward.

“Cousin,” Lord Phinfaer coughed, “why have you done this?” He raised his sword in weak defense.

The man knocked the blade to the ground and the fighting ceased around them. The sounds of battle were replaced with silence; victory and defeat were now at hand. He pulled a long, curved dagger from the scabbard on his belt and grabbed Lord Phinfaer by the hair. The tip of the dagger stopped short of the king’s throat and he shouted to the masses. “Because I can!”

The battle cries of his men were deafening. Phineas stopped writing and glanced back up at the picture frame. To his surprise he saw the dim outline of a boy’s face pressed into the window behind him in the reflection of the glass. His eyes were wide in dismay. It felt strangely welcome to once again write for an audience. The pen touched the paper once more and the triumphant smile on the man’s face melted into an expression of shock and disbelief. Lord Phinfaer had seized that very moment of vanity to plunge his own dagger, his last resolve, into his murderous cousin’s unprotected side. He might very well die on the battlefield, but at least his men would be saved. They would always remember him as a hero. He would never be forgotten.

Phineas closed the book and returned it to its box. He placed the pen inside and returned the cover. When he looked back into the glass of the frame, the young eyes were gone.

A few more episodes played out in the study, memorable events where Phineas had studied the boy’s expression in the reflection. Each passing day left fewer and fewer pages in the book, the metaphysical story of his life. In the end, Andrew realized, Phineas had needed a friend just as much as he had. The story concluded and he found himself back outside the quiet house. His hands and feet were freezing and the pages of the book were now blank. He closed the cover and placed it back into the shoebox. He no longer felt frightened or alone. He had stopped shivering now and for a moment he considered leaving it all behind, underneath the branches of the bushes where he had hid on so many cold nights. Taking a deep breath, he stood and turned toward home in the darkness with the shoebox tucked securely under one arm.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

BRADY FROST is from Utah, USA. He is the author of "Hunting the Muse: A Creative Writing Blog", a blog about writing, short stories, poems, and many excellent articles.

"Brady Frost started writing from a very young age, his first story “The Lion and the Turtle” was ‘published’ on Mrs Shupe’s 1st grade bulletin board outside the classroom for the entire school to read. His stories often focus on a brief snapshot of the human condition. "

Here's what he says about himself:

"I'm 29 years old and live in Utah with my wonderful wife and three beautiful children. I'm an aspiring writer dedicated to the pursuit and perpetuation of Creative Writing. Journey with me on a literary adventure, we'll discuss subjects such as writing habits, advice, contest submissions, and ongoing work to name a few!"

He's one writer who can turn a drab incident or a common story into an unusual one like his "Zombie Story" and his "Old Poems" which are a joy to read.

His articles about writing, like "Writing for Love" is a brilliant piece. It shows he's a good father and a loving husband.

Visit his site to read more.

Photo 1 by Olga_Dietrich
Photo 3 by r.f.m II
Photo 2 by *Suse*