A Date

A Date

“Pardon me,sir” said the twenty-two year old female named Anne. “Oh no,” said a middle-aged man named Mr. Worksenotatal, “Excuse me.” The young woman was in a hurry to get a letter in the mail at the post office. He was not even paying attention; he was off of work for the day and trying to decide on his next direction of lonely venture. Continue reading

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The Return of Ned and His Grandfather

The Return of Ned and His Grandfather

“I am happy about our new writing assignment,” said Ned, “It has to do with voice; it covers the three main aspects of what an author can use with the narration of a written story.” “Interesting,” said Ned’s Grandfather, Mr. Clark.

Ned was a ten-year-old boy playing chess with his grandfather on a Saturday. His mother let him go to the park and play chess with his grandfather for reasons like good behavior and high grades. If Ned got into trouble or fell behind with his homework, he would not get to see Mr. Clark.

Ned was happy to be playing chess. Win or lose, he was there to learn. He usually only lost if he looked over something, or if Mr. Clark could spoil his plans. Ned read books on playing chess as a seven-year-old; he was well on his way to becoming a master of sorts, one day.

“Did you get the big box of books I gave to your mother?” asked Mr. Clark. “Yes,” said Ned, “She wanted to throw them out. I had to beg and plead for it. I mowed the yard to keep it, had to hide one of the books for a short while in case it was ‘restricted’ from my reading. She said it was from the Swanks. Did they move?” “No,” said Mr. Clark, “Dr. Swank and his wife were cleaning out a bunch of stuff. He let me have over fifty of his books from college. His wife was going to throw them out.”  “I really appreciate it, Grand-pa,” said Ned. Mr. Clark knew how into reading and writing Ned really was. It was Ned’s “art-hobby,” kept him out of trouble from time to time.

Ned and Mr. Clark exchanged a few preliminary pieces to get the game going; Ned tried to set up a flanking sneak attack with a bishop, a pawn, a horse, and a way-to-early-yet-still-very-powerful back-up queen. He did not know if his grandfather saw his efforts. He was also trying to pay good attention to any scheme Mr. Clark may have been working on.

“So what is so special about this writing assignment?” asked Ned’s grandfather. “I like the park, here. The story is set in a park. It is supposed to utilize three forms of voice: 1st, 2nd, and 3rd person.” “The story is supposed to have three people?” asked his grandfather. “No sir,” said Ned. Ned knew not to get frustrated with others. He had trouble, sometimes, explaining what was on his mind.  Ned said,

“What the assignment has to do with is voice. As the author, if I describe a story with characters, setting, and dialogue, I usually use 3rd person omniscient. The author of a 3rd person story can know everything; it is the easiest method for myself and many others. If I write the story directed to you, say, in the form of a letter, I think that would be the more rare 2nd person. 2nd person voice utilizes the word ‘you’ to start sentences instead of ‘I’.  2nd person is used for childrens’ songs and hip-hop music, sometimes. If I tell the story with a character and it is a narrative of with the character’s own descriptions, that is 1st person. For the assignment, we use all three techniques and a park.”

“What are your ideas, so far?” asked Mr. Clark. “Well, I am thinking I may do a small story about a little girl who chases her ball into a busy street, only to be saved by a passing blind man,” said Ned. “How about this…” said Mr. Clark,

“The two crows up on that branch over there have been watching the shiny green beetle organizing tiny mud balls under that orange maple leaf for some time, now. Each bird sees the beetle. Those are the blackbirds with the shining blue and yellow spots on their wings – maybe they can talk, maybe they cannot, according to humans. Those are known as “Blue Minas”- common, yet wild. They can probably communicate, somehow, telling each other in their minds what they may or may not do to the tasty metallic object working below. The beetle either knows or does not know about the two hungry birds up on the branch. He cannot decide for his future, much. If he was to scurry off, the minas would be forced to pursue him. They watch and decide; the beetle may be a piece of art to them. If I were to say ‘Do things to that beetle,’ the minas would swoop down and attack the beetle, leaving him different than he was before… Do things to that beetle!”

The two beautiful mina birds with yellow and blue spots on their wings dove seven feet from their branch to the beetle. “I got him,” said one, while placing its foot on top of the shining green beetle, gently, “You do your thing and I will do mine.” “I have never been through more,” thought the beetle. The silent mina took a good look and aim towards the beetle, pecked a large hole in the creature removing half of his torso. The grasping mina removed a beetle leg with his beak and ate it. The birds flew away. The beetle crawled off to a safer, more hidden area.

Ned saw all of those things happen. He was not paying too much attention to the chess game. He saw a opportunity to put stress on Mr. Clark’s king with a rook/castle. Ned moved the rook, and Mr. Clark moved his queen to protect an attacking bishop. “Checkmate,” said Mr. Clark. He won this time. “What do you think about all of that?” asked Mr. Clark. “Good game,” said Ned, shaking his grandfather’s hand. I could certainly use “The Attack of the Minas” as a story, especially since both birds and the beetle can talk and think. That was crazy seeing those birds attack that beetle.” “Your mother is pulling up,” said Mr. Clark. “See you next week,” said Ned, giving his grandfather a hug, “I love you bunches!”

Mr. Clark put away the chess set. Ned left with his mother. The metallic green beetle lived for two years.

wiki on voice

A Sitter Named Irene

A Sitter Named Irene

One time, there was a baby-sitter named Irene.  She was also a substitute teacher; Irene lived alone.  Once or twice a month, Irene went and babysat a young girl named Leah.  Leah was a handful of fun; Leah was hyperactive.  Irene was fun, too; she at times saw Leah as possibly the hardest child to keep out of the rest of the children she babysat.

Leah’s parents kept her spoiled in a ten bedroom house with many large rooms.  The young girl knew every small facet of her domain, ran fast like a mouse to get away.  Leah did not tire; she was allowed as many deserts as she wanted.  Her parents kept a philosophy of giving, especially to their only little girl.  Because Irene was paid well, it was easy for her not to get too jealous of Leah.  This would be a night to remember.

Irene was 24, had light brunette hair.  She made it to the large house in her 4-cylinder car on time; Leah’s parents departed.  Leah, being in the second grade, had homework.  Irene asked Leah politely to finish her school work, so she could tell Leah’s parents that she was well-behaved that evening.  To Irene’s surprise, Leah promised to do all of her homework for a slice of lemon meringue pie. The two sat together and Irene helped Leah learn a great deal. The two went over the school work; mostly Math and English, their final work was without flaw.

“So,” asked Leah as she was eating her snack, “An adverb describes the action of a verb?”  “That is correct,” said Irene, “What are your plans once you finish your pie?  Your bedtime is not for a few hours.”  Irene was full of surprises.  “I do not know what I want to do,” said Leah, “I might watch a movie, however I am not very interested.”  “What about your doll house?” asked Irene.  “I got a new one,” said Leah.  “Really?” asked Irene.  “I did not want it,” said Leah, “I thought ‘they’ wanted to get it for me, though, so I begged for it.”

Irene was running out of ideas, getting closer to finding a new project to work on in the world of art.  Irene waited for Leah to finish her pie.  The babysitter was not hungry at the time.  “Have you ever played ’20 Questions’?” asked Irene.  “What kind of a game is that?” asked Leah, “Are you going to make me do chores?”  “No,” said Irene, “I try to be a fun person, remember?”  “I have seen you upset before, and I got in trouble,” said Leah, honestly.  She was trying to think of something fun to do.

“I am sorry about that,” said Irene.  “How do you play the game?” asked Leah.  “You pick a person, place, or thing, and I have 20 attempts to guess what it is,” said Irene.  “I am thinking of a place,” said Leah.  “Have you ever played this game before?” asked Irene.  “Do you think I am a liar?” asked Leah.  Irene decided to try to play along.  “Is the place on this continent?” asked Irene.  “Yes,” said Leah.  “Is it London?” asked Irene; she wanted to test Leah’s honesty.  “London is in Europe,” said Leah, “The place is in the United States.”

“Is the place closer to the Atlantic or the Pacific Ocean?” asked Irene.  “Atlantic,” said Leah, “In fact, it is kind-of in the ocean.  It is also kind of a thing.”  “Is it a nuclear submarine?”  “No, silly,” said Leah giggling.  “Is it a kind of business or government building?” asked Irene.  “Not really,” said Leah, “People go to see it, though.  It is like a symbol of freedom for our nation.”  “Is it a monument?” asked Irene.  “I do not think so,” said Leah thinking, “But I thought you were about to guess it.  It is a sculpture.”  “The Statue of Liberty?” asked Irene.  “That is right,” said Leah.

The two played the game all afternoon without even turning on the television.  Irene tucked in Leah after she bathed and said her bedtime prayers with her.  Leah was asleep before her parents’ return.  Leah was finding maturity, and Irene looked forward to seeing the young girl grow up to be a nice person.  They all lived happily ever after.

Day 7, A Juxtaposed Contrast

A Juxtaposed Contrast

 One time, a pretty young girl, Rose, and her grandmother, Ema, went to an art museum.  It was nice – not too many people were there at 8:30 AM on a Saturday morning.  There was a curator and a college student, nearby.  The student was working towards a post-graduate degree in graphic design, took some time during the morning to go check out the local art museum.  “What, if you do not mind my asking, is your opinion on these works?” asked the curator.  He and the art student, Mathew, had already spoken together once or twice, before.

Rose and Ema were standing near enough to hear their conversation.  Rose was admiring a huge orange flower while trying not to be afraid of a scary cow skull.  “Well,” said Mathew,

“I have always enjoyed O’keeffe’s artwork.  It, like many things to me, has become too overly cliché to really talk too much about.  I am happy to see these works in person, do not get me wrong.  It is the whole life to death comparison idea, though.  This whole idea that we can compare good to bad, beauty to disgust, or life to death; put those things into a painting; and expect others to enjoy the picture or sing our praises is just not very impressive to me.  What makes her stand out are these vivid colors that radiate from her canvases; death can be a cool form of inspiration.  I like and appreciate what she knew how to do for what was able to be done, technique wise, during her time; her juxtaposition of life and death was a sort of cop-out, in my opinion.”

“I think I agree,” said the curator, “She could have conveyed a deeper message – I still like to see her paintings, too.  They far-surpass many, in my opinion.  At least she had a message.”  The admirers continued to look upon the various paintings in the large room, its polished marble floors were white with wavy grey lines.  “Grandma, what is a ‘juxtaposition’?” asked Rose, thinking it may be a tough question.  “That is simply a comparison of two ideas, pictures, or things that are usually perceived to be opposites,” said Ema, “Which one is your favorite?”  “Well,” said Rose, “I like the big purple orchid with the pink stripes, because I think it is pretty, however I also like the one there by it of bones.  I like the second one, because I know.  One day, we are all going to die.

“She speaks rather well,” said Mathew.  “Most prodigies can,” said Ema.  Rose looked over to Mathew and smiled; she was proud to have heard the complement.  Rose and Ema held hands and walked through the rest of the exhibit.  All four people thought about comparing things for the rest of the amicable day.

Person of 2014

Person of 2014

“So, who is the most interesting person you have met this year?” asked the woman named Kady.  She was speaking with someone on the subway named Aklan, a person of religion from India.  Aklan had said, “It is nice meeting you – I am thinking to look up your writings, someday.  You are the most interesting person that I have met on this day.”

“Oh, I already know a great many interesting people,” said Aklan, “I sell gold with my husband.  We import metal and jewels from India, and we cater to some interesting people, indeed.”  “Are these people really wealthy?” asked Kady.  “I should hope so; we do stay in business, somehow,” answered Aklan, “I am trying to decide on the most interesting one.”

Kady looked at her watch; the ride would not be over for another twenty minutes or so.  “I think the most interesting person was a young woman,” said Aklan, “She came in and bought a rare sapphire bracelet with the saying ‘Forever Love’ engraved on the outside.  ‘Nice choice’ I said.  She said it was for her girlfriend.”  “Oh,” said Kady.  “I am not really like that,” said Aklan, “However I found it ‘interesting’ enough.”  The two finished their ride mostly in silence.

The Letter

The Letter

     One time, there was a pretty young girl named Patty.  She was walking home from school; her bus just dropped her off.  “What a long day,” she thought, and she saw a small piece of paper on the ground with the word “Dear” visible.  Patty picked up the note and read it while continuing to walk – she was in a hurry to get home, trying to get a sugar cookie for a chore she had been thinking of all day.  The letter read:

“Dear Galvin,

I am happy you are my boyfriend.  I like the candy you give me; my friends think you are cool.  One day, you can work for my daddy and buy a car.  I am glad we are ‘going together’.  I love you.

Your girlfriend,

Penelope”

“I know of a Penelope,” thought Patty, “She is in the grade above me.  I will have to bring this note to her tomorrow – I wonder if it is the same person.  We could be friends, one day, if she is a nice person.”

Patty returned home in good time and took out all of the trash in her house.  Her mother would return at any minute – she was sure to be allowed to eat at least one nice, fluffy sugar cookie.

Her Loss, Part One of Three

Cecilia’s Loss, Part One of Three

One time there was a beautiful housewife named Cecilia Evans.  She was a school teacher, married a wealthy stock broker named Christian Evans.  He thought it was best that they buy a house together; they did.  Cecilia loved to teach; she was a 4th grade teacher who endured complicated choices.

Cecilia’s teaching was her dream job; she worked hard in college to complete her degree.  Once done with college, she was grateful to receive an offer to teach.  This was her big loss – she married Christian.  After having loved her job and doing well at it for four years in a row, she met him.  Cecilia was making about 26-k a year and living with herself, her place, and an old Zenith.

Cecilia’s father was a member of a golfing resort group of retired professionals.  She went there with him to eat lunch on Sundays once a month or so; that is where she met Christian.  He also was eating with his older, yet frail, father.  Christian himself was a larger man, 6′ 3”, and had big hands.  Not a body builder, Christian was still large in the gut.

Why would Cecilia leave teaching young minds the beauty of creative development and learning?  Christian’s stock broker job brought in over 250,000-k a year, and he promised her in front of her dad that they could get a big house together.  He would be moving in a few months to a larger city for his job; she could look for a new job once there and tend to the new house.

Cecilia had her thoughts on not going through with this major decision; she went with Christian, nevertheless.  Did she miss teaching?  Cecilia did.  Cecilia missed her students, their parents, surviving on her own – she missed it all.  She liked the new house at first.  It was huge, and the neighbors seemed nice enough when they were around.  The Evans’ mansion contained eight similar guest rooms.  Four of these rooms were on the second floor, and four were beneath them.  There was another bedroom for guests that was larger than the eight similar rooms.  The large house contained a front foyer, a ballroom, many bathrooms and closets, two kitchens, and a den.  There was also the main bedroom for Christian and Cecilia.  They both enjoyed the sex during their first year of marriage; it was no surprise.

Cecilia was not having good success with finding a job as a teacher.  It was a big city; her credentials could not compete.  She kept procrastinating the pursuit of a new career due to a two-fold situation.  Her first problem was simply the big house – she spent all of her time keeping it clean and remodeling.  It was a beautiful piece of artwork – she constantly received high praise for her interior photo-posts from her blog followers.  She posted new digital pictures of her remodeling all of the time.  Christian was impressed with her work from time to time, but usually only tentatively.  Friends and family from all over came to visit, this too took up time and somehow kept Cecilia from returning to teaching.  She cooked in a painstaking manner, became known among many.

Her second problem was the heavy hitter – Christian.  He was such a nice man for so long.  For the first fourteen months of their marriage, he only found more and more success.  He was a genius in regards to market research; he and his men used their power to gain more and more clout.  They became a dominant force in the market place.  “Why do you still long to teach again?” asked Christian all of the time, “Do I not bring home enough ‘bacon’?”  “I just thought I liked it,” said Cecilia.  She eventually found a part-time summer volunteer position teaching art to children one hour a morning, four mornings a week, for the “Y”, a community gym in their city.  This was a suggestion by one of her housewife neighbors, and it did bring some small amount of joy to Cecilia’s life.

Every night when Christian came home he exclaimed things like, “What is for dinner?  Did you remember to get the things I asked you for?” and so on.  He took up drinking alcohol before bedtime; Christian also drank during some business transactions.  He was becoming less considerate of Cecilia; she was trying harder and harder to please her man.  She only knew of their downward spiral subconsciously.  Over the next two years Christian became more verbally confident; Cecilia saw time fly by with little to go along with it other than the physical pains of an aging housewife.  Christian’s dominance was gaining, and so was his nightly consumption of aged whiskey.  What would happen to their relationship if she could not work these things out?  She tried and tried to be a nicer woman.  What would happen to her?  What would happen to Christian?

Her Loss, Part Two of Three

Her Loss, Part Two of Three

One thing that happened to Christian was financial – he began making more money.  He let Cecilia buy a new car of her choice.  She went and got a new fully loaded Lexus.  The car was an automatic v-8 with leather interior, a hybrid.  Her car was nice; her husband was becoming questionable.  Cecilia’s ideas on teaching had pretty much faded away.  “I really wanted to continue to teach,” she said to Christian, one night.  She did not really understand the difference in speaking with a human that had consumed alcohol as opposed to one who had not.

Christian had been drinking his preferred brand of aged whiskey, again – the “smoothest whiskey”, according to the bottle.  Even he did not really consider the consequences of any amount of intoxication.  “There is no need for you to teach,” said Christian coldly, “You cannot even keep a cleanly house.”  She thought he was playing; she had kept their entire house clean for months and months.  Cecilia did not really know what to say, that night.  She hated to be surprised with Christian’s discouraging words.

“Maybe I can teach online, somehow,” thought Cecilia.  The closest she came to that was answering support questions for new bloggers everywhere.  Though it was fun and actually helped a few people learn to write better; her loss was still that she was no longer a school teacher.  Was Christian making all of the money?  Sure he was; Cecilia could go out and buy anything.  He never minded; she paid the bills well and managed some of his private accounts.

Cecilia joined a book club.  It met weekly; it was named “The Wormers”.  To join, participants were to submit a book review and pay a 10$ annual fee.  The club sold t-shirts for 5$ that said “The Wormers”.  Cecilia was a proud “Wormer”; she reviewed James Patterson’s new novel, “Unlucky 13”.  Cecilia joined the book club, because her neighbor said it was an interesting and intelligible small gathering of young women who loved to discuss the mastery of new best-sellers.  Cecilia’s neighbor’s name was Muria Thorngood.  Muria’s husband was a wealthy defense lawyer; she had taken nine differing forms of martial arts before becoming an instructor of her own mixed style in her own dojo, downtown.

Cecilia continued to keep the house clean; she read books; and she remodeled.  Cecilia became an expert with interior design; Christian’s monthly liquor bill was almost as much as the wallpaper Cecilia replaced from time to time.  “I want you to fill these papers out,” said Christian, one night.  It was a life insurance policy for 5 million.  Christian traveled over twelve times a year by plane for business reasons; the policy was an idea presented by his company.  Cecilia filled it out; Christian drank himself to slumber.  His drinking had become a daily habit; he did not drink before he went to his office.  The stocks his company invested in continued to make more and more money.

Christian became more and more verbally abusive to Cecilia.  He, without noticing, became demanding.  She learned to cook various gourmet dishes from high-class recipes off the web.  “These dinners are not worth the money you spend cooking them,” he would say.  She was usually a little proud, anyway; they looked and tasted splendid to her.  Her blog followers were usually at a loss of words to view her cooking photos.

One night, the inevitable occurred.  Christian came home from work; it was a Friday.  On the way home he stocked up well on aged whiskey.  He finished off 1/2 of a 5th by the time he made it to their mansion and found Cecilia reading.  “You and your damn books!” he said, “Cannot you do anything with your life?”  “Why do you not start a private school so I can teach?” she asked in fright.  He was drunk and mad; he really needed to find a good reason to increase his anger.  “All the schools in this city and you cannot even do it at one of those?  You think I can just say ‘wham!’ and a new school appear so you can sit on your rump for a year making what I do in a week?”

“I do not see what is so crazy about that,” said Cecilia, feeling justified, “All you do is sit around or talk with investors and come home and drink – what do you care, anyway?”  This really upset Christian; his not really having something significant to be proud of other than financial success hit home.  It upset him even more to be accused of over drinking; the truth hurt.  He fore-handed her, as she was standing there, trying to be accurate with her statements.

Cecilia fell to the ground in pain.  She cried; she did not think he would do such a thing.  What a terrible surprise.  Christian went off to bed with a 2-liter glass bottle of aged whiskey thinking, “That showed her.”  He passed out drunk within the hour, and Cecilia slept in the large guest room, half of her head discolored and one of her eyes blackened.  What was she to do?

Her Loss, Part Three of Three

Her Loss, Part Three of Three

The Evans had certainly had a rough Friday night.  Christian woke up early, did not know that his blow to Cecilia had bruised her.  He left at sunrise to go play a game of golf and drink whiskey with fellow golfers.  As exciting as that was, Cecilia woke up as he was on his noisy mission to get to the golf course.  Her head was in pain.  She took some aspirin and longed to go back in time.  “I could have just remained a teacher,” she thought sadly, looking over her large and multi-colored bruise via the 3,000$ mirror in her guest bathroom.  “What am I to do?” asked Cecilia.  She thought about it a while, got dressed, and walked the four-acre walk it took to get to her neighbor’s house.  She would see a fellow Wormer; she was going to pay Muria a visit.

Cecilia wore a hat with a laced veil to keep her big bruise from view.  She walked to her neighbor’s and knocked on the front door like an Avon salesman.  Cecilia had only been over to see Muria a few times, before, and she was unable to figure out other options.  Her bruised eye was not even functioning perfectly – Cecilia had a small twitch in her harmed eye.  Muria answered the front door in her Saturday morning dance robe; she had been doing aerobics-dancing with a video for the last hour or so.  “Cecilia!” exclaimed Muria; she was happy to see one of her most favorite people.

“What a nice surprise,” said Muria, “What brings you here?”  Cecilia went with a “non-euphemistic” philosophy and raised the silk from her hat.  “That angry drunk got me good,” said Cecilia, “What more does he want from me?”  Cecilia stood in tears; she did not even know she was crying.  Muria was all she had, really.  “Oh honey, come inside,” said Muria.  Muria consoled Cecilia holding her and rubbing her back and listening to all of the terrible things that had been happening.  The two cried and talked for a while, shared a tea, and Cecilia went back home.  They had made plans to see each other again later in the week.

Christian went on about his normal life, too busy to even care about his lonely housewife’s bruised head.  Ten days went by, and Cecilia’s bruise healed.  One night, she went to her book club.  “Anything happens to Christian, and Cecilia gets paid millions,” thought Muria.  Muria was not even too worried about many things; she thought Christian was not good enough for Cecilia.  He would never give up his bottle according to Muria’s opinion, and she was growing older, anyway.  Muria was an intelligent and deadly woman; she skipped the book club that week, as she sometimes did.  Muria got out an expensive bottle of bourbon, put it in her purse, got dressed, and walked to the Evans’ to ring the front door bell.

“Who is there?” asked Christian, he was intoxicated and had been watching CNN.  He opened the door to see Muria in sexy lingerie and a loosened night robe.  He let her in.  She gave him the bottle; he put that aside.  Muria lured Christian into the kitchen; they did not speak too much.  She caressed him and raised her right leg up to the counter; he came closer to her warmth.  Muria reached behind him and grasped a serrated steal bread knife, pulled him closer, and slit his main aorta with a one-inch deep wound.  Christian tried to grab and strangle her before he bled to death.  Muria was agile enough from martial arts instruction.  She was able to get his arms behind his back; he bled to death.

Muria cleaned the kitchen; she only had half of an hour and Cecilia would be back from the book club.  Muria put Christian’s body in a tall, thick outdoors liner bag.  She cleaned the kitchen really well, drank some of the bourbon, and made sure their was absolutely no sign of foul play.  Muria got the body into the Evans’ backyard and double-checked all that she could consider before leaving the mansion.  Everything was the way it would have been.  Muria dragged the body to a dark part of the yard – it neighbored her own yard.  She kept dragging him until she got him into a secure location, and Cecilia returned home from the book club shortly thereafter.

Muria cremated Christian’s body late in the night.  Cecilia called the police; no body was found.  Christian was pronounced dead, though there was no body to prove it.  Muria did not get caught.  Cecilia received a life insurance policy check for 5 million within good time.  Cecilia opened an art museum downtown, and she opened a private school for children the next fall.  Cecilia missed Christian from time to time; her counselors said that it was not a healthy notion to dwell on.  Muria, her husband, and Cecilia lived happily ever after.

Three Songs

Three Songs

One time two young college students were studying during the afternoon.  The young man, Nicholas, was studying for a mathematics class.  The young lady, Samantha, was reviewing her notes and reading for a social sciences class.  The two had inhabited a table outside of a Biology building.  They knew each other through other people; they found each other to be pleasant acquaintances.  Sam listened to her headphones and read for a while; Nick went over his math problems and began to solve them one by one.

Some time had gone by and Nick noticed Sam was daydreaming.  Half complete with his math work for the day, Nick decided to speak.  “What are you listening to?” he asked.  “It is a selection of mp3 files I put on a disk from the web,” said Sam, “The disk has three of my most favorite songs on it.”  “Oh?” said Nick, “What are your three most favorite songs?”  “I do not really have three most favorite songs,” said Sam, “I listen to different music depending on my mood or the time of the day.”  “Wow,” said Nick, “I suppose I do that, too.  I guess I do that, when I think about it.”

 

“So,” he asked again, “What are the three favorite songs on the disk?”  “She had been stalling, wanting to speak of phenomenal music that any person would agree on.  She only had twelve selections; she spoke.”  “I have a Mozart song, ‘Faith’, by George Michael, and some random song I liked by a rock and roll band, Black Diamond,” said Sam, trying to hide the idea that she was trying to impress Nick.  “I have heard of Black Diamond,” said Nick, “I do not know too much about them.”  She let him listen to the first part of their song and he liked it.

The two became close buddies and dated other people.  Once graduated, they worked in the same city for different companies, got married to other people, and their families stayed in close relations to each other for years and years.

stratovarious

moonlight sonata

faith

day 3 prompt

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