“There was a picture in my phone of me sleeping. I live alone.” ~ Reddit Two-Sentence Horror Stories

Reblogged from arts.mic:

Seven months ago, a Reddit user asked a simple question: “What is the best horror story you can come up with in two sentences?” The response was deafening and blood curdling, and the conversation is just starting to go viral.

Here are some samples:

If it’s Friday, it must mean leftovers . . .

Yes, I know. I scheduled the damn thing to publish a day early. Sheesh. What a week . . .


Friday afternoon. Cloudy, muggy, but cooler, 70 degrees.

So I was right about the one thing that I wish I had been wrong about. I am having one of those weak episodes, the kind where moving feels like swimming, lifting anything feels as if I’m trying to hoist 55 gallon drums filled with cement. In other words, blech.

Dreamed last night that my mother and I went to White Castle to get burgers. We found the last one left in the area (I think they’re all gone). She wanted her burger with rice and greens on top, and I just didn’t understand that combination. Years ago when I worked at the newspaper, there was a White Castle a few streets over and the woman on the grill had been there for years. She could cook a mean burger.

Oh well. Here, have some leftovers . . .

Are you a feminist

Caitlin Moran’s How to be a Woman

None of your kind wanted . . .

Photo: Well this is sure to get the goatee of some.

Look closely . . .

I’ve finally found my spirit animal . . .

Speaking of koalas . . . I don’t know if I’m more intrigued by the photos or the caption accompanying them:

A Koala reflecting on his sins, his triumphs, and the inevitability of death.

This is a thing:

 Moon rabbit, Taoyuan, Taiwan (2014) by Florentijn Hofman

Here, have a little happiness:

There aren’t enough palms to smack enough faces for this one:

Photo: Must not be a writing opportunity.

Say what?

Mutually Exclusive?

Come again?

That liberal lie: Climate Change

Wi-Fi Wars . . .

How cool are these?

Ghost-it notes for highlighting without defacing the book

This is important. Lava Mae is fundraising for their second bus. Go here for more information:

“Books were safer than people anyway.” ~ Neil Gaiman, from The Ocean at the End of the Lane


“I do believe that in order to be a writer—to grow and learn and create art—one must read. Read widely. Read whatever makes your heart sing. Learn to be a watchful reader. And in the moments when you need reading for the pure pleasure of it, seek out pleasure the way I seek out doughnuts when I’m having a bad day. (Which is to say, with unwavering determination.)” ~ Dana Staves, from To Write, You Must Read

Wednesday afternoon. Rainy, humid, 70 degrees.

I’m not sure if I’m getting my fall cold, or if I’m on the cusp of one of those weak spells during which I am too taxed to walk to the kitchen, but something is worrying me on the fringes, and I just can’t pinpoint it. Just overall achiness, migraine aside, and a scratchy throat.

After spending a bit here and on tumblr, I’ll probably retreat to the safety of my bed and read a book. At least the dogs will be happy.

Last evening I got a delivery from Amazon, and for the first time, the packaging was crap: I had ordered some pill treat pockets for the dogs, and that package was open, and the roll of packing paper that I had ordered and which they had thrown in the box with everything else, was greasy. My vitamins were open, and overall, it was a mess. Amazon is usually great at overpackaging—sending one tiny thing in a big padded envelope, so I was really surprised at this mess.

I spent an inordinate amount of time on hold for a representative who was fixing the problem, but it was fixed without issue. Say what you will about Amazon being this behemoth that railroads smaller companies, but their customer service is excellent. Anyway, I got the packing paper so that I can start to take things off the walls and box them away as Brett has promised to help me sand and paint, and there are far too many prints and pictures in the way.

“There will always be non-readers, bad readers, lazy readers—there always were. Reading is a majority skill but a minority art. Yet nothing can replace the exact, complicated, subtle communion between absent author and entranced, present reader . . . When you read a great book, you don’t escape from life, you plunge deeper into it.” ~ Julian Barnes, from “Julian Barnes: my life as a bibliophile” (The Guardian, 29 June 2012)

So much to do before we can even consider putting this house on the market. I try not to dwell on how badly our lives were scarred in so many areas when we were living on just my disability and Corey’s sometime unemployment during those long, hard three years. But it’s hard not to be bitter. We had to let so many things go by the wayside, and now we’re paying the price.

Ah, life. Always such a challenge.

Anyway, here’s a continuation on this week’s theme:

From the Banned Books Week site:

Banned Books Week is an annual event celebrating the freedom to read. Held during the last week of September, it highlights the value of free and open access to information. Banned Books Week brings together the entire book community — librarians, booksellers, publishers, journalists, teachers, and readers of all types — in shared support of the freedom to seek and to express ideas, even those some consider unorthodox or unpopular.

Banned Books Week was launched in 1982 in response to a sudden surge in the number of challenges to books in schools, bookstores and libraries. More than 11,300 books have been challenged since 1982 according to the American Library Association. There were 307 challenges reported to the Office of Intellectual Freedom in 2013, and many more go unreported. The 10 most challenged titles of 2013 were:

  1. Captain Underpants (series), by Dav Pilkey
    Reasons: Offensive language, unsuited for age group, violence
  2. The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison
    Reasons: Offensive language, sexually explicit, unsuited to age group, violence
  3. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, by Sherman Alexie
    Reasons: Drugs/alcohol/smoking, offensive language, racism, sexually explicit, unsuited to age group
  4. Fifty Shades of Grey, by E.L. James
    Reasons: Nudity, offensive language, religious viewpoint, sexually explicit, unsuited to age group
  5. The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins
    Reasons: Religious viewpoint, unsuited to age group
  6. A Bad Boy Can Be Good for A Girl, by Tanya Lee Stone
    Reasons: Drugs/alcohol/smoking, nudity, offensive language, sexually explicit
  7. Looking for Alaska, by John Green
    Reasons: Drugs/alcohol/smoking, sexually explicit, unsuited to age group
  8. The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky
    Reasons: drugs/alcohol/smoking, homosexuality, sexually explicit, unsuited to age group
  9. Bless Me Ultima, by Rudolfo Anaya
    Reasons: Occult/Satanism, offensive language, religious viewpoint, sexually explicit
  10. Bone (series), by Jeff Smith
    Reasons: Political viewpoint, racism, violence

For more information on Banned Books Week, click here.

The sponsors of Banned Books Week would like to give special thanks the Association of American Publishers, DKT Liberty Project, Penguin Random House, and Perseus Books Group for their additional support in 2014.

                   

Music by The Glitch Mob, “Between Two Points” (featuring Swan)

Post hoc, ergo propter hoc . . .

Berthe Morisot Fall Colors in the Bois de Boulogne 1888

“Fall Colors in the Bois de Boulogne” (1888, watercolor)
by Berthe Morisot


Two for Tuesday: Post hoc

Tuesday afternoon. Cloudy and cooler, 66 degrees.

It’s a “West Wing” kind of day . . .

Josh Lyman: Someone give me a river to forge, a serpent to slay.

C.J. Cregg: What’s his problem?

Donna Moss: He’s been drinking from the keg of glory. We’re to bring him all the muffins and bagels in the land.

Toby Ziegler: We heard.

Well if every week were to begin with a Monday like my yesterday, I doubt I would ever leave my bed. Let’s just say that it was a day worthy of Finagle’s Law of Dynamic Negatives: Anything that can go wrong, will—at the worst possible moment.

All three of my children were in crises, and I was in the midst of a massive migraine brought on by stress and lack of sleep. It was a mixture of illness, stress, bills, and life. Somehow we all muddled through and managed to take care of a few pressing issues. And somehow I was able to sleep last night, short bursts of sound sleep, interrupted by my dogs’ incessant need to wander into the back yard in the middle of the night and look around, sniff the air and . . . just stand there as if they had all of the time in the world.

Anyway, I talked to Corey last night, and he seemed to be in the midst of his arm of the Murphy’s corollary, with things not going all that well for him either. Sometimes, sleep is the only answer.

                   

Edvard Munch Elm Forest in Autumn 1919-20

“Elm Forest in Autumn” (1919-20)
by Edvard Munch

After All This

After all this love, after the birds rip like scissors
through the morning sky, after we leave, when the empty
bed appears like a collapsed galaxy, or the wake of
disturbed air behind a plane, after that, as the wind turns
to stone, as the leaves shriek, you are still breathing
inside my own breath. The lighthouse on the far point
still sweeps away the darkness with the brush of an arm.
The tides inside your heart still pull me towards you.
After all this, what are these words but mollusk shells
a child plays with? What could say more than the eloquence
of last night’s constellations? or the storm anchored by
its own flashes behind the far mountains? I remember
the way your body wavers under my touch like the northern
lights. After all this, I want the certainty of hidden roots
spreading in all directions from their tree. I want to hear
again the sky tangled in your voice. Some nights I can
hear the footsteps of the stars. How can these words
ever reveal the secret that waits in their sleeping light?
The words that walk through my mind say only what has
already passed. Beyond, the swallows are still knitting
the wind. After a while, the smokebush will turn to fire.
After a while, the thin moon will grow like a tear in a curtain.
Under it, a small boy kicks a ball against the wall of
a burned out house. He is too young to remember the war.
He hardly knows the emptiness that kindles around him.
He can speak the language of early birds outside our window.
Someday he will know this kind of love that changes
the color of the sky, and frees the earth from its moorings.
Sometimes I kiss your eyes to see beyond what I can imagine.
Sometimes I think I can speak the language of unborn stars.
I think the whole earth breathes with you. After all this,
these words are all I have to say what is impossible to think,
what shy dreams hide in the rafters of my heart, because
these words are only a form of touch, only tell you I have no life
that isn’t yours, and no death you couldn’t turn into a life.

~ Richard Jackson

                   

Anne Redpath A Borders River Landscape, Lyon and Turnbull, Edinburgh

“A Borders River Landscape, Lyon and Turnbull, Edinburgh” (nd, oil on board)
by Anne Redpath

The Layers

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray. When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

~ Stanley Kunitz

                   

Music by Great Lake Swimmers, “Moving Pictures Silent Films”