My grandmother is dead and she could have solved that problem by now.

You move at the speed of smell.

It is exactly the same, except completely different.

It is just a Fig Newton of your imagination.

Don’t confuse the issues with facts.

Wherever you go, there you are.

This is matata hakuna, the life of a circle.

It is vuja de all over again.

Experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.

I have always loved stories.

It didn't take me long into my childhood to realize that I loved to make them up as much as I liked to read or hear them.

I began to write very early on. It became almost second nature for me to write things in my head, hoping I would remember the phrases later when I had a pen in hand or a computer to type at.

At first I wanted nothing out of my writing. I just wanted to write.

And then I began to question what I wanted those who read my writings to experience.

My initial reaction was to make them happy. Specifically, to make them laugh.

It did not take me long to realize that I am not funny. At least on paper.

Occasionally a rapid succession of witty remarks stream from my mouth and send the people around me into gasping laughs, as if in surprise that my natural seriousness would allow for such a thing. My immediate family knows better--they know there is a mischievous, happy-sappy, bright side of me.

However, that does not often translate to the written word.

So I turned from that pursuit in search of another.

I found it immediately and knew without a doubt that it was what led me to continue writing at all, because it was something that drove nearly all my actions.

Compassion, I decided, was what I most wanted my readers to experience. More than anything, I wanted to breach the apathetic veneer that so many people--so, so many people--wear. I wanted to break down the walls built in people's hearts that keep out selfless love, that promote self-preservation in the form of selfishness and negativity. Not to make people feel vulnerable, but rather to touch their souls with the sudden understanding and experience of the vulnerability of another. I wanted to cast people's minds away from their own fear of being hurt, betrayed, misunderstood, or unloved, to realize that same fear in the hearts of others.

It is the very same thing I want to do when I speak to others.

I don't mind making people laugh, and if I do that fills me with joy.

...

But if I'm being honest, I prefer to make people cry.

...

To cry with grief, with empathy, with a deep pain experienced as their own.

To feel within them the stirrings of something we often deeply lack in our daily lives, thoughts, and interactions: compassion.

Compassion: a love that means "to suffer with".

"I have a few tales to tell you, and the tales are true." The words jolted me out of my sleep. I looked around, sensing that someone was in the room with me.

"Who's there?" I callled out. No answer. I looked around, noticing something was missing. Then I noticed it. The curtains where there but there was not a cinch of light anywhere in the room. I sat up in bed, my heart racing.

"I have a few tales to tell you, and the tales are true," It comes as a wispher, the last word being strung out. I tried to track the voice but it seemed to move around the room. My heart pounded in my ears and I was certain that I was going to die. I tried to talk myself into getting out from underneath the covers, off the bed, across the room to the blinds, and opening them. But my body refused to listen, to obey.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and jerked around, and at the same time, a laugh passed next to me.

"Who are you?" I asked. I tried to sound brave but my voice came out sounding like a little girls. I swallowed, awaiting the response.

"I have a few tales to tell you, and the tales are true," It's a wispher again.

"What are they?" I asked, barely managing to breath.

"Tales," Was the answer.

"About what?" I asked. I swallowed the vomit back down.

"You," The word was drawn out.

"Me?" I asked. "Why?"

"I am you," It answered.

"What are they," I asked. A hand reached out of the darkness and towards my face. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, I couldn't move. My heart pounded and pounded, and I was sure my head was going to fall off.

"Your life. Every fail, ever win, every trial, every passing," the words sent a shiver up my spine. The hand conected with my face. They were cold. I could feel the death in them.

####

"Hey Grandpa," I jerk awake at the sound of a little boy calling my name. "Can you tell me a story?" His mom shows up behind him in the door way.

"Sorry," She mouths. I nod.

"Sure," I answer. "Come here," I pat my lap and the little boy squirms up onto it.

"Tell me something scary," He pleads.

"Ok," I say. "I have a few tales to tell you, and the tales are true."

A bit of madness, a bit of fame,

a little bit of sexy is my name,

the time goes by,

and my madness dies,

a laugh and a strawberry kiss,

just a bit of a chocolate kick,

and yet I come and run and run,

they still chase me under the sun,

a water drop in my eye,

why can't I see that fly?

The sound of the car door slamming echoed across the car park. I watched as the car lights left the carpark and pulled away up the hill. Shouldering my pack I wander down through the half closed main street of this coastal village. Out of season there are few people around, there's the shop that sells Cornish fudge, the kids used to love that when they were little. The shop is just operning so I buy a small packet, the stuff is disgustingly sweet but I have a long way to go I might need a sugar burst later.

That's the pub were Dad managed to tip a pint of beer onto my lap, the chip shop - closed for renervations, re-operning in April- that has provided many an evening meal, the b&b the Captain and I stayed in one weekend many years ago.

The shop that sells lucky charms is still there, I had one for years until I lost it on a trip to Australia. Deciding to buy a replacement, a 'Joan o'the wad' I swing my pack off and retrieve my purse, tucked in the back is a note

Happy Valentine's day, see you tomorrow xx

Later, walking along the wild Cornish cliffs with the wind buffeting me, the seagulls screaming over head and the scent of gorse in the air I feel grateful, sometimes the best gift you can give someone is the chance to be alone.

I wake up one morning,

and the world’s on fire.

my roommates are zombies,

and my car has a flat tire.

I don’t like guns,

and I don’t work out

Running is not an option,

That’s a fact, not a doubt.

I find a bike magically,

and ride through the school.

I can see the zombie cliques,

I’m actually not that cool.

So I’m not really sure where I want to go.

I pick up a map,

Because surprise, surprise,

I lost my phone.

I should tell you its freezing.

I’m shivering.

There’s a ton of snow.

My day isn’t getting better,

just so you know.

I definitely need food,

and also a tent.

The stores aren’t open,

Talk about money not spent.

I pick up twinkies, and sausages,

The type from Vienna.

I got distracted by art supplies,

Conte sucks when its Sienna.

This isn’t a scary story,

I'm actually deus ex.

I'm basically invincible.

Please pretend that you’re impressed.

I’ve denied you details of zombies,

Because it's not the Walking Dead.

Im not going into detail.

(Enter said reference, about scalping their heads)

Like the Giver, I head towards the forest and see a path I can take,

Im glad I got the ibuprofen,

The bike seat kind of makes my butt ache.

I definitely think I’m the only human,

I hope I’m not alone.

Im going to miss my family,

And Im going to miss my home.

JK Ive got a ’copter and yacht,

and the Internet.

Bye.

A traveler------ who doesn't know where she's going

A classical music lover----- who plays banjo

A gardener--- of other peoples gardens

Has two left feet-----but dances salsa

Has no income------- but wants to buy a yatch

Avid writer ----------who rarely publishes

Owns more ukuleles than handbags

Happily married for more years than I care to admit---but writes sad songs of love and loss.

Scared of strangers-----but traveled solo for four months last year.

A technophobe----- writing this online

Been with the love of my life since I was 21--but we are not always together.

An adult----But hasn't grown up yet.

Hates labels---but has just found one

A contradiction