Your thoughts on the paper

For Kay, my dear sister in Jesus. May this small tale help to remind toi how beautifully and wonderfully made toi are in the eyes of the Great Artist.

~~ Beautiful ~~

Once upon a time, not long il y a and not far away, there lived a wise and skillful artist who loved to paint. He delighted in making magic with color and bringing all the images he saw in his head to life in his pictures.

One day, he was painting something extra special. His brush dipped in and out of the swirling couleurs and flew across the canvas in expert strokes; dabbing here, blending there, moving swiftly in a joyful, marvelous...

Dear You-Know-Who,


How can toi not read my body language? When toi present, I barely look up. I barely clap. I barely look at you? And yet, when my Friends present, I go wild. I clap, I cheer, I am constantly looking at them. I even think toi touched my hair!!!!


I know toi were impressed when I rocked up in the multipurpose area covered in blood and bruises. A door hit me, sent me flying into a pole and sent to the cement for goodness' sake! toi hung around, I can tell. Yu stayed longer than I expected toi to. At least toi didn't see me when tears were flooding down my face. ou when I hit the...

love. what does it truley mean? being in l’amour is simpe, anyone can convence themslves they are in love. being in l’amour is when toi feel something for one person plus strongly than toi feel for another. but l’amour is something elsa all together. l’amour is when toi cant convience yourselve toi l’amour someone, but when toi try to leave something tells toi no, stop and think. and when toi do think the reason is blantint. l’amour is when toi think your done, done fighting and done lieing, but than it hits toi that without all of that toi wouldnt be the person toi are, and they wouldnt be the one toi love....

Some aléatoire little piece of prose écriture I did last an on a teens écriture website, hope toi like it.:)

They are everywhere, these birds. They hobble, strut, and flutter around the town, weaving in and out of the shoppers, darting in between clumping feet to snatch crumbs and bits of crisps among the blobs of chewing gum and cigarette ends on the wet cobblestones. The people don’t care. The pigeons don’t care. Both species living their separate lives in a man-made environment where man and bird are equal. They are the colours of the town; grey, dull brown occasionally, dappled with factory-steam...