“We see like children, and when we try to be wise we see nothing.”
– Oswald Chambers.
Once upon a time there was a little boy named Josh, who loved to listen to his mother read to him. She had read the Magic Castle Reader storybooks dozens of times but the boy still insisted she read them again, especially before bed. They were simple romantic stories that usually used animals as main characters. He had his favorites of course, and always knew what was going to happen next but this boy enjoyed hearing the story play out, from beginning to end, over and over, always left marveling. He couldn’t read the words but it didn’t matter because he still grasped the story. The pictures helped but his colorful imagination filled in all the gaps taking the story much further than the pages. Each tale ended with a happily ever after. This along with his favorite television show, Eureka’s Castle, captivated his attention and occupied his mind. Together, he and his mom would sit in the living room, the books on the coffee table in front of the television, and the two would flee to a world of fancy. As he grew up, his mother fed his creativity and wonder about the world. Her little boy was her escape from her own deep sadness. She was astonished that Josh started speaking legitimate sentences at only one year old. Questions that murmured and clamored tumbled from his overactive brain and spluttered out his mouth. Mom didn’t always have the answers…
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“The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on.” – Chuck Palahniuk
The red neon lights of the Melrose Diner flickered on the humid corner of Broad and Snyder Street. I was alone again, tired, wielding a cigarette and peering through fog covered glass listening to melodic sounds of clinking forks and a familiar 1950’s tune, earth-angel, resounding from the juke box. Sighing for the ninetieth time, I rubbed my bloodshot eyes and tried to remember the last time I slept. Two hours ago I left Cape May in a car that’s air conditioner broke, so I could be here at this obscure hour to meet someone who needed to “give me a story.” Usually I know who I’m going to set up an interview with, at least I get a name and some general background information but with this I didn’t have anything. Which is odd to begin with, but it was even stranger that I kind of glumly agreed to it, as if in a daze. I guess I figured I had nothing to lose, considering my rather desperate situation.
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from The Wharton Undergraduate Journal
This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl’s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.
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