"So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads." ― Dr. Seuss

I look up then and tried to find
Words might fit to say to you
Of love and passion and of truth
To ease the pain we're going through..

The gray clouds walking its way above
but our tears raining the earth..
How could we stand to fight for love..
When we forgotten all its worth..

I'm writing to a sailor out in the ocean everyday. I don't know if your name is John, but to me I think it would be rude to call you a 'sailor.' When you get this John please read all the way through it, then contact me in anyway you can think of.
The month is September 17, 2012. My brother turns twenty-five in two days. He uses to stand up for our country in the Navy. He almost died two years ago. He came back alive, thankfully. By dad who had the same occupation had the same fate but he didn't come back alive.
I wrote this letter so that I would be able to get your permission to sail on your boat around the world for a year, or however long you want my there. My whole goal is to find an island to live on. I want my own secluded island to live on that would only be mine. I would also like to know why my brother, and father fell in love with the ocean so much that they would risk their lives.

At night while trying to write a poem, I fell asleep,
I woke with a start, so tired still, my notebook was still clear,
rubbing my neck I looked out the window and heard a bird's tweet,
then I stretched and went to the garden to have some fresh air,

looking at the sky my jaw dropped, what a wonderful view!
black and grey, blue and purple mixed in breathtaking way,
on the canvas so huge and vast, with no particular hue,
glittering, shining stars on it now slowly fading away,

She shifted the truck into park, nudged the door open and saddled out of her seat, her over-sized boots sloshing in the mud with a suction that almost pulled them from her feet. She slid her gloves on and climbed up into the truck bed-wet goulashes squeaking against the polished truck body.

Bending over she sprung the bungee cords free, they flew back with a cracking whack on the far side of the bed. With firm footing she gripped the edge of the tarp and yanked and tugged until it was free. With a toss; the shovel and rake clattered onto the ground. Carefully she leaned over the truck gate, popped the latches. It fell open, bouncing and shaking the truck almost making her lose balance. She stepped back to keep from tumbling forward, her hand clutching the edge.

Steven Kelly sits on the light gray metal bench in a park in Dallas. The black briefcase sits on the ground to his left, just like he was instructed to do. He is just sitting, enjoying the sights and sounds of the downtown park. Kids running and playing, couples walk hand in hand, a man walking his dog. He's just waiting. Told to be there at eleven am. It's now eleven fourteen, they are never on time. He's not sure who it will be this time, it doesn't really matter to him anymore.
People walking by look at him, smile and say good morning. He smiles back and says the same. Everyone around here sure is nice. He reaches up to scratch his neck and feels the stiff collar around his neck. He forgets sometimes that he is a Priest. Wearing the familiar black suit with white collar. That part is still new to him. He lightly rubs the collar and thinks about why he is here and what he's doing and what he has to do.

Of all the nights to be late, why did it have to be tonight? There had been many close calls in the past, oh yes, but this time was different. This time it mattered more than ever. Several people were counting on her-some very important and some just wanting to hear her play, but they all shared in wonder where she was at the moment.

Sky cursed again beneath her breath, shaking the snow from her hair. She stared menacingly toward her impish friend Tash, who was smiling like a child who just stole a cookie while mommy wasn't watching.

"I think we may be in trouble," she said, walking around to the backside of the wagon. Four others, three men and one woman emerged from the small coach and joined her. The five began unloading instruments in the blistering cold while Sky stood watching.

"You think we're in trouble?" Her voice cracked in the cold, but the sarcasm was unwavering. "The one night we have to make an impression on Garrin and we arrive twenty minutes late. Trouble isn't the word for it."

With a whole lot of lycra, copious amounts of action and the type of language that will make your mother recoil in horror, the film adaptation of Kick-Ass is out to shock us all.
Adapted from Mike Millers 2008 comic-book series with the same name, Kick-Ass is a film not to be missed. Be it the controversial character of 11 year old Mindy (aka Hit Girl), or the memorable one-liners, this film will be the subject of conversation for a very long time - of both shock and admiration.

School had started as the bell had been rung . Students sat in their classes listening and barely nodding at everything they heard.Not one was visible in the grounds playing softball or soccer . The part that may seem strange to every stranger is that this was 21st century and not the mid 70s where students existed as book worms and nothing more.

The discipline of this school surprised parents to the extent of putting their children into the premises and destroying their so called childhood , the childhood that is usually spent in the arms of sand or with the company of friends.

However , in this school childhood meant nothing more than getting ready for your future that may be becoming an engineer or a doctor.Students here did not know the meaning of life as they didn't have time to think about it. The homework was the mountain the were forced to lift on their little shoulders.

"Are there mozzies here?"

"Yes"

"Are they heaps bigger than at home?"

"I don't know"

"Does Uncle Joe like footy?"

"I don't know, Jules"

"Can I play footy when we get there?"

"Probably"

"There's aliens here, Johnny Weatherly told me that"

"We're in Adelaide, Jules. It's not a different bloody planet"

We are in a taxi. Nylon seats...sweaty, itchy thighs. The scent of pine needles invades our nostrils, emanating from the green tree dangling from the rear-view mirror. The driver, hearing my brother's comment, looks back at us with a smile.

"Don't worry, mate, plenty of Vic's like you round 'ere".

"May I sit here?" Alex asked gesturing toward the empty chair at her table.

"Oh, um . . ." She glanced around the room and saw it was standing room only. "Sure, have a seat."

"Are you sure?" he asked as he pulled the chair out.

"You just want a place to sit, right?"

"Yeah," Alex told her. "This place is jammed and I'd like to sit and eat lunch before going back to work."

"Well, go ahead," Caitlin said glancing at him once again before returning to her magazine.

Alex sat down and took out his phone to catch up on some e-mails, but he kept finding himself shooting covert glances over at his tablemate. She was classically beautiful with long hair that fell in waves over her shoulders. She had perfect, porcelain skin and the greenest eyes he had ever seen that were framed with long, dark lashes.

I agree fullheartedly. I have such a hard time at home dealing with stress and all that it feels like a responsibility I have to face half of the day. I am a teenager and me personally have experienced less bullying now in school but everyone loves me so that might not be a good example. What do I know anyways?

I'm launching a new story writing contest this month and the 3 best stories will win an upgrade. I'd love to have this contest highlighted in your magazine. Thanks! Chris :D

Thanks for touching on this topic. I personally like to listen to Youtube vidoes of songs when I write, and I'd say that it's staggering just how many fercosious, nonsensical arguments you can find on any clip that more than half a dozen people have ever seen. The newsletter was a good reminder,to me at least, to always whatch what you say-especially given that, in cyberspace, one's words will outlive them a thousand times over or more.Friends of my great grand-children might someday bump across a venomous comment I've posted somewhere...

I just want to THANK YOU guys for all your efforts and bringing us some very informative and good reads:) Also the newbie work highlighted here is fun to read, we have some real talent over here:)

What a great reminder to everyone about being carefull before you speak. I think anyone can make a mistake and you should be carefull. Negative reviews can be awful, but it's always works to ask yourself "Did I find something usefull from the review?". There are times I a have a harsh review, but I can use to help myself as a writer.

I love this newsletter! T.H.I.N.K. Before You Speak! I've never even considered to use each letter of the word 'think' to really get the point across... I think it's easy to say truthful things, to be helpful when you sympathize with others, to be inspiring when giving advice... but it's hard to say things when even when they're necessary (if you're afraid to hurt people's feelings); and even harder to be TRULY kind (I feel it depends on a each person's definition of kindness...) The featured works here in you newsletter sound very interesting, too! School is too busy right now, but I'll keep this newsletter in my inbox, and hopefully I'll have loads of time to read during winter break. Thank you for sharing!! ~mARi~