He wanted people to know he'd been there, so he left his shoes. There was nothing else he could leave. He trudged back up the hill towards camp. But the boots stayed. Years after, as groups of people ventured to the clear lake, they saw his shoes and left their own shoes. Without meaning to, he had started a tradition. Pairs of shoes after pairs of shoes were left by the lake, a little memento of the wearer there by the lake forever. Pairs of shoes after pairs of shoes after pairs of shoes.
I've love photography ever since my father got me into it a few years ago. It would be hard to fill in his shoes. After 13 years of school and learning, my friends and I decided to go to Italy for a brake for once. As we were going around town in Rome I saw these beautiful flowers on the side and I told my friend to pick some and hold them and i would take a photo of her with them. I posted this photo as a memory of us in Rome and it got 2 million likes. Ever...
What is the meaning of life? More importantly -- What is the meaning of eternal life?
Jane had an inkling that something was off that Thursday. Something didn't just quite feel -- right.
She went to the coffee shop as she always did for her latte in the morning. Today, however seemed peculiar.
She paid, as always, in quarters, and went to sit at a table.
A man stepped up to her and intoduced himself.
"My name is Safura", he said.
"I'm Jane. Nice to meet you".
"What would you say if I told you I could offer you eternal...
It was the fall that surprised me most. One minute you're standing and the next you're plummeting towards the earth. Time seemed to slow. I counted the stories of the building as I whizzed by them. Twenty, twenty one, twenty two. My last thoughts probably shouldn't be counting.
I thought my life was supposed to flash in front of me. I closed my eyes for a moment but nothing popped into my head at all. In fact, I was slightly irritated that I had stopped counting. I was probably about forty floors up. I should have paid more attention in...
Private Morlane. Rooster. Let the regiment sleep. Gun. Trigger. Regiment sleeps.
Andrew was the worst of all of them, though they were all pretty bad. By about that point, most of them were on the dance floor, throwing themselves around with strained smiles on their faces, or else trying to grind up on girls. Andrew was propped against a pillar though, barely able to move. He was nodding his head to the beat, though even that was pretty out of time. A thin, sickly trickle of sweat ran down the middle of his forehead, seeping out from under his ball cap.
An old Motown song came on, and Andrew thought he...
It was just a fruit stand. No matter what they accused me of, it was just a fruit stand. You can believe who you want, but I swear it on my life that it was just a fruit stand. I'm a fruit seller. At least, I was. Before those bastards accused me of dealing drugs. It was just a simple fruit stand. My daddy had owned it, then I did. Not a great paying life, but a life nonetheless. Just a fruit stand. Not the center or a drug cartel. I'm just a poor man without much of an education....
The scene was peaceful, serene and calming. I stood at the base of the light house and pressed my back against the solid wooden door behind me. I felt the cool mist on my cheeks as the fresh, inspiring air entered my lungs. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. The sounds of gulls flying overhead, of the playful waves spalshing against the rocks, all of these soothing sounds filled my mind as I allowed myself to get lost in the wonder of it all. This is what life was meant to be - finding enjoyment in the simple things....
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. It was a cold evening, and it turns out she didn't quite make the cut to be invited to the party. There's no way she could've gone back home, though. The opinion of her parents was so important to her-- having them know that she was an outcast? It wasn't an option.
So she just stood there. Outside, watching all the more popular people go in. It wouldn't have been so bad if she could sit alone in a quiet corner of the restaurant across the...
I don't like hats anymore. My friend from camp always wore a hat, and so did I. We would switch hats sometimes, wearing each other's hat for sometime. He let me wear his hat to Art one day. I drew it. I was so proud. That was in, oh I don't know, August? The end of summer. I lost that drawing. God, I miss him. I really do. I imagine him moving to my home town, him still wanting to be friends with me. Everything being ok. But that's never going to happen. I get the feeling sometimes like he's...