Don't Count Your Coins Before They're Stacked_Half-a-century experience_The many shades of d
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Don't Count Your Coins Before They're Stacked
Walter placed the last gold coin from his pile onto the stack, carefully lined up against the cavern wall.“One million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty-five.”His tail twitched. The number of gold coins was so, so close to a nice, round number. The other nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine stacks of one hundred coins each mocked him from their nearby columns. The silver was at three billion, which was delightful, and the copper was at four trillion and eight hundred billion, which wasn’t great. But it was better than this eighty-five nonsense. Perhaps ...
Half-a-century experience
I like my grandpa. He is so funny and kind. He and my grandmother have been living together for fifthly years. My grandfather always likes to advise people. He believes that his mission in this world is to share his life experiences and teach people right from wrong. He wants to teach others the knowledge he has acquired in his half-century of experience, helping them learn from these experiences and not make wrong chowww.onedoor.ccices, he likes to be the center of attention in that way. As much as my grandmother wants to convince him that people no longer like to listen to advice, he doesn’t care, and wh...
The many shades of darkness through the eyes of a city
One very hot and humid city night, the streets are overflowing with children bicycling, screaming with glee and the teens with obscenity. The adults with no air conditioning nor fans are out. Sitting on homemade "patios" in chairs that have seen better nights. Sipping a cold brew or a rum mix or two. Two streets down, the action is heard, through blaring sirens and people running scared. Cops chasing, young men running, as if for their life. I would guess it's to avoid the capture and doing life itself.I'm sitting at my daughters kitchen table watching with interest at all that I can see and h...
Elusive Dinner
The smell of the frizzling onions and carrots fused with the aroma of Michael's Pinot Noir. The blues songs blended with the cutting and knifing sounds from the kitchen. Michael sat comfortably in his chair, Plato’s Republic on his lap, and listened to his mother singing along from the kitchen. “I could have been a singer, Mickey,” his mother used to say. “But your father stole my hearts and dreams,” she always added, and they all shared a laugh. The dogs barked outside. Not their hungry bark, but their excited one. His father was home. “Easy, you silly animals,” his father laughed, waltzing t...