Get The Party Started._False Murderer, Dead Soldier, and Mr.Nobody_The Choice_The Third of the Prosp
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Get The Party Started.
There once was a family. It was rather large, very perse and filled with unusual creatures. There were rats and cats and elephants.And perhaps a few unicorns.The family got rid of the rats.They looked after the cats.And they did their very best to ignore the elephants.And the unicorns?Those damned unicorns were a wild bunch, and not unlike their dazzling, distant cousins, the zebras, they liked to show off.They were rather famous for using humans as instruments to get their way and grabbed pretty much any excuse to get a party started.Now the Big Guy, the one everyone called God Almighty, wasn...
False Murderer, Dead Soldier, and Mr.Nobody
(Copied and Paste, This work is mine I created this story for speech and debate class) (also any feedback is helpful)First StoryCriminal… That's exactly what they think of me, around 3 months ago I was accused of second-degree murder, I now stand in court trying to be acquitted, my lawyer next to me. I saw the murder, but I didn’t do anything myself, but nobody believes me. Every day I see people looking at me disgusted I hear people whispering… Delinquent… Murderer…Put him in jail. The main reason people think it was me was that they found my DNA in the man's body but what really happened was...
The Choice
The emberswww.onedoor.cc crackled and popped in the hearth, giving the room a moody feel as the shadows flickered back and forth, like they were living things with their own souls. In the center of the room was a throne made of thorns and tree branches, creating its own menacing shadows on the stone walls. "Good, you've arrived. I hear you are here to barter with me?" He said. His voice was deeper than the depths of the ocean and darker than the furthest corner of the world. I squared my shoulders, trying to appear tougher than I felt. Swallowing hard, I faced him. Fear infiltrated each one of my senses...
The Third of the Prosperos
The Himalayas. Night is breaking into Sunday. The young William Shakespeare reading poet has just arrived in old Kathgodam, near the base of that part of the range which shares the Ram Dass and Yogananda ashrams and sanctuaries, among others. He is not looking for Salinger. Not this time. Not here. Not now.The poet, a chela, a disciple, a pilgrim, is now heading up away from Kathgodam to Dwarahat, taking the westward route up the steep, mountain cliff-side roads in a small, white taxi-cab. He is not feeling so well. Sea-sickness swayed from on the shoulders of the giants. Om.The ashram is up i...