INDEX TO ALL MY BLOGS. WILL THE REAL GEORGE STAND UP? March 13, 2018. Donald Trump is the real George Costanza. He is a cowardly fool clumsily lying his way through any and every situation. An ignorant poseur acting a part which he has never for a second cared to research. ALABAMA MAN SEES BABY JESUS IN SWISS MELT.

Exploring Literature and the Craft of Creative Writing. Hunger Games Nail Polish Giveaway Winners. org and weeded through those who did not enter correctly or non-related posts.

A journey in books, life, and learning. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name sake.

Skulk through the years, waiting for a great life to build itself for them. Perhaps they imagine that a brilliant business idea will strike, or great wealth will befall them; perhaps they imagine a beautiful spouse may appear, or their boss will offer a lucrative promotion. I would ask you to stop at this moment, and look around. What do you see around you? .

Hidden Letters, Part 6. Strong and proud, I hold up the drapery. That keeps the elements out of your room. For a hint towards your next step,. Please check the hollow at my side. Hidden Letters, Part 5. The gardener told me a little about the family who lived here before me. Squeaking, I move back and forth. While staying in the same place,.

These creepy creations are simple enough that kiddos can join in on the fun! Looking to add quick Halloween decor? Swap out photos with these printables.

Struggling life pale in pink. I am not sure if the structure has given me a better ability when I am expressive. One would assume it has. But the expression does not seem to benefit the structured approach. What is most beneficial to improved skill is time. This week, Brett Myers.

Picture it and Write Publications. Picture it and Write! Asymp; 16 Comments. Picture it and Write is a weekly creative writing prompt.

Have a suitcase heart; be ready to travel. My ribs move out, my chest expands. This is the tide of my breath. Waves crashing up the beach and sweeping back. The rattle of pebbles in the current. This is the tide of my death. Stranded in that bed, I dream of beaches. When beeping machines drown everything out. I meditate on sand and summer and you. And just as the tide is moved by the moon.