Tell Me a Story Podcast: Recent Episodes
Gail Berry Kremer
Tell me a story features live readings of short stories, episodic fiction, poems, and other fiction for kids of all ages. tellmeastory.substack.com
Memories is a song that tells a story.
Memories lyrics
MemoriesThe smell of her hairThe sight of her smileThe feel of her thighsThe taste of her lipsThe sound of her sighs
Bangin’ the drum slowlyBetween the sheets actionBoink boink boinkBoo thang thatClappin’ cheeksFoolin’ aroundFuggin lovinGettin’ busyGettin’ luckyHanky pankyDancin’ the light fandangoDoin’ the hokey-pokeyHome run derbyHookin’ up on the slyHorizontal tangoHubba hubbaIn sync all the wayJumpin’ bonesKissipoo actionKnockin’ bootsGet to know her, know herC’mon, baby, light my fireMating calls again and againPaint it black, paint it blackRinging the ding-a-lingsSex sells, sells, sellsTickling the ivories
MemoriesThe smell of her hairThe sight of her smileThe feel of her thighsThe taste of her lipsThe sound of her sighs
MemoriesThe smell of her hairThe sight of her smileThe feel of her thighsThe taste of her lipsThe sound of her sighs
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Enjoy this song adapted from Walt Whitman’s great poem Song of Myself from his book, Leaves of Grass.
The Origin of All Songs Lyrics
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,And what I assume you shall assume,For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loaf and invite my soul,I lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air,Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,Nature without check with original energy.
Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? have you reckoned the earth much?Have you practiced so long to learn to read?Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
Stop this day and night with meand you shall possess the origin of all songs,You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.
Stop this day and night with meand you shall possess the origin of all songs,You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Enjoy this country ballad inspired by one line in The Marshalls television series from earlier this evening.
Fresh Air Is Suffocating lyrics
The morning breaks like a pane of jagged glassAcross the green green lawns where shadows passI open the window just to feel the stingOf every polite and empty little thingThe garden is a riot of organized bloomWhile I’m pacing circles in a shattered room
They say the sky is an open invitationBut it feels like a heavy hand of obligationThe sweetness of the pine is a bitter pillThe world moves forward while I stand stillThere is weight in the purity of the lightThat pushes down hard and keeps my throat tight
Fresh air is suffocating for a soul like mineI’m drowning in the glare of the sunshineGive me the grit, the soot of a broken streetWhere the truth and the asphalt always meetI can’t find my breath where the air is clearSilence is the only sound I fear
The neighbors are waving from far awayBuilding a stage for another hollow dayI’d rather be lost in a tunnel of smokeThan laughing along at a well-rehearsed jokeThe oxygen is thin when the heart is in doubtI’m looking for a way to let the sparkle out
Fresh air is suffocating for a soul like mineI’m drowning in the glare of the sunshineGive me the grit, the soot of a broken streetWhere the truth and the asphalt always meetI can’t find my breath where the air is clearSilence is the only sound I fear
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
This country ballad, What Is the Grass?, is excerpted from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.
What Is the Grass? lyrics
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,Growing among black folks as among white,Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,And here you are the mothers’ laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,Darker than the colorless beards of old men,Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Enjoy a fun happy children’s song featuring rhyming stories.
Hey Diddle Diddle Lyrics
Hey diddle diddle,The cat and the fiddle,The cow jumped over the moon;The little dog laughedTo see such craft,And the dish ran away with the spoon.
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John,Went to bed with his trousers on,One shoe off, and one shoe on,Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John.
Diddlty, diddlty, dumpty,The cat ran up the plum tree,Give her a plum,And down she’ll come,Diddlty, diddlty, dumpty.
Hey diddle diddle,The cat and the fiddle,The cow jumped over the moon;The little dog laughedTo see such craft,And the dish ran away with the spoon.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Check out this children’s song featuring This Little Piggy Went to Market.
This Little Piggy Went to Market Lyrics
This little piggy went to marketThis little piggy stayed at homeThis little piggy had roast beefThis little piggy had noneAnd this little piggy went “Wee, Wee, Wee”All the way back home!
This little piggy went to marketThis little piggy stayed at homeThis little piggy had roast beefThis little piggy had noneAnd this little piggy went “Wee, Wee, Wee”All the way back home!
This little piggy went to marketThis little piggy stayed at homeThis little piggy had roast beefThis little piggy had noneAnd this little piggy went “Wee, Wee, Wee”All the way back home!
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
The lyrics for this song are based on this short excerpt from an article in Arizona Highways magazine: The house isn’t all straight corners, and it’s a little hard to keep clean. But this is just home. Just natural. When it leaks, it leaks; then I just patch everything right back up. — Michael Kotutwa Johnson
His short comment reminds me of the homes in Minnesota where I grew up. One had a root cellar only accessible when we lifted the living room carpet. The house had been built from a one-room cabin with rooms added over the years.
Another home had a deep hole in the basement for coal or wood to fire the previous furnace. I was often afraid to go near that hole, thinking I might fall in and never hit bottom. There were many things to love about both those homes.
My Home Lyrics
The frame is leaning to the westA crooked line across the floorI gave up trying for the bestAnd settled for the open doorThe angles never meet just rightThe carpenter was likely blindBut in the fading golden lightIt’s just the place I had in mind
But this is just the way it goesThe only shelter that I knowIt’s a natural thing to lose your wayWithin the walls of yesterdayNo polished stone or marble hallCould ever hold me like this wallIt’s bent and broken, gray and oldBut it’s the only truth I hold
The clouds begin to gather thickThe tin roof starts its hollow songThe rain is coming fast and quickTo reveal where the joints are wrongA steady drip upon the bedA puddle forming by the chairI pull the hat down on my headAnd find a bucket sitting there
I’ll find a hammer and a nailI’ll find a piece of scrap and glueAgainst the thunder and the galeI’ll make the rotten wood feel newI patch the holes to stop the floodUntil the sky turns blue againIt’s in my bones and in my bloodTo fix the places where I’ve been
But this is just the way it goesThe only shelter that I knowIt’s a natural thing to lose your wayWithin the walls of yesterdayNo polished stone or marble hallCould ever hold me like this wallIt’s bent and broken, gray and oldBut it’s the only truth I hold
But this is just the way it goesThe only shelter that I knowIt’s a natural thing to lose your wayWithin the walls of yesterdayNo polished stone or marble hallCould ever hold me like this wallIt’s bent and broken, gray and oldBut it’s the only truth I hold
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Celebrate Valentine’s Day with a country song about love. This song is taken from Saint Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, 13:1-13.
Valentine Love Song Lyrics
Love suffers long, and is kindLove envies notLove causes not a stirLove is not puffed upLove does not behave unseemlyLove seeks not its ownLove is not easily provokedLove thinks no evil
Love does not rejoice in iniquityLove rejoices in the truthLove bears all thingsLove believes all thingsLove hopes all thingsLove endures all things
Love never failsWhere there are prophecies, they shall failWhere there are tongues, they shall ceaseWhere there is knowledge, it shall vanish
For we know in part, and we prophesy in partWhen the perfect comes, the part falls awayWhen I was a childI spoke as a childI understood as a childI thought as a childWhen I became a manI put away childish things
Now we see through a glass darklyBut then face to faceNow I know in partThen I will know as I am known
Now abides faith, hope, love — these threeBut the greatest of these is love
Love bears all thingsLove believes all thingsLove hopes all thingsLove endures all things
There are three: faith, hope, and loveThe greatest of these is love
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
An excerpt from the December issue of the Anecdotally newsletter
We’re not visiting the elite tonight. We’re visiting everyday people. Because every one of them has a story.
They moved through the cemetery, stopping at the graves of ordinary men and women— people history would mostly overlook. At each stop, there was a moment that connected. A choice someone made. A hardship they endured. A small act that mattered.
By the end of the walk, the message was clear. You don’t have to be extraordinary to be great. … The stories that land most powerfully aren’t epic. They’re human. They come from small, specific moments that carry a bit of truth or wisdom.
From this excerpt, I created the following lyrics (and the song above).
Ordinary Men, Ordinary Women Lyrics
The moon hangs low above the street tonight,No velvet ropes, no golden light,Just whispers in the shadows, soft and deep,Where ordinary hearts lie half asleep.
The graveyard holds markers of broken dreams,No crowns of fame, no grand schemes,Just names carved deep in weathered stone,Each one a world, now left alone.
Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight.
It’s not the epic stories that count.It’s the small stories that mount up,Human stories that speak so true.Human stories that so few knew.
The janitor hums a tune so old,The waitress counts her tips in copper gold,The barber sighs with scissors in hand,All creating farewells no one planned.
Ordinary men. Ordinary women.And all the stories that might have been.A hard choice someone once made.A sadness that will never fade.
Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight.
Ordinary men. Ordinary women.And all the stories that might have been.A hard choice someone once made.A sadness that will never fade.
Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight.
Inspired by the Anecdotally Newsletter edited by Mark Schenk: https://www.anecdote.com/newsletter.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
If by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you;If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with triumph and disasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I always arise as the horizon reddens. Rays of sunshine bending round the global curvature urge me up for yet another day. A gentle awakening.
So many days now, so many urges. Her voice of choice was cool and refreshing, like the sound of water in a rushing stream.
You will write this down. Now. Awaken and rise.
Crisp and cool the days are now. Must be early fall. No, it is my birthday this week.
I was born during the hot and muggy month of August on the Delaware River. The rapids were still running. As were the trolleys. My mother said she brought me home on one. Five cents.
Ah yes, the days are cooler now, the summer's shorter.
Excerpted from John Graves’s novel Life by Chance.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Isaac spotted two empty seats ahead and tapped John’s shoulder. He didn’t want to miss what would happen in this auditorium today. Two minutes later, his eyes met hers, and Isaac didn’t know why, but it stirred something in him, drawing him closer to her, perhaps an urge to know more. His sense of detachment and high intelligence quickly surfaced, urging him to break eye contact immediately.
And yet he kept staring into those ocean-blue eyes, the swirling whirlpool of emotions hidden in the depths, passion on the ice, and Isaac blinked.
After a few minutes, it was Nancy’s turn, and Isaac’s breath hitched higher unknowingly.
Excerpted from Thrall Conspiracy: Genesis by John Sorflaten
Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes. She hugged me. I liked it.
SnipFeed: https://snipfeed.co/bookmarketing
To support my work with this podcast, please buy me a cup or two of coffee! - https://www.buymeacoffee.com/BookMarketing
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
At boot camp, the sergeant made a new recruit sweep the sunshine off the sidewalks in front of the mess hall.
It took the recruit all day.
This military joke is subtle but likely quite accurate.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Late Thursday night,
after five hours of struggling to breathe
through the titanic gurgle in your throat—
only once squeezing my hand
to let me know you heard me,
you abruptly grasped more resolutely
as one might clutch an arm while fearfully stepping
from raft to boat on turbulent seas
You gripped my hand as if I were a fulcrum
pivoting you from one place to another
And then you opened your eyes,
looked at me, closed your eyes,
and died—
“Oh, sweetheart, you died,”
I cried,
“I can’t believe you died.”
In silence, more profound than the deepest forest,
I lay next to you
my fingers gently running through
the soft silky hair on your belly
until your core was as cold as the rest of you.
Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Find Joy (an excerpt)
Les and I had compiled a quiz of sixty-five questions about our marriage, the years when the kids were home, and old family stories. Riveted, our children wrote fast and furiously, compared notes, and laughed uproariously at every time-worn joke.
The only glitch occurred the second evening. As we were taking pictures in front of the restaurant, Les almost fainted. The boys managed to half drag him across the gaudy flowered carpet to a private dining cove, where I stretched him out on the floor until he had recovered enough to sit up and eat his dinner. He laughed later, “It wasn’t all bad. Our waitress wore a very short skirt.”
Our Big Bash anniversary weekend exceeded all expectations. We put aside what lay behind and refused to ponder what might lie before us.
And we remembered once again that joy and sorrow often occupy the same space.
Excerpted from Abidance: A Memoir of Love and Inevitability by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
When I Think
When I think of all the ways
I’ve tried to say I love you—
When I think of all the things
you do that make me love you—
The quiet times when we are close
the long and raucous passion
the way we glance across the room
and always feel compassion
When I think—
The words flow forth and tumble down
in cascades from my heart
and still do not begin to tell
how we can never part
A love like ours—beyond all words
beyond our hugs and kisses
beyond the days we carry tight
beyond the reminisces
A love like ours will always live
from here to the hereafter
and every eon find anew
our joy, our tears, our laughter
When I think,,,
Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
You planted piñon trees
one spindly maple in too tight
a row
Four children, not as tall as
your new trees, watched with me.
Little did we know
how soon, how tall
that trees and children
grow
Sometimes
we weep that
it is so.
Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
You Cannot Break a Poet's Heart
A poet cannot be broken-hearted
When a dear one dies, she writes a requiem
When a lover is untrue, she writes a sonnet
When the world is cruel, she writes satiric verse
A poet can take all the grief from her heart
(the pain that can swell and break a heart)
and write it in fine black lines on starchy white paper
Oh, no, you cannot break a poet’s heart.
The above poem is one of the first serious poems that 16-year-old Lois wrote many, many years ago.
Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I don't like being the bad guy. No one likes the bad guy. No one wants to spend any time with the bad guy. People hate me.
But I'm very good at being the bad guy. I'm smart. I'm curious. I'm devious. I love twisting people's view of reality, and you can only do that well as a bad guy, as someone who doesn't give a damn, as someone who has such a skewed vision of reality that we don't have to live by someone else's rules. We make our own.
You know, killing is good. It rids the world of the weak. I hate the weak.
I'm not sadistic. I try to do good clean kills. I try to minimize the mess. I really don't want people to hurt. I'm not into pain. I'm more into relieving suffering. And the weak, they do suffer.
I never run out of victims. At least half the world are victims. Stupid people. People that irritate the hell out of me. And it's the hell they get from me. The sooner, the better. On a good day, I eliminate three to four idiots. On a bad day, it's more like ten.
I don't plan my kills. It's a waste of time. Killers don't need to plan. 90% of major crimes are never solved—not like in the movies, not like on TV. It's really law and disorder.
Sure, I keep my prints out of crime scenes, but a bit of hair here or there isn't going catch me.
Three reasons.
One, no one knows me. I'm a nobody. Nobodies can get away with murder. We're on no one's radar. We don't even create a blip.
Two, I never return to the scene of a crime. Very stupid thing to do.
Three, I kill randomly. Very randomly. I don't have a type. I don't repeat myself. Of course, I don't worry if I do repeat some things, but I leave no pattern.
And, if you need a fourth reason, very simple: I don't really care if anyone knows that I did it. I'm without ego. You want people to know? That gets you caught. I just don't care.
I'm a bad guy. And I don't have a name. I neither like nor abhor killing. It's just what I do.
And I do it well, simply because I do it so quickly. No planning. Just response. At the right time. In the right place. No witnesses. Witnesses die. Always.
If you see me, really see me, you die. Just that simple.
Want to know more?
You stupid idiot. You don't want to know more. You don't want to see me.
No one knows me. No one wants to know me.
Consider Mary.
Mary was just a housewife in the wrong place. Running for her health. Dying because she saw me. Not so good for her health. Mary was #2 today.
1 was a kid that irritated me. Crying because he was lost in the brush. Stupid kid. But you don't cry with your throat slit. Knives are silent. That's why I like them. And easy to conceal. And cheap. And very generic. Dollar stores have some good ones. I prefer paring knives myself, but I often use butcher knives as well. No pattern. Always something different.
Never stay in the same city for more than three days. Two is better. One is the best.
You can get a lot done in one or two days. Clean the city out a little. Move on.
Small towns are fun, but you can't stay more than a day. You have to be invisible. Small towns have too many eyes. Too many ears. Too many noses. Slip in, slip out. But you can do a day's quota in 30 minutes or less if you know where to go, who to be, what to see, when to leave.
I drive a gray Honda Civic. No one sees those. Always with a state license plate. No stranger. Just invisible.
I need to kill. I'm a bad guy. I love what I do.
I'll be in your city soon.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Louis Koster is a good friend of mine who records his early morning thoughts in the form of a diary, but I think that much of what he writes is like a song, with variations on a theme as if in a mighty quiet chorus. Listen in …
The power and magic of language is that it creates a perceived object of experience. This, in turn, creates the illusion of a false separate self.
Allowing for the totality of what arises
The arising of thoughts is a gigantic moving mirror that constantly gives me an experience of myself as a person.
The perceived object creates the experience of a subject.
The power and magic of language is that it creates a perceived object of experience. This, in turn, creates the illusion of a false separate self.
I relate to my thoughts and the experience they create as if there is something external to me to experience.
The dual nature of experience is created by language and until I see the inauthenticity of this creation, I will never be free and know myself as my true nature.
There is no separate self.
Allowing for the totality of what arises
I relate to my thoughts and the experience they create as if there is something external to me to experience.
This illusion gives rise to the dual nature of my experience and the illusion that there is a separate self that is having the experience.
The dual nature of experience is created by language and until I see the inauthenticity of this creation, I will never be free and know myself as our my true nature.
The arising casts an imaginary object of experience in my consciousness thereby arresting my attention in an illusionary separate self that has the experience.
The dual nature of language is purely imaginary and has no ground in reality.
There is no separate self.
Allowing for the arising exactly as it is, interrupts the arising casting the illusion of an object of experience in my consciousness.
There is no external world. I am dealing with the mind creating the illusion of duality.
Allowing for the totality of what arises
Allowing for the arising exactly as it is, interrupts the arising casting the illusion of an object of experience in my consciousness.
Allowing for the arising exactly as it is, interrupts the arising casting the illusion of the perceived in my consciousness. Thereby denying language creating the illusion of a perceiver.
There is no external world. I am dealing with the mind creating the illusion of duality.
When what arises is stripped from its dual nature, what remains is the changeless reality of being.
I literally fall into being.
Allowing for the totality of what arises
There is no external world. I am dealing with the mind creating the illusion of duality.
When what arises is stripped from its dual nature, what remains is the changeless reality of being.
I literally fall into being.
I fall into being when…
I become aware of the limitation experience puts on my sense of the possible.
Any experience the mind creates in my consciousness sets limits to my sense of the possible.
I am clear that there is nothing in the arising that can either make me happy or unhappy.
I am clear that there is nothing to get in pursuing an experience created by imagination.
Desirelessness has come into its own.
There is nothing that I identify with.
When there is nothing to identify with, what erupts is the sense of being.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Money can’t buy happiness.
But it can buy dairy cows.
And cows can make milk and cream.
And milk and cream can be made into ice cream.
And ice cream can make you happy.
The end.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please become a free or paid subscriber.
Or just buy me a cup of coffee! - https://www.buymeacoffee.com/BookMarketing
Or become my patron for all good things - https://www.patreon.com/bookmarketing
Or follow me on …
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/johnfrederickkremer
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/johnkremer
TikTok: https://tiktok.com/@bookmarketing
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
When my alumni magazine, Macalester Today, asked the question, What student organization did you love at Macalester?, I answered the question in this way:
I loved JAHB (Jock Against Hippie Bums). It was an official student organization that I founded where everyone who joined got to pick an official role. Everyone was an officer of the club.
We had a constitution for the organization with a preamble, a midamble, and a postamble.
Over 500 students signed up to be officers in the club.
The only thing the club sponsored was a high noon shootout in front of the student union and a great rock 'n roll dance in the union.
The shootout featured 3 bad guys (I was one) against one good guy with the theme for The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly playing in the background. At high noon. In the middle of campus. No one knowing what was going on. The bad guys won.
As for the dance, I won the twist contest—but only because the girl I was dancing with was both beautiful and a good dancer.
So, ask yourself, what was the student organization or club or activity at your college that you loved? Why?
You can tell your story in the comments below! The best stories I will share in future Tell Me a Story podcast episodes.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Here is an incredible version of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly theme song performed by the Danish National Symphony Orchestra, showcasing the power of the human voice as an instrument.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Hi, this is Janine Bolon. John has given me the singular honor to share with you a story. It is out of my book, Seeking the Divine: An Intimate Journey into the World of Mysticism.
Just to give you a bit of background, I am a shaman and a healer where I have been able to work with multiple Native American tribes.
This story is from chapter 15 of Seeking the Divine. It's called White Buffalo Calf Woman. That afternoon, I called Thunderhorse. He had just returned from a sweat lodge up in the mountains of northern Utah.
I told him about my recent vision of a woman of white light, and how she had gifted me with a buffalo horn. He was quiet for so long that I asked, “Hello, are you there?”
His reply was measured and calm. Still, I knew that this particular vision carried great significance for him.
“You have met White Buffalo Calf Woman. We call her Cuilcagh.” Thunderhorse then started telling me the significance of her presence to his people. The Lakota, Dakota and Sioux tribes also had strong ties with this particular figure. He asked me if she said anything?
“No,” I said, “But she gifted me with the horn and a part of me felt like something had changed in my brain, as if I was getting a whole new set of instructions.”
I then told him of my meditation, and Yogananda giving me his blessing. He was touched that my gurus statement was: Go help my Western brothers.
This was the beginning of a three month routine of conversations between us. I would meditate every morning upon waking as I had done for 16 years. Then I would receive visions; I would see, hear, or feel certain experiences. Then I would immediately call Thunderhorse to get feedback about what I was seeing, including what the symbols meant and how his tribe interpreted the shamanistic experiences I was having.
I was spending upwards of three or four hours a day in meditation or on phone calls with numerous shamans. There were times I would receive a complex mix of symbols or beings, and Thunderhorse would give me a phone number to a different person.
After three months of this, I had contacted over 15 different Native American nations, and had been in intimate touch with their shamans. Without planning it, I ended up learning from all of these shamans about travelling dreams, or what they call journeys.
Each day, one of them would guide me into the spirit world and show me how the mystics of old would stay in touch with one another, and what it meant to be a shapeshifter, Shadow Walker, and dream weaver.
Each one ended up telling me the legends and story of their tribes. As I described my visions and the stories and symbols that were being shown to me, each shaman would decipher the meanings of these symbols and share with me their most sacred teachings.
It didn't take long for me to realize that I had some outdated concepts in my head about the world of Native Americans. The more I learned from them, worked with them and adopted by them, the more I saw the heterogeneity of their belief structures, symbols and intertribal prejudices.
I'd always heard the terms Indians and Native Americans and First Nations as referring to a unified population. This was quite wrong. As with the Japanese, the Bahamians, and the Spanish that I had been raised around, the Native Americans had a diverse population and structure.
During my discussions and intertribal work, I would soon learn that the sacred animal to one tribe could be a bad omen for another. One bird would be worshipped as a divine messenger by a southern tribe from the Yucatan, and was seen as a flying pest by a Canadian tribe. I learned quickly to adjust and keep a very open mind toward the bliss of different tribes that I was being called upon to serve.
Even the legends and stories of White Buffalo Calf Woman were mixed and varied. I soon learned that she was considered the origin of the peace pipe to some tribes, whereas to others, she was the destroyer of egos. One legend had her vaporizing a young warrior to dusk because she wanted to. He wanted to take her as a wife, while his friend looked on. Their friend immediately bowed to the power of White Buffalo Calf Woman, and she honored him with gifts of wisdom and long life.
I gathered story after story after story. It soon became clear that the many experiences and teachings were building a foundation for what I had no idea. White Buffalo Calf Woman had come to me to herald a new phase of learning, and to bring an old concept into the modern realm. She was teaching me the legends she had been known by and was using my scientific training to show how quantum mechanics related to shamanistic travel and healing. She was ready for me to bring an ancient knowledge into the modern world in a way that would provide comfort and peace to individuals that were drawn to the forms of shamanism, though not to the highly structured approach of specific religions.
But I digress. It is now time for me to meet the tribe. This is Janine Boland saying thank you for listening to my story. And I wish you much success in life.
if you should ever wish to connect with me you can find me on LinkedIn or go to my website: https://www.thepracticalmystics.com. See you soon.
The Divine Trilogy by Janine Bolon
Seeking the Divine: An Intimate Journey into the World of Mysticism (2017): https://amzn.to/3vbhK19.
Finding the Divine: A Glimpse into the Realm of God (2019): https://amzn.to/3kdoWDy.
Expressing the Divine: A Guidebook for the Enlightened Soul (2021): https://amzn.to/3k9QhGN.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
The Sound of Silence is one of Paul Simon’s most powerful songs, both the words and the music. It started as a ballad, but I love the powerful version recorded by Disturbed, where the song becomes more than a simple ballad, almost an anthem.
Paul Simon is clearly one of our greatest contemporary poets. His other songs like The Boxer, Homeward Bound, and Bridge Over Troubled Waters are also incredibly powerful poems and tunes.
The Sound of Silence
Hello, darkness, my old friendI've come to talk with you againBecause a vision softly creepingLeft its seeds while I was sleepingAnd the vision that was planted in my brainStill remainsWithin the sound of silence.In restless dreams I walked aloneNarrow streets of cobblestone'Neath the halo of a streetlampI turned my collar to the cold and dampWhen my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon lightThat split the nightAnd touched the sound of silence.And in the naked light I sawTen thousand people, maybe morePeople talking without speakingPeople hearing without listeningPeople writing songs that voices never shareNo one daredDisturb the sound of silence."Fools," said I, "You do not know.Silence like a cancer grows.Hear my words that I might teach you.Take my arms that I might reach you."But my words like silent raindrops fellAnd echoed in the wells of silence.And the people bowed and prayedTo the neon god they madeAnd the sign flashed out its warningIn the words that it was formingAnd the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway wallsAnd tenement hallsAnd whispered in the sounds of silence.”
I liked the original version of this song by Simon and Garfunkel, but I think the most powerful version of The Sound of Silence was performed by Disturbed on the Conan TV show. Check it out here:
And here’s another great version by Ruhan Du Toit:
And here’s my playlist of 19 versions of The Sound of Silence by Paul Simon:
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
None of us are getting out of here alive, so please stop treating yourself like an afterthought.
Eat the delicious food.
Walk in the sunshine.
Jump in the ocean.
Say the truth that you’re carrying in your heart like hidden treasure.
Be silly.
Be kind.
Be weird.
There’s no time for anything else.
— Anthony Hopkins, actor
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
This is a great little story of how Shaahin Cheyene built his business making and selling legal drugs. You can find the complete story in the Dropping Bombs video below.
I think there are things to learn from Shaahin about persistence, audacity, integrity, authenticity, and influence. That’s why I shared his interview and quotes. Plus, of course, he’s a great storyteller. He loves telling stories from his own experience.
Here are a few of Shaahin’s quotable insights featured in the above video showcasing Brad Lea of Dropping Bombs interviewing Shaahin Cheyene.
People can sense a natural hunger for success. — Shaahin Cheyene
Once I set my mind to something, nobody can tell me no. — Shaahin Cheyene
I was motivated to put my own dent in the universe. — Shaahin Cheyene
The more you think about the negative stuff, the more it will be affirmed. — Shaahin Cheyene
If you’re not focused on making your money now, someone else is. — Shaahin Cheyene
Riches are in the niches. — Shaahin Cheyene
At the end of the day, it all comes down to two things: Authenticity and Influence. — Shaahin Cheyene
If you can learn how to influence people, you will never go hungry. — Shaahin Cheyene
I've never been one to chase money. You chase excellence, not money. — Shaahin Cheyene
In Cheyene’s Amazon Mastery, Amazon FBA Seller Course, he helps individuals and business owners to create predictable recurring revenue with his bulletproof Amazon systems that never fail, putting you ahead of 80% of all Amazon sellers.
Find out more about his course here: https://fbasellercourse.com.
Find out more about Shaahin’s book Billion: How I Became the King of the Thrill Pill Cult by clicking here: https://amzn.to/3D88Iod.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Questions to Ask
Who am I?What is real?What is true?Does it really matter?
Toss anything that isn't real.Toss anything that isn't true.Toss anything that doesn't matter.Toss anything that isn't you.
Keep tossinguntil you are leftonly with that which is trueonly with that which is realonly with that which is youonly with that which really matters.
Toss this.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a paid supporter.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Peel the Layers
Peel the layers. Skin me dead.Who am I?What layers? What layers?Skin and boneHair and nervesMuscle and shameFear and loathingBeing and nothingness.
Hackles and shackles.Words.Letters.Points.Danger.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a paid supporter.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
The Trick
The whole thing's a tricka marvelous moving mystery,a play upon words.
I make my life —not only my lifebut also the entire universethe whole thingabsolutely everything.
I flick my fingerand the universe shakes.
I close my eyesand the whole thing disappears.
I speakand all comes out again.
I thinkand what I think is done.
I amand what I amis all there is to be.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
So Still a Move
The entire universe is simply innocent.And soft.And caressable.
If we should see evil, it is in us.The universe will have none of it.
If we should see chaos and entropy, we are responsible.The universe knows no decay.
If we should see death, it is only our own.The universe stands for eternity.
There is so much eternity,how can we begin to grasp it?And yet we can.We can hold it in our arms,not in any external caress,but in an internal flowing of life.
It makes so soft and still a movewe hardly know it's there.
The entire universe is innocent.And soft, like a never-ending cloud of light.And caressable, like a bubble.
Bubble, bubble.
Join an expedition: Hitch your wagon to a star.
An entire universe awaits.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
The Rose
A rose is just a bit of frozen sunlightand a little carbon dioxide.
But, truly, I lie, for the rose is not a static thing,not at all frozen, not at all solid.
See, rather, how the sunlight courses through its veins,dancing and sparklingnot only upon the surface of the petalbut also down deep in the very core of the stemthrilling the rose, sending shivers of delight up and down,scattering like little children upon the steps of a great cathedral,in every direction, all and at once,now here, now there,maintaining in this incessant flow the illusionof something solid and sure —but, I tell you ...
In every touch there is war.
And something more. And something more.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
The Invention
We wish, all of us, to exceed our own inventionsto create and then to go beyond that creation,to enter into it and make it live,breathing life into the lifeless,stirring the immovable.
We fail, but we continue.
We invent machine after machine,each exceeding the next,becoming more refined,more capable,more effective.
And still we build, paint dance sing writeagain and again,ever aiming to excel.
The direction is obvious:We wish to build the perfect machine.
We are aiming for ourselves.
Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
One Simple Prayer
All it takes to release negativityis one simple prayer.
Say that prayer.
Thank you for reading Tell Me a Story Podcast. This post is public so feel free to share it.
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
On Seeing the Sentient Flying Flowers of Pegasus II for the First Time
A yel-low flower fellinto my handandwhen I touched itI crushed it
This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I know how it feels to grow old.The time and the temperature never relate.It's always too cold.And it's always too late.Thank you for reading Tell Me a Story Podcast. This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Laurie Weiss and her husband went to dinner with old friends after a day at a professional conference in Montreal. Their friends picked a Mexican restaurant which was supposed to be quiet and pleasant.Now, Laurie is a highly sensitive person whose body rejects highly spiced food and loud noises, so the evening did not go well. Waiters kept promising food Laurie could eat but delivering food that made her mouth burn and induced violent coughing. As they sat there, several very loud families arrived and the mariachis began to play trumpets! Can you imagine how stressed Laurie felt?Laurie excused herself while her husband paid the bill. She went outside into a beautiful quiet evening to calm herself down. She did some breathing exercises and tapping so she thought she was fine. Then the friend came out and asked her if she was okay. She told him, truthfully, that she was. He asked her to describe what happened, and she did her best to explain how her body had become extremely tense.He asked if she would try something new and had her repeat some words she barely understood. Suddenly she experienced a whole new level of deep relaxation of the remaining tension that she had not even been aware of before. She was stunned! She asked what he had done, and he told her he had used a new European technique called Logosynthesis.Since that encounter in 2010, Laurie's life-long stress reaction to noise simply disappeared. Another change is that after her first training weekend, which she had been reluctant to schedule because of her stress reaction to the intense overstimulation of airplane travel, she flew home and simply forgot to be stressed. She has been able to travel on airplanes without any particular reaction ever since. Sadly, she still can't manage spicy food.After several years of study and supervision Laurie and her husband have become the first and (as of 2016) only certified practitioners and basic trainers of Logosynthesis in the United States.Excerpted from Letting It Go: Relieve Anxiety and Toxic Stress in Just a Few Minutes Using Only Words (Rapid Relief with Logosynthesis®) by Laurie WeissAmazon: http://www.BooksbyLaurie.com/goWebsite: http://www.LaurieWeiss.comTell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
The following podcast is excerpted from an article written by Steven Schlozman of Storytellers of New Mexico:Stories matter.That's not just an opinion. That's not an axiom or a homily or a saying or even a pithy bumper sticker slogan. That's a genuine biological imperative. There's a reason we've been trading stories with each other since the time when we could trade anything at all. Our stories—those we share over dinner, the narratives we put down on paper, the arcs in movies and plays we scrutinize—these stories literally keep us whole.Stories are our brains' opposable thumbs. Without stories, we could not grasp the importance of an idea. We could not empathize with a friend. We'd even have trouble making plans for our future. If we ignore the importance of stories, then we ignore ourselves.Storytelling is at the very core of our identities. As is often the case with fictional narratives, the truth of what we say comes not from the facts of the stories themselves, but from the feelings that these facts engender. …If all we had were what the historians dryly tell us, can you imagine ever venturing anywhere new? Would we have ever gone to the moon if all we knew were the barest of facts? This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Here is a short story that originally appeared in Rhoda Yee's 1975 cookbook, Chinese Village Cookbook.Dinner was eaten early in the village, usually around four-thirty or five, and bedtime was around seven or a little later in summer.Often families would sit out in front of their houses and visit with neighbors. My grandmother was a marvelous storyteller, and we kids used to sit by the hour listening to some of her hair-raising ghost stories.Her stories were made even more scary when the night was dark, the only other sounds were cricket songs and frog mating calls, and the only lights were faint glimmers from dancing fireflies.The women liked to get together and cook, sew, quilt, or embroider. But, best of all, they love to play mah jong, a form of gin rummy using carved ivory tiles instead of cards. The men, too, enjoyed mah jong, but they preferred fan tan, a game similar to dominoes. They'd often get together at the one and only general store in the village for their bull sessions.We kids didn't have any ready-made toys to play with. They all were hand made. For instance, the girls would use two ends of burned incense sticks to make a cross. We'd pretend it was a doll, and we'd cut out scraps from leftover fabrics to make tops and trousers for our dolls.Another popular homemade toy was the swallow, made with three chicken wing feathers tied together. We'd stick the feathers through the centers of small stacks of tissue paper cut into 1-inch round circles. The bottom was weighted with a coin. The idea of the game was to kick the swallow with the inside of one's foot as many times as possible without having it land on the ground. Some kids were so accomplished, they could keep it going 100 times or more! When we became more advanced, we'd try different kinds of kicks or switching kicks between the left and right feet.Many of the games we played were similar to the ones kids play in the U.S. We'd often go into the hills to hunt tigers and pick wild berries, or we'd go to the rice paddies and catch field mice and water snakes. Like kids everywhere, we were mischievous little devils.Thank you for reading Tell Me a Story Podcast. This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. Get access to private episodes at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Here's a lesson on gratitude, relationships, and love as told by George Strait in his #1 song, I Hate Everything:He was sitting there beside me throwing doubles down.When he ordered up his third one, he looked around.Then he looked at me.Said I do believeI'll have one more.He said I hate this bar and I hate to drink,But on second thought tonight I thinkI hate everything.Then he opened up his billfold and threw a $20 down,And a faded photograph fell out and hit the ground.And I picked it up.He said thank you, bud.I put it in his hand.He said I probably ought to throw this one away'Cause she's the reason I feel this way.I hate everything.I hate my job. And I hate my life.And if it weren't for my two kids, I'd hate my ex-wife.I know I should move on and try to start again,But I just can't get over her leaving me for him.Then he shook his head and looked down at his ringSaid I hate everything.He said that one bedroom apartment where I get my mail,Is really not a home. It's more like a jail.With a swimming poolAnd a parking lot view,Man, that's just great.I hate summer, winter, fall and springRed and yellow, purple, blue and green.I hate everything.I hate my job. And I hate my life.And if it weren't for my two kids, I'd hate my ex-wife.I know I should move on and try to start again,But I just can't get over her leaving me for him.Then he shook his head and looked down at his ringSaid I hate everything.So I pulled out my phoneand I called my house.I said, Babe, I'm comin' home.We're gonna work this out.I paid for his drinks,And I told him thanks.Thanks for everything. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Let us pray.Today we pray for all the people who have died and who will die from the violence and terror now taking place in Afghanistan.We pray for the women who have been beaten, raped, disfigured, or killed in Afghanistan.We pray for the American soldiers who have given their lives or limbs in the service of a greater good.We pray for the Afghans who are being killed or terrorized by the Taliban rule.We pray for all the people at the Kabul airport. We pray that they get home safely.We pray for all the stranded Americans who may end up dead or as hostages to a cruel regime.We pray for the American leaders who have made so many mistakes during this time.We pray for the souls and lives of the victims of Taliban terror, killings, and misrule.God bless all of them. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Let us pray.Today we pray for the Taliban in Afghanistan. They think they've won a great victory, but that victory is only of this world.They have not won the true victory of life.We pray the Taliban discover the true victory.We pray they discover the true life.We pray that the world is stronger, more beautiful, more true, more peaceful when they do. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
It's not a dog, if it can fit inside another dog's mouth!It's not a dog, if it can be accidentally vacuumed up.It's not a dog, if it can be killed by a cat.It's not a dog, if it can be carried off by a medium-sized pigeon.It's not a dog, if it can be out-wrestled by a rat. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
When I walked into our living room, I discovered that our expensive paisley sofa pillow was in shreds.I asked our teenage son whether he knew which of our cats was responsible."It was Sammy," he replied."How do you know?" I asked in return."I watched him," he said.And that was enough. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
In the beginning, West Point: A Novel shadows new Cadet John Paul (Jake) Jacobs on his first day of Beast Barracks. Educational perhaps to the reader, but a mind-stunning indoctrination for those that have been chosen to be a cadet at the United States Military Academy at West Point. The following excerpt is a precursor of the adventure to unfold."What the hell is this, Lamont?" the table commandant said, staring at the apple pie in disbelief. "Eyes up here. All you, smacks, look at this!"The new cadets reluctantly looked to the head of the table as the old cadet held the pie at an angle for them to see. There may have been ten pieces. But then again, there might have been more, or less. One piece was the size of a full third and others were cut so thin they would not make for a single bite. "I'm not believing this, Lamont! This is pitiful! Fix it!"The pie was shuffled back down the table toward Lamont, handled by the new cadets along the way as though it were a live grenade. Everyone at the table had the same thought. How does one recut an already cut pie? The question was terrifying because it was apparent that the table commandant fully expected the pie to be fixed. The beads of sweat were no longer confined to the back of Lamont's neck. The pressure. His face suddenly glistened as though he had just walked in from a heavy rain."Well, fix it, Lamont!" the demon-possessed old cadet shouted.Following two or three minutes of silence at the table with all three upperclassmen staring at Lamont, as he in turn, helplessly stared at the pie in front of him while praying for a miracle, Cantrell said, "Mister Jacobs!""Yes, sir!" Jake replied, wondering what this God-awful dilemma had to do with him."Since you claim to be the most handsome among your classmates, and since you are from Texas, I'm sure you'll have no problem helping your classmate. Take the pie from Mister Lamont. You fix it!"Jake hesitated. Lamont's fear was contagious. After a moment, he took the pie and placed it next to his plate as ordered. A reasonable solution to the problem seemed to escape him because of the distracting thought of wanting to reach out with both hands and strangle Lamont."Well, Jacobs," Cantrell said. "We're waiting. Surely a Texan can do something as simple as fix a broken pie."Without a moment's hesitation, Jake picked up his spoon, and viciously attacked the pie. He decimated it into a thousand tiny pieces and vented his anger at Cantrell's flippant insults toward the State of Texas. As he slashed at the pie with wild swings, bits and pieces took to the air and splattered both Patrick and Lamont.In less than ten seconds, Jake dropped the spoon with a loud clatter, picked up the pie in both hands, and announced in a military manner, "Sir! Apple cobbler to the head of the table for inspection, please sir!"Silence followed for a full minute. All three of the upperclassmen sat stunned, mouths slightly open, eyes staring at Jake in disbelief as he sat with the recently acquired cobbler extended in front of him.Upperclassmen at adjacent tables had heard the pie problem as it developed and its solution. They now came over to the table with the same unbelieving stare. In that silent minute, the table was surrounded by upperclassmen who came to get a closer look at the bold before June plebe and to see how Cadet Captain Jonathan Scott, the company commander of the 7th New Cadet Company, was going to handle the situation. Or, possibly, to try to prevent the murder of a new cadet in front of so many witnesses.Without moving the pie, or his eyes, Jake was very much aware of the mob gathering. A single bead of sweat slowly rolled down his back, an excruciating sensation adding misery to an already hopeless situation.Find out more about this wonderful novel here: https://jmpattonauthor.com. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I have two minutes in my pocket to spare.If you have need of them for me to share.They have no rhythm, but they do have rhymeThese two minutes of universal time.I have them to spareIf you need me to share.Just say God Bless You to someone nearby.The minutes will be yours to try.Don't worry about exhausting this supply.The minutes replenish on the fly!I have two minutes in my pocket to spare.If you have need of them for me to share. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Here's a little M&M's humor to lighten your day.I just dumped a pack of M&M's into my mask at work and am slowly eating them like a horse. I love the pandemic!More M&M's humor. Which is your favorite joke?Q. How can you tell that a Swede has been baking chocolate chip cookies? A. There are M&M shells all over the counter.Q. Why do Americans hate M&M's? A. They're too hard to peel.M&M's are cheaper than therapy. And you don't need an appointment!In Heaven, M&M's have no calories and are served as the main course.My therapist told me the way to achieve inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I've finished two bags of M&M's and a chocolate cake. I feel better already.Yo momma is so stupid. She tried to put M&M's in alphabetical order.The only thing better than a friend is a friend with a bag of M&M's she wants to share.What is the meaning of life? All evidence to date suggest it's M&M's.Save this planet! It's the only one with M&M's.M&M's are made from cocoa, which is a tree. A tree is a plant. That makes M&M's a salad!I'd give up M&M's, but I'm not a quitter.Which of the above jokes did you like best? Do you have a favorite? Is there one that had you rolling in the aisles? Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Earlier this year, police were called to the scene of a dispute between a woman and a man who was selling a secret formula elixir that he claimed gave eternal youth. As a result of the dispute, the man was arrested.It was the sixth time he'd been arrested for promoting a medical fraud.The fact is the man had previously been arrested in 1789, 1842, 1885, 1923, and 1986. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
If you love something, set it free.If it comes back, it was, and always will be, yours.If it never returns, it was never yours to begin with.If it just sits in your living room,messes up your stuff,eats your food,uses your telephone,takes your money,and never behaves as if you actually set it free in the first place,you either married it or gave birth to it!— Anonymous on the Internet Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
"What time is it, Grandfather? Nap time? Play time?" teased the little boy."I will give you an answer that you won't understand, but maybe you'll remember," the old man said as he pulled the little boy onto his lap."All right," said the boy."When I was your age, time stretched out before me—it was forever. There was time for everything. But I couldn't wait to grow up. Then, when I grew up, time was never enough for all I had to do. And it fell away and disappeared. I was always running. Now, I am an old man, and time is short. It stretches out behind me. I can't run any more. But finally I know, I really do know. Time is forever." Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Never doubt what one prayer can do.Say your prayer today.Even just one prayer can change your lifeor the life of your loved onesor the life of a stranger.Or the life of the world.Your choice.Your prayer. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
The InventionWe wish, all of us, to exceed our own inventionsto create and then to go beyond that creation,to enter into it and make it live,breathing life into the lifeless,stirring the immovable.We fail, but we continue.We invent machine after machine,each exceeding the next,becoming more refined,more capable,more effective.And still we build, paint dance sing writeagain and again,ever aiming to excel.The direction is obvious:We wish to build the perfect machine.We are aiming for ourselves. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes. "Only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not."Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.""I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue."He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores."How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "You have never seen one.""Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children. And the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her."Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer."It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows. "She has no money and far too many relations." And, indeed, the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. "She has no conversation," he said, "And I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "But I love traveling, and my wife, consequently, should love traveling also.""Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home."You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away.All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."Then he saw the statue on the tall column."I will put up there," he cried. "It is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince."I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep. But just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried. "There is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness."Then another drop fell."What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said. "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw — Ah! what did he see?The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity."Who are you?" he said."I am the Happy Prince.""Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow. "You have quite drenched me.""When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep.""What! Is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud."Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "Far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honor to wear at the next Court ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.""I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.""Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "Will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.""I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "But I will stay with you for one night and be your messenger.""Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "And how wonderful is the power of love!""I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State ball," she answered. "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy."He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber.Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "But I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.""That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand."Tonight I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much.When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried, "I am just starting.""Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "Will you not stay with me one night longer?""I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "Tomorrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.""Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "Far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the director of the theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.""I will wait with you one night longer," said
It is not the things you have that make you happy. It is love and kindness and helping each other and just plain being good. — Laura Ingalls Wilder, novelist Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
My dad is so cheap that when he dies, he's going to walk toward the light and turn it off. — Matin Atrushi, comedian Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
"I have a present for you," she said, "It was given to me by a very special friend."He told me: ‘This is a gift for giving, not for keeping!' I held onto it for quite a few years anyway — afraid of losing things, I guess. But now I want you to have it."You can see it best with your eyes closed — use your imagination — put out your hands, keep them close together, palms up. I'll need a place to set it."It's a wishing box. It has four golden legs about half an inch high, shaped like lion paws," and she touched the places on his palms where the legs were. "The box itself is a 5-inch square made of opaque stained glass of a bluish white color and the stained glass pieces are joined together by gold stripping."The box is locked, and the keyhole in front is like the keyholes in your grandmother's house — the kind you can look through and see what's going on in the room beyond. Do you know the kind?" He nodded."Now, the key doesn't come with the box — you have it. We must find it. My friend said to check first behind the ears," and she looked behind his ears."No, not there. Then my friend said sometimes it's hidden at the crown of the head," she ruffled his hair."No, not there. The next place to check he said was between the eyes.""No," and she shook her head."Sometimes it's hidden in the throat." She gently touched his throat."Not there. The last place it could be is here," she reached out and touched his heart."Yes, I think I feel it, but it's very deep. It will take a few seconds more to reach it. Ah, here it is — a tiny golden key.""Now I'll put it in the keyhole and I'll replace one of your hands with mine to hold the box while you turn the key. Here is the key; can you feel it?" He nodded yes. "Now I'll help you turn it — very gently. Good, I'll lift the lid.""There's nothing inside, of course, because it's a wishing box and you have to put a wish in for something to come out."The rule is that it takes three days for the wish to be fulfilled. Three days in wishing box time could be three minutes or three hours or three days or three weeks or longer in our time."The other rule is that you must give the wishing box away — it's a gift for giving. The secret of this is that as soon as you give it away, another one appears in its place. My friend didn't tell me that part."Now it's yours," and she closed his palms with hers."Merry Christmas, my friend."Gail Berry is also the author of Little Fox and the Golden Hawk and Crazy Horse. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
When the Lord made the world, He created the heavens and the ocean and the dear earth.He created the stars and the sun and the moon.Then He called forth the first creature and said, "You are to guard this world. Where you walk, there will be no pain. Go unicorn."And the unicorn did as he was told. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I had this one certain vision.I was running along side the cars on the freewayrunning even ahead of themgloriously flowing faster than theyfaster than they could possibly gostreaking by them as a photon of lightfaster than light itselfas a blurexceeding even myselfpast the shell.Faster yet, beyond everything,streaking even faster, beyond, beyond.Shaking loose the very fabric of existencebreaking the cordsevering the tietrampling upon its remainsdancing as I ranshaking loose even the final fleeting fragmentsbursting into wild delirium.Beyond delusionbeyond chaosbeyond the static pump-pump of timeinto that which sets the beatmarching only to that drum,slowlywith dignitywith patienceforeverAnd seeming in the other worldto be but a flasha low hum in the winda mere whisperthen gone Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Inside me I've got: world peace, 2 rainbows, light from 4 stars, green stuff, milk, some dog hair, and a raisin. — Gwen Gardner, founder, Simply Chickie clothing Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
"Deep within the forest is the golden tree, the Tree of Life. Let your quest be for that and none other," the old woman advised."Some seek it for its golden leaves and dreams of riches. They do not find it."And some, some look for healing from its roots. Some of those do find it, but they are few."And then, then there are the ones who search only for the joy of the quest and the wonder of what they might find."And these, these are the ones for whom the tree of life bows her golden branches."Be you one of these, master?" cackled the old woman.And I replied without knowing why, "Yes, old woman, I am." Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I asked God to take away my pain.God said, "No. It is not for me to take away, but for you to give it up."I asked God to make my handicapped child whole.God said, "No. Her spirit was whole, her body was only temporary."I asked God to grant me patience.God said, "No. Patience is a by-product of tribulations. It isn't granted. It is earned."I asked God to give me happiness.God said, "No. I give you blessings. Happiness is up to you."I asked God to spare me pain.God said, "No. Suffering draws you apart from worldly cares and brings you closer to me."I asked God to make my spirit grow.God said, "No. You must grow on your own, but I will prune you to make you fruitful."I asked God for all things that I might enjoy life.God said, "No. I will give you life so that you may enjoy all things."I asked God to help me love others as much as he loves me.God said, "Ah, finally you have the idea." Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Have you heard the song of The Great Knight Stephen? He was the bravest of the brave—no adventure was too dangerous. The White Knight he was called. He was untarnished in principle and ideal—and unbeaten in battle.The sage warned him his greatest challenge would be in love.He loved first the King's daughter—with golden hair, a sweet voice, and a gentle disposition. And she would gladly wed him. But then he loved another—a queen in her own right, a woman of power and beauty. To this woman he gave his heart.But even as he loved, one other came—a peasant girl, simple in dress and lovely as the moonlight.Caught in indecision, he entered the final battle of the tournament.He was struck and cast down; the lance pierced his heart. As he fell, he saw the peasant girl. For an instant he loved her.The princess shrieked and ran to her fallen lover to hold him.The queen swore revenge upon the victorious knight and rushed to her lover.The peasant girl laid her hands upon the wound, and it was healed.He opened his eyes and saw the princess holding his right hand and the queen his left. And still he did not know who to choose.To this day, the White Knight carries three banners into every battle—the blue of the princess, the red of the Queen, and the one he knows not, the one in his heart. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
While speaking to a group, Sarah gave each of the participants a balloon. She asked everyone to write their names on the balloon they held. She then collected the balloons and put them into another room.When she let the people in her group into the other room, she asked them to find the balloon with their name written on it. And to do it within 5 minutes. Everyone set to work frantically looking for the balloon with their own name. They bumped into each other. Some even pushed others. There was much chaos in the room. At the end of 5 minutes, no one had found their own name.Now, Sarah asked each person to collect a balloon at random and give it to the person whose name was written on it. Within minutes everyone had their own balloon.This is exactly what happens in our lives. Everyone is frantically looking for happiness all around, not knowing where to find it. But if you give others their happiness, you will uncover your own happiness. This is the truth of happiness.Source: https://bookmarketingbestsellers.com/the-parable-of-the-balloons Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
In an old cottage covered with morning glory vines by the Warbling River lived three women weavers—Alyssa was young and beautiful, Lydia was of middle age with long dark hair, and Claire was a stately white-haired lady.All day they sat at their looms and wove. Alyssa used reds and greens and yellows as she wove the spring and summer and children's dreams. Lydia used purples and blues as she wove the fall and wisdom. Claire wove with threads of silver and gold of the most delicate hue. On her loom I watched winter come, and I learned of love and joy.They would sing as they wove. And I remember I could see people's lives unfold as the threads intertwined. I think I even saw myself. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Once upon a time, there was a young boy with a very bad temper.To teach the boy a lesson, his father gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into their wooden fence.On the first day of this lesson, the little boy had driven 26 nails into the fence. That's how angry he was!Over the next few weeks, the boy began to control his temper. And so he hammered fewer and fewer nails into the fence.It wasn't long before the boy learned it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into that fence.The day finally came when the boy didn't lose his temper even once. He was so proud of himself that he couldn't wait to tell his father.Pleased, his father suggested that the boy now pull out one nail for each day that he could hold his temper.Several months went by and soon the boy was able to tell his father that all the nails were gone.Then the father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence."You have done very well, my son," he smiled. "But look at all the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same."The little boy listened carefully as his father continued to speak."When you say things in anger, they leave permanent scars just like these holes. And no matter how many times you say you're sorry, the wounds will still be there." Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I found the strangest waterfall in a narrow channel along a flat plain in the gully near my home. It was too flat for a fall, and yet I heard the unmistakable gurgle of a waterfall. So I crawled down into the belly of the gully to check it out more closely.Even at close range, the water still appeared to run across a plain without a fall. But then I saw what looked like a hole in the middle of the flowing stream. So I picked up a stick to poke around to check how deep it was. Well, in doing so, I upset the hole and the gurgle and everything. Whatever hole might have been there I blocked, then plugged up, then eliminated altogether. Whatever fall might have been there, I leveled. Whatever channel might have been there, I eroded. I ended up with a flat alluvial plain, flowing smoothly, making no soothing gurgle, and loaded with mud, mud, mud.The whole thing was just a result of the uncertainty principle, which simply says that you can't have your cake and eat it too.The moment you touch something, you change it irreversibly, and forever. Any contact of any kind with anything results in change—change both in the thing and in you. You're never the same again. You can't be. And neither can it.But that's the beauty as well as the horror. It's frightening sometimes to think of the power we have to change each other, to change a small part of the world. But that's the beauty as well. That opportunity to create an entire new world through every small change we make—that opportunity is glorious, and one I'd never pass up, not for all the undecaying gold in the world.I destroyed that waterfall today and, in so doing, I lost something. But I gained something, too. I gained contact. I touched, and though I somehow destroyed by that touch, I also created—something perhaps no better, maybe worse, but something that now carries a part of me forever.That's always something more.And that something more is precious. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
An old Cherokee chief was teaching his grandson about life. Here is what he told the boy.Inside every one of us, there are two wolves who are always fighting.One wolf is evil. He is anger, lies, greed, arrogance, envy, resentment, and ego.The other wolf is good. He is love, joy, peace, kindness, hope, humility, generosity, truth, and faith.This fight between good and evil is going on inside you—and inside every other person as well.The grandson thought about his grandfather's story for a minute and then asked, Which wolf will win? The good one or the bad one?The old chief quietly replied: The one you feed. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
It's mid morning and I walk my dog Elsie over to John's house so he can take his dog Becky and my dog Elsie and himself for a morning walk which everyone loves.Then I go back home and eat breakfast. Once they return, John says Elsie always waits at the gate watching for me. And truly when I go to get her, she's there at the gate waiting.It always brings me to tears. I think because I have waited at the gate for many people and most have never seen me there.But now I see someone waiting for me. At the gate.Gail Berry is also the author of Little Fox and the Golden Hawk and Crazy Horse. Both books are available via Amazon.com. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Sherlock Holmes and Doc Watson go camping. They pitch their tent under the stars and go to sleep.In the middle of the night Holmes wakes Watson up and asks, "Watson, look up at the stars, and tell me what you deduce."Watson says, "I see millions of stars. Even if only a few of those stars have planets, it's quite likely that there are some planets just like Earth. And, if there are a few planets just like Earth circling those stars, there might also be other life in the universe. What an amazing creation!"Holmes stops him short, "Watson, you idiot, someone has stolen our tent!"Source: The Best Joke Ever, viral online joke Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
This little real-life story has been excerpted from The Enchanted Hour by Meghan Cox Guron. You should read The Enchanted Hour if you want to know more about how reading to others can not only impact their lives but also enrich your life.The Enchanted Hour: The Miraculous Power of Reading Aloud in the Age of Distraction by Meghan Cox Gurdon is an incredible look at why I started this podcast as a result of reading a number of stories and nonfiction books to my wife. I know this podcast has changed my life. I hope it changes and enriches your life as well.Here is the description of the book from promotional copy provided by the publisher:A Wall Street Journal writer's conversation-changing look at how reading aloud makes adults and children smarter, happier, healthier, more successful, and more closely attached, even as technology pulls in the other direction.A miraculous alchemy occurs when one person reads to another, transforming the simple stuff of a book, a voice, and a bit of time into complex and powerful fuel for the heart, brain, and imagination. Grounded in the latest neuroscience and behavioral research, and drawing widely from literature, The Enchanted Hour explains the dazzling cognitive and social-emotional benefits that await children, whatever their class, nationality, or family background. But it's not just about bedtime stories for little kids: Reading aloud consoles, uplifts, and invigorates at every age, deepening the intellectual lives and emotional well-being of teenagers and adults, too.Meghan Cox Gurdon argues that this ancient practice is a fast-working antidote to the fractured attention spans, atomized families and unfulfilling ephemera of the tech era, helping to replenish what our devices are leaching away. For everyone, reading aloud engages the mind in complex narratives; for children, it's an irreplaceable gift that builds vocabulary, fosters imagination, and kindles a lifelong appreciation of language, stories and pictures.Bringing together the latest scientific research, practical tips, and reading recommendations, The Enchanted Hour will both charm and galvanize, inspiring readers to share this invaluable, life-altering tradition with the people they love most. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
"There's a woman who brings the storms.""Sure, Jeremy, and there's a man who takes out the garbage, too.""No, I'm serious about this. I saw her last night. Remember the wind was blowing the trees so hard, and there was lightening and thunder. Then, just before the rain, I saw her."Where? On the chimney?""No! Up in the sky! Her dress was blowing all around her, and she had her arms raised up high like she was telling the storm what to do. Her eyes looked wild.""Was she scary?""No, because she was really pretty.""Then what happened to her?""When the rain started she went away. And a little boy with blonde hair began catching the drops in his hands and singing.""Yeah, what was he singing – here comes the sun?""No, it was a lullaby, and I fell asleep."Gail Berry is also the author of Little Fox and the Golden Hawk and Crazy Horse. Both books are available via Amazon.com.Source: The Rain: https://www.myincrediblewebsite.com/the-rain Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
This song was written in 1957 by Ewan MacColl. The best performance of the song, in my mind, was by Roberta Flack (when it was featured in Clint Eastwood's movie, Play Misty for Me.The first time ever I saw your face,I thought the sun rose in your eyesAnd the moon and the starsWere the gifts you gaveTo the dark and the endless sky, my love.The first time ever I kissed your mouth,I felt the earth move in my handLike the trembling heartOf a captive birdThat was there at my command, my love.And the first time ever I lay with you,I felt your heart so close to mineAnd I knew our joyWould fill the earthAnd last till the end of time, my love.Here is one of many performances by Roberta Flack singing The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
"Only words have I to give," said the poet. "Of these I give freely and that is all that God can ask. He cares not how beautiful the voice of the singer, but only that the singer gives his song."Do you know the story of the child who came before the Christ with no gift in her hands?When the others would turn her away with ridicule, He spoke to them all, saying, "This child gives Me her love and that is the greatest gift of all. Let all of you come as empty handed as she, and then we shall have heaven upon Earth."Gail Berry is also the author of Little Fox and the Golden Hawk and Crazy Horse. Both books are available via Amazon.com.Source: Giving: https://www.myincrediblewebsite.com/giving Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Here is some writing advice from Thom Merrilin, a storytelling character from A Memory of Light, book 14 of The Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson.If you use the words people expect, they grow bored. A great ballad needs to be unexpected.Never be expected.When people start to expect you—when they start to anticipate your flourishes, to look for the ball you had hidden through sleight of hand, or to smile before you reached the twist line of your tale—it is time to pack up your cloak, bow once for good measure, and stroll away.After all, that was what they'd least expect you to do when all was going well.Source: Writing Advice from The Wheel of Time Series: https://bookmarketingbestsellers.com/writing-advice-from-the-wheel-of-time-series Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
There once was a farmer who grew the most excellent wheat. Every season he won the award for the best wheat in his county.A woman from a nearby town came to ask him about his success.He told her that the key was sharing his best seed with his neighbors so they could plant the seed as well.The woman asked, "How can you share your best wheat seed with your neighbors when they compete with you every year?""That's simple," the farmer replied. "The wind spreads the pollen from everyone's wheat and carries it from field to field. If my neighbors grew inferior wheat, cross-pollination would degrade everyone's wheat, including mine. If I'm to grow the best wheat, I must help my neighbors grow the best wheat as well."This is not only excellent advice for growing the best crops, but also great advice for how to live your life.If you want to live a meaningful and happy life, help others find happiness.Remember: The value of your life is measured by the lives you touch with love, kindness, respect, and hope.Source: The Best Seed: A Short Story about Sharing: https://www.myincrediblewebsite.com/the-best-seed-a-short-story-about-sharing Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Here's another short short story by my wife Gail Berry. I hope you like this one as well.I was visiting a friend in the hospital the summer of '85. While I was passing down a corridor, I noticed a child of about six sitting next to an old man who was lying in a hospital bed. The little girl was holding his hand — he looked too weak to grasp hers.Usually I don't eavesdrop on others' conversations, but in this case I couldn't help myself.The two were talking quietly and so intently that my presence was unnoticed.The old man asked the child, "Do you see anyone yet, Angie?""Not yet grandfather," she replied."They should be here soon," he whispered.The child's gaze was drawn to the windows in the room. She said, her blue eyes wide, "Someone is coming. I can almost make them out, grandfather.""Tell me," he said, "Is it a man and a woman?"Her voice had been low before but, now, was barely a whisper."Yes, they're standing right next to us on the other side of the bed.""Yes," the old man said, "I can feel it now. My eyes are tired and weak, so tell me, child, what does he look like?""His face is smooth, and he is looking so kindly at you. He doesn't look at me."The old man said, "What about the lady?""Oh, she is so beautiful. She is smiling at me.""The lady is lady time. I always knew she was a woman, not a man. And she smiles at you, for you are just beginning. The man, Angie, we call him death. He does not look so fierce, does he?""Oh, no, grandfather, he would never hurt anyone. They are going now."The child was staring at something by the window that I could not see. "Grandfather, Grandfather," she called out as they departed."Goodbye, Grandfather."And a whisper filled the room."Goodbye, Angie."Gail Berry is also the author of Little Fox and the Golden Hawk and Crazy Horse. Both books are available via Amazon.com.Source: Angie: https://www.myincrediblewebsite.com/angie Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
I was out walking with my 5-year-old daughter. She picked up something from the ground and started to put it into her mouth.I took the thing away from her and asked her not to do that."Why?" she asked."Because it's been on the ground, and you don't know where it's been. It's dirty. And it probably has germs."At this point, my daughter looked at me with absolute admiration and asked, "Mom, how do you know all this stuff? You are so smart."I thought quickly and replied, "All moms know this stuff. It's on the Mom Test. You have to know it, or they don't let you be a Mom."We walked along in silence for two or three minutes, but she was evidently thinking about this new information."Oh, I get it!" she beamed, "So if you don't pass the test, you have to be the Dad.""Exactly," I said.Source: The Mom Test: Fail, And You're the Dad: https://www.myincrediblewebsite.com/mom-test-fail-youre-dad Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe
Here is a short short story by my wife Gail Berry. I love this story. I hope you will as well.One night the turtle said to his friend the frog: "Would you like to fly with me through the stars tonight to meet the moon?"The frog, who thought the turtle a silly kidder, replied, "Turtle, I don't believe anyone can fly, much less a fellow who carries a shell such as yours.""Well, come with me tonight and see for yourself," replied the turtle.The frog, thinking to catch his friend in a tall tale, said that he would go.That night, the frog crawled up on the turtle's back and, sure enough, they flew up through the stars to meet the moon.And do you know the most wondrous part of the whole adventure? Friend frog never again questioned another friend's truth.Gail Berry is also the author of Little Fox and the Golden Hawk and Crazy Horse. Both books are available via Amazon.com.Source: Believe: The Short Story: https://www.myincrediblewebsite.com/believe-the-short-story Get full access to Tell Me a Story Podcast at tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe