"Every moisture-swollen door reminds me of the monsoons from my childhood." .
Issue 1 | Nostalgia .
Nostalgia is that delicious space where we revisit our memories, often happy, sometimes unhappy and give them a context in the present.
Nostalgia is also the imagined past of our lives which we recreate to give meaning to our present.
Our writers for the opening theme of Storytler delve deep into the recesses of their mind to take us on a somewhat weird but always fascinating nostalgia trip.
Read the stories and poems by clicking on the link in the bio.
In random places where unleashed or leashed dogs are around, brave dogs would randomly give me hugs and kisses. This guy was no exception to that randomness. There he was, walking with his family and geared off course to spend at least 5 mins with me. He came up to me as if he knew me. He greeted me with a wagging tail as my hand extended for him to take a sniff of me, it's as if he had not already picked up my aura. He was old I could tell. His face were covered with white fur. Only a senior dog owner would know. I said hi to him and he came closer to be petted and as each belly rub and high pitch calls of "you a good boy huh?" He sat right next to me and watch his family walk further away from him. Other beach tan lovers just kept watch, I was consumed with his presence. It was like meeting an old friend again. He leaned more closer and place his head on my lap. He didn't care I was soaked with ocean water. His eyes showed so much gratitude and his hugs were so comforting. His family was much further now by the beach, I could hear his dad screaming for his name, he wasn't budging. He didnt even sit up. So, I told him "Our time is up old dear friend, let's get you home." I stood up, walked towards the side of the beach where his family watched us. He started following me, I kept telling him he was a good boy, smiled and waved at his family. They waved back and said "He must have known you love dogs." In the back of my head I was thinking "He must have been an old friend". As he walked further away from me, he kept looking to his family and looked back at me. I just waved at him and said good bye "See you again old friend to where life ends". As I head back to my sandy beach towel, a beach goer told me "that was quite beautiful to watch" I smiled back and said, "it was much more than a first meeting. I laid there at the beach with my heart sinking with tears that my eyes could not begin to handle. I met a old friend for the first time. He was love.
- Jane R. #shortstory#beachdogs#lovedogs#beautifullife#godmadedogs
During the term breaks at the English language college in Osaka, Rochelle would fly back to New Zealand to listen to English. Not the Kiwi English she was brought up with or used when visiting her nan, a language with dozens of words for fish alone, but the final product of the Euro-English that she taught. Nowadays, her native country was a place where kids from all over the world drove cheap vans, tramped the way Kiwis didn't anymore, and scammed bird baths in public toilets. And, they all spoke the same highly efficient, concise and non-judgemental English that people like her were teaching from set curricula around the globe. She sat in a Queenstown cafe and listened to a French DJ and German girl who'd been working on a dairy farm struggle to flirt with each other. Back home in Auckland, she listened to Italians and Swedes drunk on cheap Tui beer at her local pub trying to come up with the right words of outrage about Donald Trump and Council inspectors who chased them out of stealth camping sites. It seemed to her that somehow the language was being commodified. A language of transaction. Not only bought and sold itself, but somehow only capable of buying and selling stuff. On one level, it kept everything safe and in the shallows because people couldn't go deep or wide. On another level, it kept the practical purpose of the discussion front and centre at all times rather than accepting the possibility of a purely conversational dividend. It went from A to B with no allowance for emotional alphabet soup. It was about the head and had no heart. Listening, Rochelle resolved to introduce new role plays in her teaching back in Japan. How to Pick Up a Guy at the Local Laundromat. Will the Crazy Fat Kid Send a Missile to Guam? It was her little way to build a different kind of bridge, she thought to herself.
There was a man who make a pencil from Pinocchio's nose
On the paper he wrote, "SUMMER"
And the long summer season happened and it never end
On the second paper he wrote, "BIAS"
And all the people around him kept arguing and judging with each defective and flawed opinion that they had
One day he grew tired and decided to write the last word
On the paper he wrote, "TRUTH"
And nothing happened
In his anger, he broke the pencil and threw it on the barren soil
On that spot, a big oak tree grew from the remnants of the pencil and until this day,
It has been known as
Do you think that love is really complicated???
Shared By : Rohit Mishra ( @mishra_rohit01 )
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Es freut mich sehr, das euch die letzte Geschichte so gefallen hat, aber alles hat ein Ende und irgendwann muss auch mal weiter gehen! Also, also nächstes habe ich für euch ein kleines Gedicht über das Schicksal.
Viel Spaß damit!
Wichtig: Ich wurde mehrmal jetzt darauf hingewiesen, das meine Rechtschreibung im moment nicht das beste sei. Das tut mir natürlich leid und ich bemühe mich das wieder grade zu richten.
Wichtig: Das nächste Bild ist nicht von mir:
Euch noch einen schönen Tag
Short story behind these two drawings...I drew these in 2nd grade, and lost the other characters due to a very quick and needed move a few years later. While drawing, I was trying to impress someone and I eventually learned that, that person did not deserve my time and effort. I never got back the many things and drawings I lost, but I did learn that art is an amazing way to cope with hard times after learning I could draw in 2nd grade. I'm glad to still have these drawings and enough talent to continue making art.
Karen’s Christmas Vests
Karen prided herself most in her vests, only secondly to playing the guitar, and thirdly to collecting butterflies.
She had every vest for every occasion.
Saint Patrick’s day? Check
Fourth of July? CHECK
The biggest vest occasion for Karen was the Christmas season.
Every year you could count on Karen strapping on one of her holiday vests over a warm turtle neck, t shirt, or dress shirt with matching gaudy necklaces and earrings to match.
You never knew what to expect from Karen as she was very handy with a glue gun and had access to a multitude of shit to glue onto her vests. Karens favorite vest was delightfully awful. To try to describe it would not do it justice. Lets just say it involved ACTUALL miniature Christmas trees…WTF
Karens vests were lit before “lit” was a thing (meaning she put actual Christmas fucking lights on a vest). Karens vests were “ugly” before “ugly” sweater parties were a thing.
I miss Karen.
October 23rd 2017 - #nostalgia
He was rusty. It used to be easier. Simpler. But it had been sixteen years and he hadn't even practiced before this. And he wasn't nearly prepared for this. He thought he had left this world behind him. That he was done with this part of himself. That he was able to quiet the voices. That he could finally move forward properly. As a good man. But someone found him. Someone who knew what he was. Someone who threatened to reveal the truth. And he couldn't have that. He couldn't have that at all.
Por cuestionar me hayo hoy en el centro de lo indescifrable. Es válido sentarse a orillas de lo que sea a aceptar que en frente de ti hay un nuevo comienzo, tuyo o ajeno, pero se encuentra para quien esté diseñado. Y si el impulso es consecuencia de una necesidad por permanecer y no por andar es tan simple como que la manzana madurará, pero no que provocará más vida que el árbol que la formó; es así de sencillo que no hace falta el agua para sumergimos y nadar. Más bien hace falta la astucia por concedernos un espacio dentro del perdón. Si para algo están diseñadas las orillas de lo que sea es para que evalúes los altos de los extremos. Estás en la falda del valle que reposa en la falda de la montaña, al mismo tiempo estás en la cima de lo que sea que esté por debajo de esa orilla. Por eso cuestionas, porque es natural no saber y querer crecer para comprender. Lo que nos cuesta es aceptar que el crecimiento es un quiebre, una ruptura inevitable de puertas. Cuando se crece, las puertas no se abren, debemos derrumbarlas y clavarnos estillas para llevar cuenta de los pasajes que hemos derribado para crecer. Cada derrumbamiento produce un dolor y cada dolor se almacena en una cámara próxima a las emociones de picos opuestos. Pero ambas cámaras coincides en las orillas de sus lagos y nadan las aguas del otro. Eso es crecer, salir mojado de un dolor armonioso o de una felicidad nostálgica. No es agua y aceite sino fondo y cima de una orilla tocándote los pies.
Hasta eso se cuestiona, para terminar formando dudas tras dudas hasta que ya no tienes fuerzas para lidiar con tanto, regresas a despejar la mente, a deshacerte de las cargas. ¡Lo haces, de hecho! Las estillas de las puertas no salen, no sanan, no dejan de hincar. .
A loosely hung picture frame clattered against the ugly, brown painted walls, thunder shaking the old house. The woman wiped off the kitchen counters, scrubbing old dried pasta sauce ferociously. Her daughter was on the couch, covered completely in her favorite yellow blanket, holding tightly onto Chloe, her favorite doll and best friend in the whole world. She soothed the doll, "Don't you be scared now Chloe, that noise can't hurt you. You gotta be brave, ok, you gotta be brave!" Her mother smiled to herself, listening to her daughter's speech. She took a break from cleaning and walked over to the living room window, admiring the late fall storm. Trees bent and swung, looking like they might just snap right in half. The rain was pounding sideways against the house and the lightening was flashing every few seconds. The girl peeked from under her blanket. "Mama, get away from there that storm is gonna get you!" The woman laughed and kept her gaze on the quite spectacular show. "Oh honey, we're gonna be just fine. It really is something to see. How strong nature can be. And how beautiful too. We should always stop and notice. Maybe it's trying to tell us something." The girl slid off the couch then, and crawled to her mother at the window, blanket still covering her whole. She peeked her eyes from under the blanket, and stood to watch the storm with her mother. They stood quietly for awhile, the mother's hand gently placed on the back of her daughter's head. The girl didn't turn away in fright, but stood confidently with her mother. Soon, the rain slowed, the trees stilled, the thunder stopped and the woman went back to her cleaning. Her daughter stayed at the window, studying the tiny individual rain drops scattered all over the glass window. She pointed them out to Chloe, explaining how pretty the rain was and that the thunder could be something pretty too. She curled up in her blanket, and watched the drops trickle down the window, the storm fading away, blue specks of sky peeking from the clouds. #writingoninstagram#writing#story#stories#storiesofinstagram#shortstory#iwanttiwrite#idontwanttoworkiwanttowrite#author#authorlife#readme#readthis#reading#book