There was this old-style cowboy living down the road just a smidge. When I would go walking by his farm that had a few horses and a few other animals he would always offer me a ride on his horse. This old cowpoke would tell stories that would make you wonder if it was true or not. He once said that he rode for the Pony Express right before the it ended and became a part of mail delivery history. This old cowboy could share a yarn with the best of them; now I wish he would've written them down.
About the Creator
Mark Graham
I am a person who really likes to read and write and to share what I learned with all my education. My page will mainly be book reviews and critiques of old and new books that I have read and will read. There will also be other bits, too.
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More stories from Mark Graham and writers in Fiction and other communities.
My Writer's Block Name
If I could think of a name for my periods of writer's block it would have to be .... when I have been reading a lot of materials, but nothing seems to click right away. Then again, my writer's block using happens say in the middle of writing and trying think of just the right phrase or word. Actually, writer's block for me really does not happen that much for me most times. Usually when it happens, I stop and meditate or read something different for a while. If I were to name my Writer's Block it would be 'RiteWrite'.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
So You Decided To Become a Nurse Practitioner:
So you decided to become an "Advanced Practice" nurse. Congratulations!... is what I would say if this was a good idea. Grad school? In this economy? What were you thinking? Likely it was something along the lines of either 1) “I've seen these other chucklefucks do it— Why can't I?” or even 2) “I've got a nice career, I should shake it up. I miss feeling like I have no clue what I'm doing.”
By Sandor Szabo7 days ago in Fiction
Five—One Grounding
Five—Locked in a perpetual battle against my failing senses and reason, I fight to survive, to get through; I am afraid of... nothingandeverythingallatonce—...—my mouth is dry, and my muscles seize up... what can I see? I can see the birdcage and birds; I can see the watercolour my beautiful wife painted many years ago and unlocked her journey into art; I can see the empty mug of tea as it sits perilously on the arm of the sofa; how many is that now? Three down, two to go; I can also see a jackdaw on the roof of our neighbour's house across the road and a bookcase of potential—Five things you can see.
By Paul Stewart5 days ago in Poets
Comments (2)
In a way, I want to say the story is ironic. My grandmother told so many wonderful story, but like your cowboy, none were written down. For her, that was a good thing because I found out later, none of what she said was true. (for instance, she said she was one of 29 children. She had ONE sister!!) Guess that's where I get my story telling from.
Yup... I grew up hearing stories I would have liked written down too! I'm writing down what I remember! ☺️💕